Solomon's recantation Intituled Ecclesiastes, paraphras'd. With A Soliloquy or Meditation Upon Every Chapter. By Francis Quarles |
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 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XII. |
 | CHAP. VI. Solomon's recantation |  |
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.
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?
29
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.
| CHAP. VI. Solomon's recantation | |