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

But ah, my Soul, what boots it to be wise?
Or what Advantage? what great Profit lies
In a fair Journey? to be well supply'd
With all Accoutrements, a knowing Guide,
A mettled Steed, a sweet and temperate Skie,
Short Miles, and way-beguiling Company;
When armed Death stands ready to attend
Thy parting Stirrup at thy Journey's End?
Thy Wisdom cannot save thee; has no Power
To keep thee Shot-free, or to quit that Hour.
Dull Nabal's Hour-glass runs as slow a Pace
As active Solomon's: An equal Space
Divides their Minutes; Death's impartial Hand
Wounds all alike, and Death will give no Sand.

What then my Soul? If Wisdom should entail
Our Happiness on this Life, or fill our Sail
In this wild Ocean with perpetual Breath,
When should we find a Hav'n? If partial Death
Should favour Wisdom, and not exercise
Her Office there, 'twere Misery to be wise:
The prudent Pilot, whose marinal Skill
Makes the proud Winds obedient to his Will,
And ploughs the Billows with less Fear than wrong,
Takes no Delight to make his Voyage long;
But with his wise Endeavours seeks to guide
His slender Pinnace, and to curb the Pride

Of the rebellious Waves, and doth address
His Care to crown his Voyage with Success.

Our Life's the Voyage, and this World the Ocean;
Our Cares are Waves tost in continual motion;
Our Thoughts are busie Winds, that often blow
Too strong a Gale, and tosses too and fro
Our crazy Vessels: Every Soul does bear
The Office of a Pilot, now to steer,
Now to advise; and still to lay Commands
Upon th'Affection-Sailers, whose rude Hands
Are always active, ready to fulfil
The wise Directions of the Pilot's Will.

It matters not, my Soul, how long or short
Thy Voyage be, if safe; they gain the Port
With best Advantage, that in peace arrive
With Ribs unshook, and all their Men alive.
It lies not in the skilful Pilot's Power
T'avoid tempestuous Seas, but to endure;
'Tis Wisdom to endure, as well as do;
Who bravely suffers, is victorious too.

Then chear, my Soul; let not the Frowns of Earth
Disturb thy Peace, or interrupt thy Mirth:
Let not that rude, that Apogean Storm
Of Flesh and Blood dismay thee, or deform
The Beauty of thy Thoughts, or cast thy Mind
Into a base Despondence: Let the Wind
Blow where it please, a well-prepared Breast
Will give thee Shelter, and afford thee Rest.

When wordly Crosses tempt thee, understand
Heav'n tries thy Temper then; if then thou stand
Upright in Court, and of unshaken Mind,
The Test approves thee, and thou art refin'd.

Then chear, my Soul; let not the Rubs of Earth
Disturb thy Peace, or interrupt thy Mirth;
If Heav'n hath crown'd thy Labours with Success,
Enjoy it freely; eat and drink, and bless
The gracious Giver: Let thy Soul rejoice
And take a cheerful Pleasure in the Choice

Of all Delights; and what his Bounty gave
With a free Hand, fear not thou to receive
With a free Heart: Refresh thy fainting Head
With precious Oils, and change thy careful Bread
To Feasts of Joy; or if a Cross should greet
Thy frolick Soul, march bravely on, and meet
Adversity half way; and with a Heart
Too great for Earth to wrong, shake Hands and part:

Chear then my Soul; let not the Rubs of Earth
Disturb thy Peace, or interrupt thy Mirth:
Go, sweeten up thy Labours and thy Life
With fresh Delights: Rejoice thee in the Wife
And Partner of thy Bosom; let her Breast
Suffice thee as the Centre of thy Rest:
Deny thy Heart no Pleasure, that may lie
Within the lawful Limits of thine Eye:
Take Time while Time shall serve; to morrow may
Be none of ours; come, come, be wise to day;
And teach thy Labours to bestow their Sorrow
On those that practise to be Fools to morrow.