Solomon's recantation :: :: University of Virginia Library

There is an Ev'll, which my observing Eye
Hath taken Notice of beneath the Sky;
It is an Ev'll frequents the troubled Breast
Of wretched Man, and robs him of his Rest.
To see where God hath multiply'd and giv'n
What Wealth and Honour Earth can beg of Heav'n,
And yet no Power to use it, but descends
To very Strangers: O, this Grief transcends!
Who multiply their Loins and Years, yet have
Souls unsuffic'd with good, and soil the Grave
With blemisht and dishonour'd Names, I say
Abortive Births are better far than they:
For he can hardly own a Being, whom
Nature casts forth from the untimely Womb:
Darkness infolds him in her secret Shades,
His Name's forgotten, and his Mem'ry fades.
The Worlds surveying Lamp does not affright
The pleasing Slumbers of his peaceful Night:
There be no Ears, no Eyes, to hear, to see,
The living Soul hath not such Rest as he:
Yea though he live a thousand Years twice told,
What worth his Eyes, can his sad Eyes behold?
Do they not both arrive, not both resort
To the dull Portals of the self same Port?
The best Reward of Man's laborious Sweat
Is but a Morsel of Quotidian Meat:
This may suffice his Body, but the Will
Of his infatiate Soul what Hand can fill?

What is it then the wise Man's Labour gains
More than the painful Fool by all his Pains?
What wants the poor Man that by prudent Labour
Knows how to live, more than his wealthy Neighbour?
Better enjoy a Competence, and crave not
More Wealth, than still desire the Wealth we have not.
To wish, what if enjoy'd brings Molestation,
Is but meer Vanity and Souls Vexation.
The worldly Confluence of Treasure can
Exempt no Mortal from the Lot of Man.
Nor can his Wealth instruct him to withstand
The angry Strokes of the Almighty's Hand:
Since the Increase of Wealth procur'd by Pain,
Preserv'd with Fear, with Sorrow lost again,
Increaseth Grief in the Possessor's Breast,
What Vantage then hath Man to be possest?
Who knows what's good for Man in this dull Blaze
Of Life, his swift, his Shadow-flying Days?
Or who can tell, when his short Hour is run,
Th'Event of all his Toyl beneath the Sun.

SOLILOQUY VI.

What meant that great-creating Pow'r to frame
This spacious Universe? Was not his Name
Glorious enough without a Witness? Why
Did that corrected Twilight of his Eye
Unmusle Darkness, and with Morning Light
Redeem the Day from new baptized Night?
What meant that sacred Power to command
Divorce betwixt united Sea and Land?
Why wrapt he Earth (as yet untouch'd with Showers)
In a green Robe embroider'd all with Flowers?
What meant the Beams of his refulgent Eyes
To print their Image in the crystal Skies?

What princely Guests with all their num'rous Train
Did he expect? Was he to entertain?
That his magnificent, his bounteous Hand
Made such Provision both by Sea and Land?
What royal State's at hand? What Potentate?
On whom must all these royal Armies wait?
Who worthy of so great a Preparation,
Is th'Object of such royal Expectation?
What Prince is to be born? What glorious Birth
Is to be celebrated?

Groaning Earth
Brought forth a Lump not much above a Span,
A little, naked, puling thing, call'd MAN.
Man, a poor shiftless transitory thing,
Born without Sword or Shield, not having Wing
To fly from threatning Danger, not an Arm
To grapple with those num'rous Ills that swarn
About his new-born Frailty, warpt aside
From fair Obedience to rebellious Pride.
Man, in whose Frame the great Three-One advis'd,
And with a studied Hand epitomiz'd
The large, voluminous, and perfect Story
Of all his Works; the Manual of his Glory:
Man, in whose Soul, the all Eternal drew
The Image of himself, for Earth to view
With Fear and Wonder, in whose sov'reign Eye
He breath'd the Flames of dreadful Majesty,
Fill'd him with Power, entrusted to his Hand
Earth's Empire, and the lower World's Command;
Crown'd him with Glory, made him little lower
Than Heav'n-bred Angels that excel in Power.

O but my Soul, how is that Hand asham'd
Of his own Work! How is this Frame unfram'd!
How is this Manual blotted? Every Word
How interlin'd? How is this Image blur'd?
How are those Sparks of Majesty, that were
So bright, now bafled with degen'rous Fear?

How is that Power that was bred and born
The Earth Commander, now become the Scorn
Of Dunghill Passion, shipwrackt with the Gust
Of every fatuous and inferior Lust!
How is the Sunbright Honour of his Name
Eclipst! How is his Glory cloath'd with Shame!

Reflect upon thy self, my Soul: Enquire
Into the Vastness of thy vain Desire:
What wouldst thou have, which (being had) may fill
Th'unfathom'd Gulph of thy insatiate Will?
Thou level'st at a Good: Wherein consists
The Good thou level'st at? To what strange Lists
Is her conceal'd Omnipotence confin'd?
Where is this Will-commanding Saint enshrin'd?
Is not her royal Person gone to view
The Mines of Ophir, or the rich Peru?
Or is she gone to oil the Wings of Time
With unctious Pleasures in some foreign Clime?
Or is she mounted on the slippery Throne
Of staggering Honour, there disguis'd, unknown?
Alas, my Soul, if Heaven should suit thy Store
With thy Desire, thou wouldst desire yet more:
Or if spring Tides of Gold should a Degree
Transcend thy Wish, perchance it would want thee:
What if a num'rous Off-spring should proclaim
A Perpetuity to th'lasting Name;
Or if the even-spun Twine should be extended
Till thou couldst number Nations all descended
From thine own Loins; yet if the sparing Hand
Of wayward Providence should chance to brand
Thy Days with Poverty, th'abortive Birth
Is more indebted to the gracious Earth
Than thou whose shadow grasping Hand e'en tires
Upon the Vanity of thy vast Desires:
Nay, if both Heav'n and Earth should undertake
T'extract the best from all Mankind to make
One perfect happy Man, and thou wert He;
Thy finite Fortunes still would disagree

With thy insatiate Soul: Some Qualms of Earth,
Hereditary to thy human Birth,
Would print thy pamper'd Soul with such a fresh
And lively Character of feeble Flesh,
That all thy Joys (do Fortune what she can)
May not exempt thee from the Lot of Man.