University of Virginia Library

49 ECCLESIASTES 2.

From pensif fanzies, then, I gan my hart reuoke,
And gaue me to suche sporting plaies as laughter myght prouoke;
But euen such uain delights, when they moste blinded me,
Allwayes, me thought, with smiling grace, a king did yll agre.
Then sought I how to please my belly with muche wine,
To feede me fatte with costely feasts of rare delights and fine,
And other plesures, eke, too purchace me with rest,
In so great choise to finde the thing that might content me best.
But, Lord, what care of mynde, what soddaine stormes of ire,
With broken slepes enduryd I, to compasse my desier!
To buylde my howses faier then sett I all my cure;
By princely acts thus straue I still to make my fame indure.
Delicius gardens, eke, I made to please my sight,
And grafte therin all kindes of fruts that might my mouthe delight.
Condits, by liuely springs, from their owld course I drewe,
For to refreshe the fruitfull trees that in my gardynes grewe.
Of catell great encreace I bred in littell space.
Bondmen I bought, I gaue them wifes, and sarued me with ther race.
Great heapes of shining gold, by sparing gan I saue,
With things of price so furnyshed as fitts a prince to haue.
To heare faier women sing, sometyme I did reioyce;
Rauyshed with ther pleasaunt tunes, and swetnes of their voyce.
Lemans I had, so faier and of so liuely hewe
That who so gased in their face myght well their bewtey rewe.
Neuer erste sat theyr king so riche, in Dauyds seate;
Yet still me thought for so smale gaine the trauaile was to great.
From my desirous eyes I hyd no pleasaunt sight,
Nor from my hart no kind of myrth that might geue them delyght;
Which was the only freute I rept of all my payne,—
To feade my eyes and to reioyce my hart with all my gaine.
But when I made my compte, with howe great care of mynd
And hertes vnrest that I had sought so wastfull frutt to fynde,
Then was I streken strayte with that abused fier,
To glorey in that goodly witte that compast my desyer.
But freshe before myne eyes grace did my fawlts renewe:
What gentill callings I hadd fledd, my ruyne to purswe,
What raging pleasurs past, perill and hard eskape,
What fancis in my hed had wrought the licor of the grape.
The erroure then I sawe that their fraile harts dothe moue,
Which striue in vaine for to compare with him that sitts aboue.
In whose most perfect worcks suche craft apperyth playne
That to the least of them, their may no mortall hand attayne;
And, like as light some day dothe shine aboue the night,
So darke to me did folly seme, and wysdomes beames as bright.
Whose eyes did seme so clere, mots to discern and fynde,
But will had clossed follies eyes, which groped like the blynde.
Yet death and time consume all witt and worldly fame,
And looke what ende that folly hath, and wisdome hath the same.
Then sayd I thus, “Oh Lord, may not thy wisdome cure
The waylfull wrongs and hard conflicts that folly doth endure?”
To sharpe my witt so fine then why toke I this payne?
Now finde I well this noble serche may eke be called vayne.
As slanders lothsome brute soundes follies iust rewarde,
Is put to silence all be time, and brought in smale regarde,
Eun so dothe tyme deuoure the noble blast of fame,
Which showld resounde their glories great that doo desarue the same.
Thus present changes chase away the wonders past,
Ne is the wise mans fattal thred yet lenger spunne to last.
Then, in this wredtched vale, our lief I lothed playne,
When I beheld our frutles paynes to compasse pleassurs vayne.
My trauayll this a vaile hath me produced, loo!
An heire unknowen shall reape the frute that I in sede did sowe.
But whervnto the Lord his nature shall inclyne,
Who can fore knowe, into whose handes I must my goods resine!
But, Lord, how pleasannt swete then seamd the idell liefe,
That neuer charged was with care, nor burdened with stryefe;
And vile the grede trade of them that toile so sore,
To leaue to suche ther trauells frute that neuer swet therfore.
What is that pleasant gaine, which is that swet relief,
That showld delay the bitter tast that we fele of our gref?
The gladsome dayes we passe to serche a simple gaine,
The quiete nights, with broken slepes, to fead a resteles brayne.
What hope is left us then, what comfort dothe remayne?
Our quiet herts for to reioyce with the frute of our payne.
Yf that be trew, who may him selfe so happy call
As I, whose free and sumptius spence dothe shyne beyonde them all
Sewerly it is a gift and fauor of the Lorde,
Liberally to spende our goods, the ground of all discorde;
And wretched herts haue they that let their tressurs mold,
And carrey the roodde that skorgeth them that glorey in their gold.
But I doo knowe by proofe, whose ryches beres suche brute,
What stable welthe may stand in wast, or heping of suche frute.