Solomon's recantation Intituled Ecclesiastes, paraphras'd. With A Soliloquy or Meditation Upon Every Chapter. By Francis Quarles |
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 | I. |
| II. | CHAP. II. |
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| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XII. |
 | CHAP. II. Solomon's recantation |  |
8
CHAP. II.
The Vanity of human Courses in the Works of Pleasure. Though the Wise be better than the Fool, yet both have but one Event. The Vanity of human Labour, in leaving it they know not to whom. Nothing better than Joy in our Labour, but that is God's Gift.
My roving Thoughts try'd Mirth, and were possest
Of all the Pleasures Earth could lend; yet I
Found Mirth and Pleasure all but Vanity:
I laugh'd at Laughter as a toyish Antick;
And counted all my Mirth no less than frantick:
My Heart (but wisely foolish) did incline
To costly Fare, and frolick Cups of Wine,
That in these Pleasures I might find some Good,
To crown the short lif'd Days of Flesh and Blood:
I built magnifick Palaces, did frame
Great Buildings to the Glory of my Name:
I planted Vineyards, whose plump Clusters might
Rejoice my Heart, and lend my Soul Delight:
I made me fruitful Orchards for my Pleasure,
And curious Gardens to refresh my Leisure;
I stored them with Trees, and these with Bowers,
And made a Paradise of Fruits and Flowers:
I made me standing Pools, to entertain
My breathless Guests and all their num'rous Train:
I cut me Aquiducts, whose Current flees
And waters all my Wilderness of Trees:
Armies of Servants do attend my State,
Both Foreigners, and born within my Gate:
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That reign'd before me in Jerusalem:
Abundant Silver, Gold, and precious Stones
By Kings presented, my Exchequer owns:
All Sorts of Musick (Earth's Delight) had I
To feed mine Ear, Beauties to please mine Eye:
Such State, Magnificence, and Princely Store,
Wondring Jerus'lem never saw before:
In all this Pomp, my Heart had not forgot
The lawful Use; my Wisdom fail'd me not:
I gave mine Eyes what e're mine Eyes requir'd,
Deny'd my Heart no Mirth my Heart desir'd:
For my poor Heart's Delight was all my Gains,
My Pleasure was the Portion of my Pains.
At length I cast my serious Eye upon
My painful Works, and what my Hands had done:
But lo, beneath the Sun no Contentation,
All, all was Vanity, and Souls Vexation.
With that I turn'd my weary Thoughts again
On Wisdom, and the Foolishness of Men;
(Search they that please to search, alas! there's none
Can search the Truth more strict than Solomon)
When my impartial Judgment did compare
Folly with Wisdom, this doth e'en as far
Excel the other, as meridian Light
Excels the Shadows of the darkest Night:
The wise Man's Eyes are in his Head; they stand
Like Watchmen in the Tower, to guard the Land:
But Fools haunt Darkness; yet my self perceive
The self-same Lot both Fools and wise Men have.
Ah! then (said I) if equal Fortune lies
For Fools and me, what Vantage to be wise?
What Profit hath my Wisdom? Then thought I,
The height of Wisdom hath her Vanity.
The foolish Bauble, and the learned Bays,
Are both forgotten in succeeding Days:
Impartial Death shall close the dying Eyes
Both of the Fool, and also of the Wise:
10
Of human Actions flow my Discontents:
Life spent in Action, or in Contemplation,
Is all but Vanity, and Souls Vexation.
I hated all that e'er my Hands had done
In seeking Happiness beneath the Sun;
For what I did I cannot call mine own,
Anothers hand must reap what mine hath sown.
Who knows if my Successor is to be
A wise Man or a Fool? howe'er 'tis he
Must spend with Ease what I have earn'd with Pain
And Souls Vexation; this is also vain:
For which, my Soul (thus fool'd with vain Pursuit
Of blossom'd Happiness that bears no Fruit)
Whisper'd Despair of all that I had done
To purchase perfect Good beneath the Sun.
Some Men there be whose more elaborate Gains
(The Fruits of lawful Cares, and prudent Pains)
Descend to those that knew not Pains nor Art;
This is a Vanity and afflicts the Heart.
For what Reward hath Man of all his Droyl,
His Ev'ning Trouble, and his Morning Toyl,
His Hearts Vexation, and his Griefs that run
Through all his Labours underneath the Sun?
His Days are Sorrows; tedious Griefs attend
His Travel, hopeless of a Journies End;
His restless Nights afford his closed Eye
No Slumbers: This is also Vanity.
There's nothing sweeter than to take Repast
Of Meats and Drinks, and now and then to cast
Griefs Burthen off, and gently loose the Reins
By intermingling Pleasures with our Pains:
But this, I know, lies not in our Command,
It is a Blessing from th'Almighty's Hand:
For who can eat? what Mortal can apply
His Heart to force a Pleasure more than I?
Heav'n gives the just Man Wisdom, Knowledge, Mirth;
To Sinners, Travel; to heap Earth to Earth;
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This is his Vanity, and Souls Vexation.
SOLILOQUY II.
But
stay my Soul! Art thou resolved then
T'abjure Delight, and turn Capucian?
Because thy Earth hath thus eclips'd the Light
Of thy Contentment, wilt thou make it Night?
Wert thou condemn'd to Sorrows? wert thou born
To live in Languishment, and die forlorn?
Abuse not thy Creation: Thou wert made
Not thus to starve thy Blossoms in the Shade
Of barren Melancholy; or to waste
Thy pensive Hours in the boysterous Blast
Of stormy Discontent: Come, come, my Soul,
Hoist up thy Sails to Mirth: Let others howle
And whine: Let such as always are at wars
With their own Fortunes, curse their ill-fac'd Stars:
Pass thou thy frolick Youth in Revels, Sports,
And fresh Delights: Frequent the purple Courts
Of prosperous Princes: Stew thy Heart in Mirth,
And crush the Child of Sorrow in her Birth:
T'abjure Delight, and turn Capucian?
Because thy Earth hath thus eclips'd the Light
Of thy Contentment, wilt thou make it Night?
Wert thou condemn'd to Sorrows? wert thou born
To live in Languishment, and die forlorn?
Abuse not thy Creation: Thou wert made
Not thus to starve thy Blossoms in the Shade
Of barren Melancholy; or to waste
Thy pensive Hours in the boysterous Blast
Of stormy Discontent: Come, come, my Soul,
Hoist up thy Sails to Mirth: Let others howle
And whine: Let such as always are at wars
With their own Fortunes, curse their ill-fac'd Stars:
Pass thou thy frolick Youth in Revels, Sports,
And fresh Delights: Frequent the purple Courts
Of prosperous Princes: Stew thy Heart in Mirth,
And crush the Child of Sorrow in her Birth:
O but, my Soul, what Profit can accrew
From lavish Mirth? what Pleasure is't to screw
An antick Face and grim? or to enforce
An empty Langhter in a vain Discourse?
From lavish Mirth? what Pleasure is't to screw
An antick Face and grim? or to enforce
An empty Langhter in a vain Discourse?
Why then, my Soul, Go wind the Plummets up
Of thy down Spirits with a chirping Cup:
Redeem thee from the Gripes of Care, and Rapes
Of Grief, and drench them in the Blood of Grapes.
Of thy down Spirits with a chirping Cup:
Redeem thee from the Gripes of Care, and Rapes
Of Grief, and drench them in the Blood of Grapes.
Ay, but perchance in that sad Heart of thine
There is a Wound, craves rather Oil than Wine.
There is a Wound, craves rather Oil than Wine.
If then thy Cure prove worse than thy Disease,
That Grief thou dar'st not cure, attempt to ease:
Forget thy Sorrows; or if rugged Sense
Will not be woo'd by Language to dispense
With her provoking Foe, advise with Art:
Those stubborn Streams thou canst not stop, divert:
And like a pain-afflicted Stripling, play
With some new Toy, to while thy Grief away.
Go, raise great Works, whose Structure may impart
The Master's Wisdom, and the Builders Art:
Build Houses, whose Magnificence may proclaim
Thy Worth, as lasting Monuments of thy Name.
Plant Orchards for thy Pleasure: Deck thy Bowers
With dainty Fruits, and delectable Flowers:
Cut Waterworks: Instruct the silver Tide
To wanton up and down: Teach her to slide
In soft Meanders through the fluid Veins
Of thy green-breasted Stream-embroidered Plains;
Ravish thy Soul with Musick, and refresh
The wasted Spirits of thy unweildy Flesh
With high-bred Raptures: Let harmonious Airs
Compose the Discords of thy droiling Cares:
Take pleasure in thy pale-enclosed Grounds,
And let the Rhet'rick of thy deep-mouth'd Hounds
Perswade thy head-strong Sorrows so to fly
Before thy Herd, as they before the Cry:
That Grief thou dar'st not cure, attempt to ease:
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Will not be woo'd by Language to dispense
With her provoking Foe, advise with Art:
Those stubborn Streams thou canst not stop, divert:
And like a pain-afflicted Stripling, play
With some new Toy, to while thy Grief away.
Go, raise great Works, whose Structure may impart
The Master's Wisdom, and the Builders Art:
Build Houses, whose Magnificence may proclaim
Thy Worth, as lasting Monuments of thy Name.
Plant Orchards for thy Pleasure: Deck thy Bowers
With dainty Fruits, and delectable Flowers:
Cut Waterworks: Instruct the silver Tide
To wanton up and down: Teach her to slide
In soft Meanders through the fluid Veins
Of thy green-breasted Stream-embroidered Plains;
Ravish thy Soul with Musick, and refresh
The wasted Spirits of thy unweildy Flesh
With high-bred Raptures: Let harmonious Airs
Compose the Discords of thy droiling Cares:
Take pleasure in thy pale-enclosed Grounds,
And let the Rhet'rick of thy deep-mouth'd Hounds
Perswade thy head-strong Sorrows so to fly
Before thy Herd, as they before the Cry:
Alas, alas, my poor deluded Soul,
Think'st thou to quench thy Fire with Oil, or for to cool
Thy Flame with Cordials? Can thy born Disease
Expect a Cure from such Receipts as these?
No, no, these Bellows mount the Blaze the higher,
Thou leap'st but from the Pan into the Fire.
Think'st thou to quench thy Fire with Oil, or for to cool
Thy Flame with Cordials? Can thy born Disease
Expect a Cure from such Receipts as these?
No, no, these Bellows mount the Blaze the higher,
Thou leap'st but from the Pan into the Fire.
Ay, but my Soul, methinks a wise Forecast
(Though not redress the Mischiefs that are past)
May claim some kind of Priv'ledge to prevent
The Ills that future Changes may present;
If not, what Harm, what Disconvenience lies
In being fool? What Vantage to be wise?
Both fool and wise must pay an equal Shot
At Nature's Table; have the self-same Lot.
(Though not redress the Mischiefs that are past)
May claim some kind of Priv'ledge to prevent
The Ills that future Changes may present;
If not, what Harm, what Disconvenience lies
In being fool? What Vantage to be wise?
Both fool and wise must pay an equal Shot
At Nature's Table; have the self-same Lot.
13
Why then, my Soul, since Sorrow needs must haunt
Thy Life, condemn'd to Labour, cease to daunt
Thy bold Endeavours with the sense of Care,
Chear up thy whining Heart, and take thy Share
Of all thy Labours, eat, and drink; and let
Thy Sense enjoy the Wages of thy Sweat:
'Tis all thy Portion: Take what may be had;
Bad is the best, then make the best of bad:
Sweeten thy Pains; mix Pleasure with thy Sorrow;
Who knows to day what shall betide to morrow?
Thy Life, condemn'd to Labour, cease to daunt
Thy bold Endeavours with the sense of Care,
Chear up thy whining Heart, and take thy Share
Of all thy Labours, eat, and drink; and let
Thy Sense enjoy the Wages of thy Sweat:
'Tis all thy Portion: Take what may be had;
Bad is the best, then make the best of bad:
Sweeten thy Pains; mix Pleasure with thy Sorrow;
Who knows to day what shall betide to morrow?
| CHAP. II. Solomon's recantation | |