Why didst Thou give this unrequested boon 

 Of life, to me, unhappy? My few days 

 Are swifter than a post. As the white sail 

 Fades in the mist, as the strong eagle's wing 

 Leaves no receding trace, they flee away, 

 They see no good. 

 Hath not Thy mighty hand 

 Fashion'd and made this curious form of clay, 

 Fenc'd round with bones and sinews, and inspired 

 By a mysterious soul? Oh be not stern 

 Against Thy creature, as the Lion marks 

 His destin'd prey. 

 Relent and let me take 

 Comfort a little, ere I go the way 

 Whence I return no more, to that far land 

 Of darkness and the dreary shades of death." 

 Scarce had he ceas'd ere Zophar's turbid thoughts 

 Made speed to answer. 

 "Shall a tide of talk 

 Wash out transgression? If thou choose to set 

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