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

Solomon's recantation

Intituled Ecclesiastes, paraphras'd. With A Soliloquy or Meditation Upon Every Chapter. By Francis Quarles

Quarles, Francis (1592-1644)

[section]

Solomon's Recantation,

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

O curas hominum! O quantum est in rebus inane!

Solomon's Recantation,

Intituled ECCLESIASTES.

CHAP. I.

The Preacher sheweth that all human Courses are vain: Because the Creatures are restless in their Courses, they bring forth nothing new, and all old Things are forgotten, and because he hath found it so in the Studies of Wisdom.

Thus sayes the best of Preachers and of Kings,
Thus Solomon the Son of David sings.
The greatest Happiness that Earth can prize
Is all most vain, and vainest Vanities.
What Profit can accrue to Man? what Gains
Can crown his Actions, or reward his Pains?
Beneath the Orb of Heavens surrounding Sun,
What worth his Labour hath his Labour done?
One Generation gives another Way,
But Earth abides in one perpetual Stay:
The Prince of Light puts on his Morning Crown,
And in the Evening lays his Glory down:
Where leaving Earth to take a short Repose,
He soon returns, and rises where he rose:

The troubled Air provokes the Southern States,
And then it blusters at the Borean Gates;
It whirles about in his uncertain Sphere,
And rides his unknown Circuit ev'ry where;
All Rivers to the Seas their Tribute yield,
And yet th'hydropick Seas are never fill'd,
Their sliding Streams pursue their Passage home,
And drive their hasty Tides from whence they come.
The World is all compos'd of Change; nor can
Her Vanity be character'd by Man:
The Eye's not satisfy'd; and what we hear,
Fills not the Concave of th'insatiate Ear:
The Thing that heretofore hath been, we see
Is but the same that is, and is to be:
And what is done, is what is to be done;
There's nothing that is new beneath the Sun.
What Novelty can Earth proclaim, and say,
It had no Precedent before this Day?
No, no, there's nothing modern Times can own,
The which precedent Ages have not known:
The Deeds of former Days expire their Date
In our collapsed Memories, and what
Times early Sun-shine hath not ripened yet,
Succeeding Generations shall forget.
I Solomon, whose choice Affections own
The Churches Service dearer than my Throne,
Was chosen and anointed King, and now
Wear Israel's Crown upon my studious Brow:
I bent my Heart, by Wisdom, to descry
What e're subsists beneath the spangled Skye;
With such hard Travel hath our God thought good
To exercise the Souls of Flesh and Blood.
My Thoughts have ponder'd all that hath been done
Betwixt the solid Centre and the Sun,
And lo! the Object of my Contemplation
Is but meer Vanity, and Souls Vexation.
Not all this Knowledge can reduce the State
Of crooked Nature to a perfect Strait;

Nor sum our Ignorances, which surmount
The Language of Arithmaticks Account.
I view'd my Heart, and there found greater Store
Of Wisdom, than all those that liv'd before:
No Knowledge could remain, no Wisdom lie
Close from mine Ear, nor clouded from mine Eye.
I gave my all-enquiring Heart to know
Not Wisdom only, but e'en Folly too:
And I perceiv'd that all this Contemplation
Was vain, and nothing but the Soul's Vexation:
For he that labours for much Wisdom, gains
Grief in th'Enjoyment; in pursuit but Pains:
And who improves his Knowledge, strives to borrow
A fair Advantage to increase his Sorrow.

SOLILOQUY I.

How are the vain Desires of Flesh and Blood
Befoold in that mistaken thing call'd good!
How Travel seeks it! how unwearied Hearts
Make it the Object both of Arms and Arts!
How many certain obvious Ills attend
The Way to this uncertain Journeys End!
We tire the Night in Thought, the Day in Toyl,
Spare neither Sweat nor lucubrated Oil,
To seek the thing we cannot find; or found,
We cannot hold; or held, we cannot ground
So firm, as to resist the various Swings
Of fickle Fortune, or the Frowns of Kings.

Poor fruitless Labours of deluded Man!
How vainly are ye spent? How short a Span
Of seeming Pleasure serves ye to requite
Long Leagues of Travel? For one Drop's Delight
Of airy Froth, how are ye forc'd to borrow
Strong Gales of Hope, to sail through Seas of Sorrow?

Why do we thus afflict our lab'ring Souls
With Dregs of Wormwood, and carouse full Bowls
Of boyling Anguish? To what hopeful End
Droyl we our crazy Bodies, and expend
Our sorrow-wasted Spirits, to acquire
A Good, not worth a Breath of our Desire?
A Good, whose fulsome Sweetness clogs and cloys
The Soul, but neither lasts nor satisfies:
How poor an Object pleases! And how soon
That Pleasure finds an End! How quickly Noon!
How quickly Night! And what to day we prize
Above our Souls, to morrow we despise
Beneath a Trifle: What in former Times
We own'd as Virtue, now we tax as Crimes.

What is this World, but e'en a great Exchange
Of dear bought Penn'worths, all compos'd of Change?
Where frothy Honour may be bought and sold
With Heart-corrupting, Eye-beguiling Gold:
Where sullen Wealth, and Friend-betraying Treasure
May pass in Barter for repented Pleasure:
Where painted Sweetness (though a Grain too light)
Shall buy a Lord's Estate for one poor Night:
Where unstain'd Beauties Youth shall buy an old
Breath-tainted Churl, diseas'd with Gout and Gold:
Where Birth-rights, Blessings, nay and Souls to boot
(And yet not deem'd a Penn'worth under foot)
Shall pass for fond Delights: Where very Names
Without an Alias, (to lay after-Claims
To a poor Lordship) shall be swept away
For Clods of Earth, and those for one Nights Play.

Tell me, my puzled Soul, what wouldst thou buy?
Go in and cheapen: Let thy curious Eye
Make her own Choice: They will present thy View
With numerous Joys: Buy something that is new:
Alas! there's nothing new beneath the Skie.
Look further; further yet: Go please thine Eye,
Search, till the Object and thine Eye agrees:
Thine Eye's not satisfy'd with what it sees.

Buy something that will last; that will remain
To after-days: All's momentary, all's vain.
Ay, but my Soul, here's fairer Merchandise,
Wisdom and Knowledge: That, to make thee wise;
This, to instruct thee: Come, thou needst not fear
Too hard a Bargain: Go, and purchase there:
Alas! much Wisdom makes thy Grief but double;
Increase of Knowledge brings Increase of Trouble.

Ay, but my Soul, the gracious Eye of Heaven
Hath smil'd upon thee. His full Hand hath given
A large Addition to thy thriven Estate;
Thy Barns and Bags are fill'd; thy Servants wait
Upon thy Business, and their Shoulders bear
Thy fruitful Burdens; who, like Pilots, steer
Thy reeling Vessel: Thou art rich endow'd
With Knowledge, Wisdom, Judgment, and allow'd
Some Grains to make thee Weight: Methinks thy Heart,
So arm'd with strong Resolves, should never start
At threatning Ills: Methinks thy daring Eye,
(If all the crystal Rafters of the Skie
Should make one Ruin, and that Ruin fall
About thine Ears) should be unmov'd at all.

No, no, my Soul, 'tis neither Barn nor Purse
Cram'd up with Coin or Corn, can baulk the Curse
Entail'd upon thy Sin: Nor Height of Blood,
Nor all that this mistaken Earth calls good:
Not very Knowledge, no nor Wisdom can
Exempt thee from the common Lot of Man.
The wisest Prince that ever blest a Nation,
Found all things vain, and when enjoy'd, Vexation.

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.

Since Knowledge then affords my Soul no Rest,
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:

Herds I possest, and Flocks above all them
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:

Therefore I hated Life, for from th'Events
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;

Wherewith t'enrich the righteous Generation;
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:

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?

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.

Ay, but perchance in that sad Heart of thine
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:

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.

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.

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?

CHAP. III.

By the necessary Change of Times, Vanity is added to human Travel; there is an Excellency in God's Works: But as for Man, God shall judge his Works there, and here he shall be like a Beast.

The great Creator in his wise Decree
Hath pitcht a Time when every Change shall be,
And through his watchful Providence hath given
A Season to each Purpose under Heaven;
There is a Time appointed for our Birth,
And there's a Time for Earth to turn to Earth:
There is a Time to plant, a Time wherein
To pluck those Plants, thus planted, up again:
There is a Season when to build, ev'n so,
There is a Season to demolish too:
There is a Season to inflict a Wound,
And there's another Season to make sound:
There is a Time for Tears to drown thine Eye;
A Time to laugh and lay thy Sorrows by:
There is a Time to mourn; a Time to meet
The sprightly Musick with thy num'rous Feet:

There is a due appointed Season, either
To scatter Stones, or gather Stones together:
There is a Time t'embrace, and there be Spaces
Of Time, appointed to refrain Embraces:
There is a Time to gain, and there's ordain'd
Another Time to lose the Thing we gain'd;
There is a Time to recollect and lay
Thy Treasure up; a Time to cast away:
There is a Time appointed when to rend;
And there's a Time appointed when to mend:
A Time for Silence, and a Time to break
Reserved Silence; there's a Time to speak:
A Time to love, and there's a Time t'abate
Our warm Affections; there's a Time to hate:
A Time of War, and there's a Time to cease
The bloody Battle; there's a Time for Peace.
If Heaven's Decree thus bound the Works of Men,
What Profit gains the fruitless Worker then?
What boots our Travel, or those Works of ours,
If all our Plots depend on heav'nly Pow'rs?
Nor are our Actions, or their secret Ends
Govern'd by Chance; nor do our Works depend
On hoodwink'd Fortune; no, pleas'd Heaven thinks good
To exercise the Souls of Flesh and Blood:
What e'er he did, is fair, and timely done,
He gave the World for Man to muse upon:
Whose: Eye, with Admiration may discover
The Motion, not the Progress of the Mover.
I know, that from the Works of Flesh and Blood,
As they are Man's, there can arise no Good;
Unless perchance to qualify with Oyl
The Soul-afflicting Vin'gar of his Toyl;
Or if it happen that his Soul may eat
And drink, and reap the Harvest of his Sweat
To sweeten Sorrows, may we understand
It is a Gift from the Almighty's Hand:
I know that Heaven's Decree is seal'd, and free
From Alteration, a most firm Decree:

And so ordain'd, that the presumptuous Race
Of Man may fear the Majesty of his Face:
The thing that is, hath been; and what of old
Hath been, succeeding Ages shall behold:
The great Disposer keeps the self-same Track,
And calls his timely Revolutions back.
I view'd the Chair of Judgment, where I saw
Instead of Righteousness, perverted Law:
I view'd the Courts of Equity, and spy'd
Corruption there, and Justice warpt aside.
O then (thought I) the Judge of Heaven shall do
Right to the Wicked, and the Righteous too.
For there's a Time true Justice shall proceed
On ev'ry Purpose, upon every Deed.
Then puzzel'd in my Thoughts, I thus advis'd,
Heaven suffers Mortals to be exercis'd
In their own Miseries, that they may see
They're not more happy than the Sensuals be.
To Man and Beast the self-same Lots befal;
Man dies, so dies the Beast: Alas they all
Enjoy one Breath; what Royalties remain
To Man above a Beast? For both are vain;
Both travel to the self-same Place; both tend
Their Paces to the self-same Journies End:
The Substance of their Flesh is both the same,
But Dust, to Dust both turn from whence they came.
What curious Inquisitor doth know
The Place whereto ascending Souls do go?
Or can renown'd Philosophy declare
Whither the dying Spirits of Beasts repair?
This rightly weigh'd, it seems the better Choice
For Man to suck his Labours, and rejoice:
'Tis all the Portion he is like to have:
Who knows the Entertainments of the Grave?

SOLILOQUY. III.

Come now my Soul, thou hast with toylsom Pains
Outworn the Day, and with thy dear-bought Gains,
Thou hast refresh'd thy Spirits, and at length,
With lusty Diet, hast redeem'd thy Strength,
Thou hast forgot thy Labours, and thy Rest
Hath crown'd Contentment in thy peaceful Breast:
Art thou now pleas'd? What can thy Heart require,
More than thou hast, to fill thy vast Desire?

True, if my bubble Life could get a Lease
Of this small Rest, nay, if the present Peace
Were but secur'd from this succeeding Sorrow,
Long since design'd to the next neighb'uring morrow,
It were some Happiness, and would present
A large Proportion of a short Content:
But Change (the Moth of transitory Things
That's never worse than when the Season brings
A Flash of Good) doth all Things so unframe
That Earth's Content doth scarce deserve the Name
Of common Happiness; which like the Wind
Varies, still meeting with a various Mind.

Unconstant Earth! what can thy Treasure shew,
That is not, like thyself, unconstant too?
How full of Change! how full of Alteration!
Nay, fix'd in nothing but thy meer Foundation.
And like thyself, our natural Parent, we
Constant in Nothing, but in loving thee!
One while we plunge in Tears, and by and by,
We rage in Laughter, yet not knowing why:
To day, the Zeal of our Affections such,
We burn in Love, to morrow, hate as much:
Sometimes we fear not when our Ills appear,
Sometimes affrighted at no Cause of Fear:
One while we should and will not, will and should not,
Nay, at the self-same Moment, would and would not.

To day we feast, and quaffe in frolick Bowls,
To morrow fast, and pinch our guilty Souls.
Now Musick, now a Knell salutes our Ears,
At Noon we swim in Wine, at Night in Tears:
O'er Night our Vows are made, or Joy concluded:
To day the Dangers past, and Heaven deluded:
The last six Months our Fortune swell'd with Store,
And now they break, was never Job so poor:
Time was, that Peace enrich'd our joyful Land,
Time is, our martial Drum beats War at hand.
Unconstant Earth! O, is it not enough
Thy Days are Ill at best; and but a Puff
At longest? At the Fruitfulest but vain?
But sad, at merriest, and at sweetest, Pain?
Is not all this enough? enough to make
The miserable Child of Man forsake
The false Protection of thy magick Eye,
Without the Addition of Inconstancy?
Is 't not enough that we poor Farmers pay
Quit rent to Nature at the very Day,
And at our dying Hour bequeath to thee
Our whole Subsistence for a Legacy?
But thou must leave our Frailties as a Prey
To time born Change, that will permit no Stay
In one Estate, nor give us leave to lie
Sad Patients in a quiet Misery!

O but my Soul, why dost thou thus contend
With thy Creators Pleasure? Cease to spend
This needless Breath: Shall thy disordered Will
Confront his Providence? Or call that Ill,
Which he thinks Good? Tell me, my Soul, shall be,
That gave thee Being, be prescrib'd by thee?
He made thee for his Glory; not to spend
Thy Days in slavish Labour; nor to end
Thy painful Travel in the Shades of Death:
But thou hast tainted that immortal Breath,
Which qualifi'd thy Life, and made thee free
Of Heav'n and Earth, and a joynt Patentee

With smooth fac'd Cherubims, and too too proud
Of thy short Honour, warpt thy Thoughts, and bow'd
Thy strait Desires to unknown Delight,
And wrapt thy Glory in the Clouds of Night:
Lost thy Freewill to good, didst overthrow
Thy perfect Knowledge with Desire to know;
Bereft of Wisdom lab'ring to be wise,
Now peer'd with Beasts, that only works and dies.
Both born to Sorrow, breathe the self-same Breath,
Live both alike, both die the self-same Death:
Since then, my Soul, thy Hopes may not aspire
To what thou would'st, suit thy supprest Desire
To what thou mayst: And let thy Wisdom play
Bad Cards with best Advantage: What the Day
Brings in by Travel, let thy frolick Night
Consume in Mirth, and spend in full Delight:
Take thou to day, let others take to morrow;
He earns the Solace, that endures the Sorrow.

CHAP. IV.

Vanity is increased unto Men by Oppression, by Envy, by Idleness, by Covetousness, by Solitariness, by Wilfulness.

My Soul return'd and fixt her Thoughts upon
The hard Oppressions made beneath the Sun;
And lo, the Tears of Captives in Distress,
Cry'd loud for Comfort, yet were comfortless;
Great were the Oppressor's Power, yet the Grief
Of the Opprest was void of all Relief:
O then, I counted their Condition blest,
Whom Death hath lull'd in everlasting Rest;
Yea, far more blest than those that live, to stand
Afflicted Patients at th'Opressor's Hand.

Nay, far than both are they more blessed, whom
Conception never hansell'd in the Womb;
Or those Abortives, whom untimely Birth
Excus'd from all the Sorrows of the Earth.
I mus'd again, and found when Pains had crackt
The harder Shell to some heroick Act,
Pale Envy strikes the Kernel with Taxation;
O this is Vanity, and Souls Vexation.
The sluggish Fool that solitary stands,
With yawning Lips, and bosom-folded Hands,
Consumes his empty Days, at last, is fed
With his own Flesh, that would not move for Bread:
His idle Tongue thus pleading for his Sloth,
Better one Hand be fill'd with Rest, than both
Strech'd forth in Travel, to prepare full Diet,
With Hearts Vexation, and the Soul's Disquiet.
Thus pausing, Contemplation shew'd mine Eye,
A new Prospect of human Vanity;
There is a lonely Man that hath none other
To foster than himself, nor Child nor Brother,
Whose droyling Hands think nothing can supply
The greedy Wants of his insatiate Eye;
He robs himself, nor knows for whose Relief;
This is a Vanity and wounding Grief.
The single State of him that lives alone
Is double Grief; Two better is than One:
For Two can share the Sorrows that befal
To One; One's worse than not to be at all;
If eithers drooping Shoulders be betray'd
To a sad Burden, there's a mutual Aid:
Woe to the Man whom Danger meets alone,
For there's no Arm to help him but his own:
When two divide the Comforts of a Bed,
If one gains kindly Warmth, the other's sped:
But Warmth turns back to him that lies alone;
The Steel will yield no Sparks without the Stone.
If Fury from a stronger Arm assails,
One falls before the Foe when two prevails:

But if a third put in a timely Stroke,
The Cord that's threefold is not quickly broke.
To be a poor wise Child, is judg'd a thing
More honorable than to be a King
That's old and foolish, and whose Disposition
Checks at Advice, and spurns at Admonition.
The low and lank Estates are often known
To climb from Prisons, to the princely Throne;
And glorious Monarchs have been seen to fail,
And change their glittering Glory for a Gaol.
So have I seen the vulgar Hearts grow cold
To withering Greatness, whilst their Eyes behold
The blooming Heir, to whom Affections run
Like morning Eyes to greet the rising Sun.
Past Ages quench the Father's fading Light
In the Son's Hopes, and future Days benight
The Son in his Succeeders Expectation;
O this is Vanity and Souls Vexation.

SOLILOQUY. IV.

My Soul, to what a strange disguised Good
Art thou bewitcht! O how hath Flesh and Blood
Betray'd thee to a Happiness that brings
No Comfort but from transitory Things!
How is thy Freedom curb'd! How art thou clogg'd
With dull Mortality, bestow'd and bogg'd
In thine own Frailty! How art thou repos'd
In sin-polluted Dust! Embrac'd, enclos'd
In the foul Arms of thy own base Corruptions!
How is thy Will disturb'd with the Interruptions
Of cross Desires? Desires not knowing where
To find a Centre, rambling here and there,
Which, like their Objects, alterable, rome
Like idle Vagrants without Pass, or Home.
Review thyself, my Soul, cast up thy Days,
They are but few, thy Life is but a Blaze:

Go take an Inventory of those Joys
Which thy false Earth allows: They are but Toys,
To mock the Frailty of thy flatter'd Sense,
Attended with a Thousand Discontents:
Hath Heaven enricht thy Pains with thriving Drifts
Of mighty Gold? Endow'd thy Mind with Gifts
Of sacred Art? Or glorifi'd thy Name
With Honour posted on the Wings of Fame?
What is there, then, that lies in Earths Election
To raise thy Happ'ness to more high Perfection?

Ay, but my Soul, what great, what higher Hand
Shall stop the Mouth of Envy? Or command
Her snake-devouring Fangs to keep the Peace
Upon thy worried Name? To every Lease
Of Earths best granted Happiness, belongs
The sharp Proviso of malicious Tongues:
They, they shall blast thy Fortunes; leave a Tang
Upon thy new-broach'd Honour: They shall hang
Like Burrs upon thy Welfare, and destroy,
Like the eastern Worm, the Ground of all thy Joy.

Or if thou chance to scape the whispring Tongue
Of secret Envy, Force, and bold-fac'd Wrong,
May hap to roar upon thy full-mouth'd Sails,
And rude Oppression with her harpy Nails,
May gripe thy fair Prosperity, and grate
Upon the vastness of thy great Estate.

Or if those foreign Dangers should forbare
To make Assault; or made, prove less severe,
From out thy very Bosom may arise
Intestine Foes, to make thy Peace their Prize:
If that dull Worm, that cloaths the mossey Land
With Rags, but kiss thy bosom-folded Hand,
It eats thy Treasure with a secret Rust,
And lays thy bed-rid Honour in the Dust.

Or if thy droiling Hand should once beslave
Thy glorious Freedom with a Thirst to have,
And take thee Prison'r to thy lose Desires,
Thy Happiness, even whilst enjoy'd, expires.

Or if a liberal Content should crown
Thy Gold with Rest, and make thine own, thine own,
Perchance, thou want'st a Partner, that may share
In all thy Fortunes: Or (if sped) an Heir,
Whose Worth and hopeful Merits may revive
Thy honour'd Dust, and keep thy Name alive.

Or if the pleased Hand of Heaven subscribe
To those Desires, a Self-conceit may bribe
Thy passion guided Will to take up Arms
'Gainst sovereign Reason, at whose bold Alarms
Thy false Affections may rise up, and shake
Thy fancy-baffled Judgment, and so make
A Gap for Mischief, which may recommend
Thy reeling Fortunes to a ruinous End.

Now tell me, O my Soul, wherein can Earth
Deserve thy Pains, or gratifie thy Birth,
In framing equal Happiness, nay, in freeing
Thy partial Heart from unrepented Being?
O, is't not better, not to thirst at all,
Than thirst in vain, or quench thy Thirst with Gall?
Are not the Cloysters of the barren Womb,
Far more desirable, than to come
Into the wild, into the common Hall
Of troubled Natures factious Court, where all
Move in their Orbs of Care, and several Ways,
Fulfil their Revolutions of sad Days?
Are not the shady Bowers of Death more sweet
Than the bold Sunshine, where we hourly meet
Fresh Ills, like Atomes, whose deluding Breath
Tickles our Fancies till we laugh to Death?
Our Day of Birth leads in our Days of Trouble,
My Soul prize not this Earth, this Toy, this Bubble.

CHAP V.

Vanities in divine Service, in murmuring against Oppression, and in Riches. Joy in Riches is the Gift of God.

Attend thy Foot-steps when thou drawest near
The House of God; and be more apt to hear,
Than give the Sacrifice of Fools, which know
Not in their Sacrifice what Ill they do:
Let not thy Tongue be rash, commit no Waste
Of Words before thy God by over haste;
Since he from Heav'n beholds thy Actions here,
All lavish Babling let thy Lips forbare:
As Dreams and rest-disturbing Fancies flow
From Floods of Business which by day we do;
So multitude of Words are daily sprung
From th'idle Fountain of a foolish Tongue.
When thou hast bound thee to thy God by Vow,
Defer not Payment, but perform it thou:
Discharge thy Bonds, for Heaven takes no Delight
In Fools, that violate the Faith they plight;
Far safer 'tis thy Vows were never made,
Then having promis'd Payment, never pay'd.
Let not thy Lips ensnare thee; plead not thou
Before thy Angel, 'twas too rash a Vow:
O why should'st thou provoke thy God, and dare
His Curse upon thy Practice, and thy Pray'r?
Dreams oft are vain, and Folly's mixt among
The Language of a multiloquious Tongue;
But let the Wisdom of thy Lips appear
Before thy God with reverential Fear.
Seest thou perverted Justice in the Land,
And poor Men grip'd beneath th'Oppressors Hand?

Stand not amaz'd: The Almighty views their Way,
And there be Powers at hand more high than they.
The fruitful Surface of the pregnant Soyl,
Enrich'd by the laborious Ploughman's Toyl,
Brings forth to all; nay, very Kings do build
Their whole Subsistence from the fertile Field:
'Tis not full Heaps of eye-rejoicing Gold
Can feed and screen thy Nakedness from Cold:
Nor can the Piles of treasur'd Wealth sustain
Thy drooping Spirits: This is also vain.
As Goods increase, e'en so their Number, who
Must share thy Goods increase, increaseth too:
What hath the Owner more than they, but this,
What they consume, his Eyes behold as his?
How sweetly pleasant is the Sleep of such
As labour, eat they little, or eat much?
When as the Wealth of idle Owners, keep
Their Heart from Quiet, and their Eyes from Sleep.
There is an Ill that happens now and then
Beneath the Sun, among the Sons of Men.
Oft have I seen increasing Riches grow
To be their great-made Owners Overthrow;
And vex their Souls with Care, and then repay
Unprosp'rous Pains with Grief, and melt away.
His Wealth is fled, and when he should transfer it
Upon his Heir, there's nothing to inherit.
Look how he came into the World, the same
He shall go out, as naked as he came;
Of what his lab'ring Arm hath brought about,
His dying Hand shall carry nothing out:
This is a wounding Grief, that as he came,
In ev'ry Point, he shall return the same:
What Profit can his Soul's Affliction find,
That toyls for Air, and travels but for Wind?
The Pilgrimage of his laborious Days,
Is sordid and obscure, and all his Ways
Are blockt with Troubles, and his Soul's disquiet,
To gain his very life-sustaining Diet.

I hold it therefore the most happy Lot,
To eat and drink, and reap what Pains hath got,
To crown those Days which his Creator gave;
'Tis all the Portion he is like to have:
All such to whom the bounteous Hand of Heav'n
Gives Wealth, and License to enjoy it given,
To sweeten Labour, may they understand,
It is a Favour from the Almighty's Hand:
Such, doubtless, in their Labour, shall forget
Their painful Sorrows, and their toylsome Sweat;
For Heav'n hath crown'd their fair Desires, and sent
A peaceful Conscience, and a pleas'd Content.

SOLILOQUY V.

But hark, my Soul, the morning Bells invite
Thy early Paces to a new Delight:
Away, away; the holy Saint's Bell rings,
Put on thy Robes, and oyl thy sacred Wings:
Call home thy Heart, and bid thy Thoughts surcease
To be thy Thoughts; go bind them to the Peace;
Take good Security, or if such fail,
Commit them to the all-commanding Jail
Of thy cramb'd Bags, there to lie close and fast,
Until thy heaven-atoning Vows be past:
Confine thy rambling Pleasures to the Trust
Of vacant Hours: And let thy Wisdom thrust
Indulgent Hagar, and her base-born Child
From thy sad Gates; let them be both exil'd
From thy soft Bosom; let not Ishmael share
With holy Isaac; Isaac must be Heir:
Nor let thy sorrow-melted Heart bemoan
Thy banish'd Bondslave, nor her thirsty Son:
Take thou no Care for them; Heav'n will supply
Their craving Thirst with Bottles from thine Eye:
Leave all thy servile Fancies in the Vale,
Mount thou the sacred Hill, and there, bewale,

Thy dying Isaac, whose free Gift may be
A living Pledge betwixt thy God and thee.
Here mayst thou feast thy Soul, and fill thy Breast
With heavenly Raptures, and with holy Rest.
Here shall thy Piety sweeten all thy Pains,
And Grace shall here replieve what Grief distrains:
Here mayst thou shrowd thee from those Ills that wait
Upon the Frailty of thy frail Estate.
Here may thy Griefs unbosome all their Groans,
And find Redress from the high Throne of Thrones.

Haste then; O hie thee to that sacred Place;
Why stay'st thou? See the widened Arms of Grace
Invite thy Presence, and with open Breast
Promise fair Welcome to so fair a Guest!

O but my zeal-transported Soul, take heed,
Too rash a Haste brings oft too dear a Speed:
Observe thy Steps; thy Feet are apt to slide,
If thy misguided Paces swerve aside,
Death waits at either Hand, to make a Prize
Of wavering Footsteps, and miswandring Eyes:
Near the best Blessings neighbouring Dangers dwell,
The very Suburbs of blest Heaven, is Hell.

Thus when thy awful Presence shall draw near
These hallalujous Courts, advise, and fear;
Put off thy Shoes; 'Tis holy Ground thou tread'st:
Be not too bold; thou di'st unless thou dread'st.

Now, may thy holy Boldness safely venture
To pass these delectable Ports, and enter.
Now cloath thy Heart with Reverence; be fill'd
With secret Raptures; let thy Fancy build
No Castles here; beware thou banish hence
The sinful Objects of invited Sense:
Make Heav'ns Command (and let thy zealous Motion
Subscribe to that) the Cause of thy Devotion:
Let Heav'ns Direction be thy Form, and bend
Thy endful Heart to make Heav'ns Glory th'End:
Worship that's moulded in Traditions Schools,
Is but the sensual Sacrifice of Fools.

Be wisely careful what thy Lips impart;
Bring thy soft Tongue acquainted with thy Heart:
Be slow to speak, and be as quick to hear;
Heaven loves a single Tongue, a double Ear.
Make haste to pay what thy vow'd Promise owes;
Destruction dwells in unperformed Vowes.

Thus mayst thou break the heart corroding Fangs
Of griping Care, and scape the dying Pangs
Of living Death: Here, here, thou mayst controul
Earths Power, and imparadise thy Soul
In soft and sacred Rest, beyond the Extent
Of whining Grief, and murmuring Discontent.

Ay, but my Soul, gross Vanity even dwells
In thy Devotion, whose rank Offering smells
So strong of Earth, that very Heavens deride
Our very Altars, and abhor the Pride
Of our disguis'd Humility, which brings
A secret Curse upon our holiest Things:

Hence, hence, my Soul, proceed those boystrous Waves
That plunge our Frailties: This, O this enslaves
Our craven'd Spirits so, that we e'en fail
Or shrink before the Combat, and turn tail
To every slight Affliction: This unlevels
Thy even-way'd Peace, with indigested Evils:
This sowers all thy Sweets, sads all thy Rest,
Nay disposesses thee, even whilst possest
Of thy imperious Treasure.—

O then, my Soul, where shall thy Wounds obtain
That sovereign Balsom? Who shall ease thy Pain?
In what blest Ear will thy Complaints find Place?
What holy Altar shall thy Arms embrace?
If here be no Protection for opprest
And labouring Souls, where shall poor Souls have Rest?
Earths Joys are vain, and they that shall commit
Trust in vain Earth, are far more vain than it.

CHAP. VI.

The Vanity of Riches without Use. Of Children, and Old Age without Riches. The Vanity of Sight and wandering Desires. The Conclusion of Vanities.

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.

CHAP. VII.

Remedies against Vanity, are a good Name. Mortification. Patience. Wisdom. The Difficulty of Wisdom.

A good reputed Name is sweeter far
Than Breaths of Aromatick Ointments are:
And that sad Day when first we drew our Breath
Is not so happy as the Day of Death.
Better it is to be a Fun'ral Guest,
Than find the Welcomes of a frolick Feast:
There mayst thou view thy End, and take Occasion
T'enrich thy Thoughts with fruitful Contemplation.
Better to cloud thy Face with Grief, than show
The lavish Wrinkles of a laughing Brow;
For by the sad Demeanour of thine Eyes
The Heart's instructed, and becomes more wise.
The wise Man's sober Heart is always turning
His wary Footsteps to the House of Mourning;
But Fools consume, and revel out the Night
In Dalliance, and the Day in loose Delight.
The Virtue of a wise Man's fair Reproof,
Brings greater Benefit to a Man's Behoof,
Than all those Ear-bewitching Sweets than can
Belch from the Language of a foolish Man.
Look how the crackling Thorns under the Pot
Blaze for a Season, but continue not;

E'en so do foolish Flatt'ries entertain
Our Souls with Joy; but all that Joy is vain.
When wise Men turn Oppressors, they have crackt
Their Understandings in the very Act;
And the Acceptance of a Bribe destroys
The Grounds of Judgment, and it blinds her Eyes.
In all Attempts the Onset does not lend
So sweet a Satisfaction, as the End:
And he whose gentle Spirit is endow'd
With Meekness, is far better than the Proud.
Let not thy hot-mouth'd Spirit entertain
Too sudden Passion with too slack a Rein;
For rash and unadvised Anger rests
Embosom'd, and abides in foolish Breasts.
Let not thy murm'ring Tongue desire to know
Why former Days were not so bad as now;
Where Heav'n declares a Will, no wise Man's Eye
Should search a Cause, or Lips enquire a Why.
Wisdom is profitable to advance
Man's Welfare, joined with Inheritance;
By this Conjunction Profit doth arise
To those that toyl beneath the sweltring Skies.
Wisdom's a Guard; and Treasure a Defence
To supersede our Wants, reliev'd from thence.
Wisdom's th'Extract of Knowledge, and conveys
To the Possessor-everlasting Days.
O let thy Thoughts enquire and understand
The well-weigh'd Works of the Almighty's Hand.
What he hath settled in a crooked State,
No Industry of Man can make it strait.
In thy good Day take Pleasure, and be wise;
In thy bad Day have Patience, and advise;
For Heav'n gives both by turns, to let Man see
How alterable Earthly Pleasures be.
Much have I seen in this my short liv'd Day;
Among the rest, the just Man snacht away
In his just Works, whilst wicked find Success,
And prosper in their long-liv'd Wickedness.

Since then th'upright Man's Recompence is such,
Be not too wise, nor righteous over much;
Why should thy too much Righteousness betray
Thy danger'd Life, and make thy Life a Prey?
Nor let the Flesh suggest thee, or advise
Thy Thoughts to be too wicked, too unwise.
Why should thy Folly captivate thy Breath,
And make thee Pris'ner to untimely Death?
In all thy Courses therefore it is best
To lodge Uprightness in thy constant Breast.
For he that feareth the Almighty, shall
Outwear his Ev'l, or find no Ev'l at all:
Wisdom affords more Strength, more fortifies
The undejected Courage of the wise,
Than all the twisted Pow'r of those that are
The Guides of Cities, or their Men of war.
Yet is there none beneath the crystal Skies
So just in Action, or in Word so wise;
That doeth always good, or hath not been
Sometimes polluted with the Stains of Sin.
At Passions Language stop thy gentle Ear,
Lest if thy Servant curse thee thou shouldst hear.
For oftentimes thy Heart will let thee see
That others likewise have been curs'd by thee.
This Wisdom by my Travel I attain'd,
And in my Thoughts conceiv'd that I had gain'd
No common Height, but on a strict Revise
I found my Wisdom came far short of wise.
Objects far distant, Secrets too profound
What Eye can entertain; what Heart can sound?
I bent my studious Heart to search and pry
Into the Bosom of Philosophy;
I gave my self to understand the Art
Of Folly, and the Madness of the Heart:
I found the Harlot's Ways more bitter are
Than Death, whose Arms are Gins, whose Heart's a Snare,
Whom Heav'n doth favour shall decline her Gates,
But Sinners shall be taken by her Baits.

Lo, this I have observ'd (the Preacher says)
By strict Enquest into their sev'ral Ways:
Whereof my restless, my laborious Mind
Would make Discov'ry, but despairs to find;
Among a thousand Men perchance that one
May be trac'd out, but among Women, none.
Lo here the Fruits of all my Disquisition,
Only to know the devious Condition
Of poor degen'rous Man, whose first Estate
Heav'n copied from himself, upright, and strait.

SOLILOQUY VII.

Since then my Soul, the frail and false Estate
Of fading Happiness cannot create
The least Contentment in thy various Mind,
Whose Fancy-guided Motion cannot find
The Point of Rest, but like the boiling Waves
Tost in the Storms of Earth, sometimes outbraves
The threatning Firmament, then at a Breath
Darts down, and dashes at the Doors of Death;
Since waxen-winged Honour is not void
Of Danger, whether aim'd at, or enjoy'd;
Since Heart-enchanting Profit hath not Fruit,
But Care, both in Fruition, and Pursuit;
Since Pleasure like a wanton Itch doth breed
In the rank Flesh, but scratcht until it bleed;
Since Laughter is but Madness, and high Diet
The officious Pander of our own Disquiet;
Since glorious Buildings, and magnifick Towers,
Fructiferous Orchards, Odoriferous Bowers;
Full clustered Vineyards, Beauties, and the choice
Of Musick, both by Instrument and Voice,
Can lend thy Heart no full Content, nor still
The various Clamours of th'insatiate Will;

Since human Wisdom is but human Trouble,
And double Knowledge makes our Sorrow double;
Since what we have, but lights our Wish to more,
And in the Height of Plenty makes us poor;
And what we have not, too too apt to crave,
Ev'n disposses us of what we have;
Nay, since the very Act of our Devotion
Can bring no Rest, nor qualify the Motion
Of our unbounded Thoughts, to sweeten out
This Span of Frailty, plung'd, and orb'd about
With Floods of Bitterness: Since none of these,
Nor all can crown our Labours, nor appease
Our raging Hearts, O my deceived Soul,
Where wilt thou purchase Peace? Who shall controul,
Who shall suppress those Passions that contest
Within the Kingdom of thy troubled Breast?
Whither? to what strange Region wilt thou fly
To find Content, and baulk that Vanity
Which haunts this bubble Earth, and makes thee still
A Slave to thy infatuated Will?
Call home thy self: Inspect thy self anew,
And take thy Birthright to a fresh Review:
Thou art immortal; art divine by birth,
A Spark of Heav'n; thou art not born of Earth;
Earth is the Footstool of thy heavenly Throne;
Made for thy baser Parts to trample on.

Look not so low, my Soul, there's nothing there
Fit for thy sacred View; it is no Sphere
For thee to move in: No, let Worms and Beasts,
And salvage Brutes trade there, and lay their Gests
Of Progress, to surround with weary Paces
The base Confines of those inferiour Places.

Ay, but my Soul, th'Alliance of my Flesh
Claims Kindred there, takes pleasure to refresh
Her wasted Body there: Earth is her Mother,
The Worm her Sister, and the Beast her Brother.

'Tis true, she is thy Spouse, Heav'n ty'd the Knot
For none to loose but Heav'n: I know her Lot

Is mortal, frail, and being born of Earth,
Corrupt, and wears the Badges of her Birth.
If she transgress, it's thou must bear the Blame,
And all her Deeds reflect upon thy Name;
O then beware, and if she needs must go
To visit Earth, first, let her Frailty know,
How apt she is to fall, and she how prone
To blur and stain thy Honour and her own.

A Name unblemisht with the sinful Soil
Of sordid Earth, is as a precious Oil,
Which like a sovereign Antidote prevents
That Plague of Vanity which Earth presents.

Then tell her, tell her, that her Mother Earth
Must give her Burial, as she gave her Birth:
Tell her, O tell her, every Gasp of Breath
Are Minutes moving to the Hour of Death:
And let her know, The House of Mourning brings
More Profit than the Palaces of Kings:
Tell her, less real Happiness doth dwell
In a full Banquet, than a passing Bell.

Arm her with Patience apt to entertain
The wise Reproofs: but if her Passion reign,
Correct it wisely: Teach her sober Eye
A willing Ignorance in things too high.

If liberal Earth should chance to crown her Store,
Let her wise Modesty receive no more
Than she can manage; Pilots that are wise,
Proportion out their Canvas to the Skies.

Let not her Knowledge with the Eagle fly,
Unless her Wisdom hath an Eagle's Eye.
Wisdom digests what Knowledge did devour,
Things sweet in taste, are indigested sowre.

In prosp'rous Fortunes let her Joy be such,
That in hard Times she may not grieve too much.

Let her count Wisdom as her chiefest Good,
And the Price easie, whether Sweat or Blood:

And let the Perclose of her Thoughts be this,
To study what Man was, and what Man is.

So now my Soul, thy well instructed Flesh
May visit Earth, and with her Sweets refresh,
Thy wasted Spirit, secure from all those Ills
Which threaten Ruin to distempered Wills:
Now mayst thou eat and drink, and make Supplies
For after-days, and close thy peaceful Eyes
In calm Content, and scape those hidden Snares
That lurk in Pleasures, and increase our Cares.
He only takes Advantage of his Lot,
That uses Earth, as if he us'd it not.

CHAP. VIII.

Kings are greatly to be respected: Divine Providence is to be observed. It is better with the Godly in Adversity, than with the Wicked in Prosperity. The Work of God is unsearchable.

Who's equal to the wise Man? who but he
Can judge of things, or what their Natures be?
Wisdom adorns the Cheek with lovely Grace;
And plants couragious Boldness in the Face.
Let me advise the Subjects Heart to stand
Devoted always to the King's Command:
For having sworn Allegiance to him, both
Heav'n and thy Conscience do attest the Oath.
Let not thy discontented Haste incite
Abrupt Departure from his awful Sight:
If thou hast err'd, continue not in Ill,
For Princes Acts are guided by their Will:
The potent Majesty of a Prince's Word
Is backt and made authentick by the Sword:
What vent'rous Tongue dare question, or demand
The least Account from his illustrious Hand?

Whose loyal Breasts observe the Laws of Kings,
Shall never know the Grief Rebellion brings:
The wise Man's Heart knows Times and Judgment too,
Not only when to speak, but what to do.
For there's to every Purpose among Men
A Judgment how to do, a Season when,
Which if mistaken, or not understood,
Brings so much Mis'ry upon Flesh and Blood.
For Man is ignorant of what may fall,
And who is he can tell him when it shall?
No Man hath Power to prolong his Breath,
Or make him Shot-free in the Day of Death:
There's no Retreat in that sad War, nor can
Man's Wickedness preserve the wicked Man.
All this have I observed, and have given
My Heart to note each Action under Heaven:
There was a time when the Oppressor's Arm
Opprest his Brother to th'Oppressor's Harm.
So have I seen grave Judges (but unjust)
That sat in Judgment honour'd to the Dust
Which hid their Crimes; these seemed to obtain
Some Happiness: This Happiness is vain.
Because a present Sentence is not past
Upon the Wicked, their dull Hearts at last
Grow quite obdure, resolv'd, and fully bent,
To act what Ills their greedy Lusts present.
Put case the Sinner multiply his Crime,
And his long Days e'en rust the Sithe of Time:
Yet well I know they only shall be blest,
That fear th'Almighty with a filial Breast.
Ay, but the Wicked shall not scape secure,
Though he live long, he shall not long endure;
But like a Shadow shall his Days appear,
Because he fear'd not whom he ought to fear.
There is a Vanity reigns here below,
I see the wise Man reap what Sinners sow,
And Sinners share when just Men sow the Seed;
This Grief (said I) all other Griefs exceed.

Then prais'd I Mirth, and held it the best Choice
Beneath the Sun, to eat, and to rejoice:
For this is all the Good, this all the Gains
Is like to chear our Days, and crown our Pains.
But when I set my busie Heart to know
Wisdom, and Heav'ns strange working here below:
(For Day and Night my Studies did deny
Sleep to mine Eye-lids, Slumbers to mine Eye)
O then I found his Works beneath the Sun
Past finding out; my fruitless Thoughts did run
This Heav'nly Maze, till they at length concluded,
Man's Wit stoops here; here Wisdom stands deluded.

SOLILOQUY VIII.

But stay my Soul! What Language does appear?
Am I deceiv'd? Or did I seem to hear?
Which Tenet shall I baulk? And which embrace?
Hath Truth like Janus, got a double Face?
Did not that Voice, that voted Wisdom vain
But very now, now cry it up again?
Shall what was late condemn'd as a Disease,
Now prove a Remedy? Such Slips as these
Are Brands of human Frailty, which belong
To us and ours; it well beseems our Tongue
To contradict and jangle: Error's known
By many Faces; Truth admits but one:
How haps it then, that Wisdom, whose Increase
Adds to our Grief, yet crowns our Days with Peace?

Be not deceiv'd, my Soul; let not one Name
Confound two Natures, and make two the same:
Shall Names give Natures? Dare thy Tongue profess
An equal Priviledge to curse and bless
For one Name's Sake? No, my deluded Soul,
Sooner may Light and Darkness, fair and foul,

Sooner may Good and Ill, nay, Heav'n and Hell,
May sooner startle from their Parallel,
And turn Joint-tenants in one perfect Line,
Than these two Wisdoms, human and divine.

That breeds a Tumour in the flatuous Breast;
This lays it: that brings Trouble, and this, Rest:
That kindles Fires, and those Fires increase
To Self-contention; this concludes a Peace:
That dulls the Thoughts, supprest with low Desires;
This mounts thy Soul with more heroick Fires:
That cannot brook the transitory Frown
Of Fortunes Brow; this makes a Cross a Crown:
That fills thy Hopes with Froth, and blurs thy Youth
With black-mouth'd Error; this directs to Truth:
That scorns Advice, and like an own-self Lover
Befools thee; but this honours the Reprover:
That fears, and flees, or falls at every Breath
Of Discontent; this triumphs, e'en in Death:
That breaks Relations, and for private Ends,
Dissolves Allegiance, and disbands true Friends;
This loves Society, calls not mine, but ours,
Yields due Obedience to superior Pow'rs:
That prickt by Passion rushes into Crimes;
This backt with Reason counsels with the Times:
That gives the Name of Power; this the thing:
That makes a Tyrant; this creates a King:
That lights thy Honour, fading like a Blaze;
This crowns thy Name with everlasting Days:
That breeds a Serpent; this brings forth a Dove:
That works a servile Fear; this filial Love:
That deads thy Spirit; this makes thee wisely bold:
That scowres thy Brass; but this refines thy Gold:
That fills thy Feast with Cares; with Fears, thy Breast;
This makes thy Morsel a perpetual Feast:
That cools thy Palate, but inflames thy Fire;
This slakes thy Thirst, and satiates thy Desire.

O then, my Soul, correct that Flesh and Blood
That blinds thee so; and, like a gloomy Cloud,

Thus interposes, and obscurely flies
Betwixt the sacred Object, and thine Eyes:
Clear up, my Soul, and like the Eye of Day,
Chastise that peccant Darkness, and display
Those Mists of Earth, which like false Glasses shew
Fanatick Figures, and present thy View
With specious Objects, precious in Esteem,
(Alas) but nothing less, than what they seem.

Then shall the Wisdom of the scarlet Whore
And all her bald-pate Panders, painted o'er
With counterfeited Holiness, appear
In her true Colours, so that every Ear
That hears her base Impostures, and the Fame
Of her lewd Piety, shall abhor the Name
Of bloody Rome: Then shall the spotted Beast
Put off her golden Trappings; and undrest
Of all her Glory, be turn'd out to graze
In uncouth Deserts, and consume her Days
With Dragons, Tigers, and those salvage things,
Now pamper'd with the Blood of Saints and Kings.
O then the crooked Paths of Error, Fraud,
And Candle-light Devotion, trim'd and straw'd
With sweet-lipt Roses, shall appear as plain,
As Tide-forsaken Rocks along the Main.
Then shall true Wisdom, like fair Sheba's Queen,
Begin her royal Progress, and now seen
In perfect Beauty, shall erect her Throne
In every Breast, and every Solomon
Shall court her Glory, and intranc'd in pleasure,
Shall smell her Spices, and divide her Treasure.

CHAP. IX.

Like things happen to Good and Bad. There is a Necessity of Death unto Men. Comfort is all their Portion in this Life. God's Providence ruleth over all. Wisdom is better than Strength.

All this I ponder'd, and at length I found
All Actions, whether just or wise, are crown'd
By secret Providence: And no Man knows
God's Love or Hate, by Blessings or by Blows.
All haps alike to all; the same Things do
Befal the Righteous and th'Unrighteous too.
Th'Unclean, and Clean, have here the self-same Pay;
And he that prays, and he that doth not pray:
Alike befals to Good and Bad, and both
To him that swears, and him that fears an Oath:
It is a Grief that grates beneath the Sun,
That like Events betide to every one;
Which makes the desp'rate Hearts of Men to rave
With Mischief, till they drop into the Grave.
For the Ambition of their Hopes extend
But to this Life, and with this Life they end:
Better to be a living Dog (they plead)
Than to be knowm a Lyon that is dead:
For they that live, know well that they shall die,
And therefore take their Time; but they that lie
Rak'd up in Death's cold Embers, they know not
Or Good or Ill: their Names are quite forgot:
They have no Friends to love, no Foes to hate;
They know no Virtue to spit Venom at;
They sell no Sweat for Gains, nor do they buy
Pleasure with Pains, or trade beneath the Skie:

Go then, rejoice, and eat: Let a full Bowle
Casheire thy Cares, and chear thy frolick Soul;
What Heaven hath lent thee with a liberal Hand,
To serve, and cheer thy Frailty up, command.
Indulge thy careful Flesh with new Supply,
And Change of Garments of the purest Dye;
Refresh thy Limbs, annoy'd with Sweat and Toyl,
With costly Baths, thy Head with precious Oil.
Delight thy self in thy delicious Wife
All the vain Days of thy vain wasting Life;
Of all the Works thy painful Hand hath done,
This, this is all the Price beneath the Sun.
What e'er thy Hand endeavours, that may gain
Contentment, spare not either Cost or Pain;
For there's no Hand to work, no Pow'r to have,
No Wisdom to contrive within the Grave.
I find the Swift not always win the Prize,
Nor Strength of Arm the Battle, nor the wise
Grow rich in Fortunes, nor the Men of Skill
In Favour; all as Time and Fortune will.
Man knoweth not his Time; as Fishes are
Snar'd in the Net, Birds tangled in the Snare;
So be the Sons of Men surpriz'd with Snares,
When Mischief falls upon them unawares.
This Wisdom have I seen beneath the Skie,
Which wisely weigh'd, deserves a wise Man's Eye.
There was a little City poorly man'd,
'Gainst which a potent King brought up a Band
Of martial Strength, besieg'd it, and withal
Built mighty Bulwarks 'gainst her slender Wall;
In this half conquer'd City there was found
A poor wise Man, whose Wisdom did confound
Both them and all the Works their Strength could plant;
Yet no Reward reliev'd this poor Man's Want.
O then (thought I) poor Wisdom will at length
Discover greater Worth than golden Strength;
Yet is the poor Man's Wisdom poorly priz'd,
His Word's not heard, or being heard, dispis'd:

The whispering wise Man's Tongue prevaileth more,
Than when the Lips of foolish Rulers roar:
Prudent Advice is more transcendent far,
Than Strength of Arm, or Instruments of War:
But rash Attempts of a misguided Hand
Defeat themselves, and ruin all the Land.

SOLILOQUY. IX.

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.

CHAP X.

Observations of Wisdom and Folly. Of Riot, Slothfulness, and Money. Mens Thoughts of Kings ought to be reverenced.

Look how dead Flies (tho' few in Number) soil,
Corrupt and putrify the purest Oil:
Ev'n so a little Folly stains his Fame
Whom fair Repute for Wisdom lends a Name.
A wise Man's Heart is plac'd at his right Hand,
His Plots and Counsels are of strong Command;
But Hearts of Fools are weak and rash, bereft
Of sage Advice; their Hearts are at their Left.

Nay, if their Steps but measure out the Way,
Their Garb, their Looks, their Language do betray
Their Folly, read by whomsoe're they meet;
Themselves proclaim their selves in ev'ry Street.
If thy Superior happen to incense
His jealous Wrath at thy suppos'd Offence,
Do thou thy Part and yield, for Yielding slakes
The raging Flame, that great Transgression makes.
I see an Ill beneath the Sun that springs
From Error, reigning in the Breast of Kings:
Fools are made Statesmen, and command at Court,
And Men of Parts are made the lower Sort.
So have I seen proud Servants mounted high
On lordly Steeds, and Lords to lackey by.
He that shall dig a Pit, that shall prepare
A Snare, shall be ensnar'd in his own Snare.
And he that tramples down a Hedge shall meet
A Serpent to salute his trampling Feet.
He that shall shake a Stone-compacted Wall,
Shall undergo the Danger of the Fall:
Who undertakes to cleave the knotty Oak,
Shall be a painful Partner in the Stroak:
But if th'unwhetted Edge be blunt, the Arm
Must give more Strength, and so receive more Harm;
But if he challenge Wisdom for his Guide,
Wisdom will do, what painful Strength deny'd.
The rash reproving Mouth of Fools are arm'd
Like unenchanted Serpents, if not charm'd.
The wise Man's Words are gracious, where they go,
But foolish Language doth themselves o'erthrow.
Folly brings in the Prologue with his Tongue,
Whose Epilogue is Rage and open Wrong.
The Fool abounds in Tongue, there's none can know
What his Words mean, or what he means to do.
The tedious Actions of a Fool doth try
The Patience of the weary Stander by;
Because his Weakness knows not how to lay
His Actions Posture in a civil Way.

Wo to the Land, whose Prince's Wisdom sways
The Scepter in the Nonage of her Days;
And whose grave Rulers, that should haunt the Seat
Of sacred Justice, rise betime to eat.
Blessed art thou O Land, when as thy King
Derives his royal Blood from th'ancient Spring
Of Majesty, and Rulers timely diet
Serves to maintain their Strength, and not their Riot.
By too much Slothfulness the Building falls
Into Decay, and Ruin strikes her Walls,
And through the sluggish Posture of his Hand
The Weather-beaten House forgets to stand:
Who eats and drinks and frolicks, uncontroul'd,
Maintaining Riot with his wanton Gold.
Curse not the King, nor them that bear the Sword,
No, not in Thought, tho' Thought express no Word;
The Fowls of Heav'n shall vent such hideous Things,
And swift Report shall fly with secret Wings.

SOLILOQUY X.

But ah, my Soul! How closely Folly cleaves
To Flesh and Blood! How mungrel Nature weaves
Wisdom and Folly in the self same Loom,
Like Web and Woof, whereby they both become
One perfect Web to cloath our Imperfections
With Linsey-woolsey, and our mixt Affections
With foolish Wisdom! O how full of Earth
Was our first Ore, which at our sinful Birth
Was taken from the Womb; Now purifi'd
In sacred Fires, and more than seven Times try'd
In sharp Affliction's Furnace; yet how base
Our Bullion is! not worthy of the Face
That makes us currant; O how apt and prone
Is Flesh and Blood to fall, if let alone
But one poor Minute! Most in Danger then
To be surpriz'd and foyl'd with Folly, when

Our bold Presumption tempts our Thoughts to prize
Our Wisdoms overmuch, and seem too wise.
How one rash Action; O how one dead Fly
Embalm'd in thy sweet Oil does putrifie
Thy Box of Spikenard! How it casts a Shame
Upon the Beauty of thy honour'd Name!

O then, my Soul, take heed to keep thy Heart
At thy right Hand; there, there she will impart
Continual Secrets, and direct thy Ways
In sacred Ethicks, sweetning out thy Days
With season'd Knowledge, Knowledge past the Reach
Of black-mouth'd Error, shall instruct and teach
Thy Tongue wise Silence; Wisdom when to break
Thy closed Lips, and Judgment how to speak:
She'll teach thee Christian Policy, and how
To keep thee safe whenas thy Prince's Brow
Shall threaten Death, e'en when the Flame shall fly
Like horrid Lightning from his wrathful Eye.

Ay, but the Rage of Princes oftentimes
Darts Lightning at the Person, not his Crimes;
And their misguided Will oft times demands
Obedience there, where Conscience countermands.

Take heed, my Soul; thou tread'st upon the Ice,
Be not too vent'rous here, nor too too nice:
Rush not too bold; thou mayst as soon convince
An Error in thy Conscience, as thy Prince.
To lay Commands upon indifferent things,
Is a sole Royalty belongs to Kings.
If here thy Conscience doubt, the Book of Life
Must cast the Balance, and decide the Strife:
If this way, thy enforc'd Obedience then
Must stoop; if that, please rather God than Men.
If th'Embers of his Rage should chance to lie
Rak'd up, or Furnace from his angry Eye,
Quit not thy Duty: 'tis thy Part t'asswage
The jealous Flames of his consuming Rage.
What, if through Error or misguided Will
He leaves the Way to Good, and cleaves to Ill;

Lend him thy Prayers; lament, advise, perswade,
Lift not thy Hand, nor let thy Tongue upbraid
His sacred Person; he's by Heav'n appointed
To be thy Prince; O touch not Heav'ns Anointed.
What, if he lend the Fulness of his Pow'r
To those imperious Spirits that devour
Subjects like Bread, and drink the loyal Blood
Of Men line Water; Men, not once allow'd
To plead for Life; but silently subscribe
To those that cannot judge without a Bribe?

What, if his Power pleases to commit
His past'ral Staff to such as are more fit
To kill and eat, or recommend his Flocks
To such dumb Dogs, of whom nor Wolfe or Fox
Will stand in Awe, or show their Fears by Flight,
That have not Tongues to bark, nor Teeth to bite?
Rebel not thou, nor in a hostile Way
Accost thy Prince; Or suffer, or obey.

What, if the common Favourite of the Times
(The Courtly Fool, grown great with count'nance) climes
Up to a Lordship, when the Man of Merit
Broke on the Wheel of Fortune must inherit
Nothing but Scorn and Want; and a poor Name
Betraid to Pity, and to empty Fame?
Be thou thy self, let not thy Eye be evil:
To a wise Heart both Hills and Dales are level.

How happy is that Land, how blest the Nation,
Whose Prince directs by Power, not by Passion?
Whose sacred Wisdom knows how great a Price
True Virtue bears, and how to punish Vice;
Whose royal Majesty, and princely Love
Can both incorporate, and jointly move
In a self-glorious Orb, and from one Sphere
Breathe such rare Influence of Love, and Fear
Into the Hearts of Men, that all the Land
Shall cry a Solomon, and sweetly stand
Rapt with sweet Peace, and sacred Admiration:
How happy is that Land, how blest the Nation!

CHAP. XI.

Directions for Charity. Death in Life, and the Day of Judgment in the Days of Youth, are to be thought on.

Upon the Waters let thy Bread be cast,
And thou shalt find it when some Days are past.
Give lib'ral Alms, for it's unknown to thee
How full of Wants thy after Days shall be.
If Clouds be full, will they deny to pour
Their fruitful Blessings in a lib'ral Show'r?
Or North, or South, or wheresoe'er the Tree
Shall fall, no question it shall fall to thee.
He that observes the Wind shall never sow:
Who marks the Clouds shall never reap nor mow.
Like as the Embryo's growth within their Wombs,
Is strange to thee, and how the Soul becomes
The Body's Inmate; e'en so all the rest
Of Heav'ns high Works are Strangers to thy Breast.
Cast thou thy morning Seed upon the Land,
And at the Evening hold not back thy Hand;
For who is he can tell thee which of these
Shall prosper best, or bring thee best Increase?
'Tis true, the Light is sweet, and every one
Takes pleasure in the World-rejoycing Sun:
But who lives many joyful Years, if he
But count how long his after Shades shall be
In Earths dark Bosom, how can he refrain
To think these short-liv'd flattering Pleasures vain?
Rejoyce O young Man in thy youthful Ways;
Let thy Heart cheer thee in thy youthful Days,
Delight thine Eyes, thy Heart, and take thy Way;
But know that Heavens Account will find a Day.

Then banish false-ey'd Mirth: Be dispossest
Of those lewd Fires that so enflame thy Breast;
For Childhood, Youth, and all their Joys remain
But for a Season, and they all are vain.

SOLILOQUY. XI.

So now my Soul, thy Wisdom-season'd Breast
May eat and drink, and labour and digest
Thy careful Morsels, and with holy Mirth
Disperse the Clouds of melancholy Earth:
Now mayst thou sit beneath thy clustred Vine,
And press thy Grapes, and drink thy frolick Wine
In soft and plenteous Peace, and leave to morrow
To bare the Burden of her self-born Sorrow:
Now mayst thou walk secure from all those Threats
Of peevish Fortune, and the sly Deceits
Of flattering Pleasure: Plenty cannot drown
Thine Eyes in Mirth, nor Misery cast thee down:
If the blew Rafters of the falling Skies
Should leave their spangled Mansion, and surprise
Thy feeble Strength, well may their Ruins smite thee,
And grind thy Clod to Dust, but not affright thee.

What want'st thou then, my Soul, that may augment
The real Happiness of a true Content?
What Virtue's wanting now, whose Absence may
Encourage bold fac'd Vanity to betray
Thy even sun-shine Days to Sorrow; or occasion
Thy fair-contriv'd Designs to taste Vexation?
Woulst thou have Honour? Thou enjoyst it: Treasure?
Thou hast it: Wouldst thou gain the greater Pleasure
Of a true noble Spouse; whose Life may show
Virtues rare Quintessence? Thou hast that too:
Wouldst thou have hopeful Sons to crown thy Last
With Peace and Honour? Such rare Sons thou hast:

Thy Princes Favour? Or thy Peoples Love?
All this thou hast: Wisdom in Things above?
Thou hast it: Knowledge in these Toys beneath?
Thou hast it: Skill in th'Arts? Or curious Breath
Of whispering State? All this thou hast: Where then
Shall thy new Wishes fix, rare Man of Men?

Ay, but my Soul, one Good is wanting still
To sum a full Perfection, and to fill
Thy Cruise with Happiness; which if possest,
Thou hast a Diadem, crowns all the rest:
Hadst thou the Tongues of Men, and couldst thou break
Thy Lips in Oracles; or couldst thou speak
The Dialect of Angels when they sing
Their sacred Canzons to their sovereign King,
A tinkling Cymbal, or the hideous Sounds
Of discomposed Discords, or the Rounds
Of frolick midnight Madness would requite
Thy wild Attention with as much Delight,
And breathe as sweetly in the Almighty's Ear,
If heart-rejoycing Charity be not there:
Hadst thou what Strength the Parnassean Muse
Can bless thy Fancy with, or Heaven infuse;
Hadst thou a Faith to make the Mountains fly
In the vast Orbe, like Atoms in thy Eye;
Less than those Atoms would thy Faith appear,
If Faith-confirming Charity be not there:
Shouldst thou, to purchase Heaven, renounce thy Right
Of all thy Goods, and turn an Anchorite;
Or should thy Courage, to deserve the Name
Of Martyr, give thy Body to the Flame,
When that Blood pleads, Heav'n will not lend an Ear
If Heav'n-engaging Charity be not there.

Since then, my Soul, both Faith and Works lie dead
If Charity fail, be wise, and cast thy Bread
Upon the Waters; as the Waters run
Deal thou thy Dole, until thy Dole be done.
Man is God's Husbandry; if then the Plough
Of careful Want hath struck the furrow'd Brow,

And makes it fit for Seed; hold not thy Hand;
He robs himself that faintly sows the Land:
Stay not for Showers; the Soil if overflown,
Will drown thy Seed corn, and return thee none:
Let not some Weeds discourage thee to sow,
The Plough will root them up; or if they grow
Too sturdy for the Coulter's Point to kill,
Fear not thy Harvest; a hard Winter will.
Cast not lank Grain upon too lean a Ground,
Fair Crops from off all Corn are rarely found.
Sow closly what thou sow'st, and least in Sight,
The Eyes of Doves will make thy Hearvest light:
But stay! Thou mayst surcharge as well as starve
The Soil; but wise Men know what Seed will serve:
Thy Work thus wisely done; What then remains?
Give Heaven th'Glory, and expect the Gains.

CHAP. XII.

The Creator is to be remembred in due Time. The Preacher's Care to edifie. The Fear of God is the chief Antidote of Vanity.

Remember thy Creator in thy Prime
Of present Youth, before the black-mouth'd Time
Of sullen Age approach; before the Day
Thy dying Pleasures find a dull Decay;
Before the Sun, and Moon, and Stars appear
Dark in thy microcosmal Hemisphere;
Before the Clouds of Sorrows multiply,
And hide the Crystal of the gloomy Skie;
Before the Keepers of thy crazy Tow'r
Be Palsie-stricken, and thy Men of Pow'r
Sink as they march, and Grinders cease to grind
Distastful Bread, and Windows are grown blind.

Then shall the Castles two-leaf'd Gates be barr'd
When as the Milstones Language is not heard;
The horn-mouth Belman shall affright thy Slumbers,
Thy untun'd Ear shall loath harmonious Numbers:
Each obvious Mole-hill shall increase thy Fears,
And careful Snow shall blanch thy falling Hairs;
A Fly shall load thy Shoulders: Thy Desire
And all thy bed-rid Passions shall expire.
Pale Death's at hand, and Mourners come to meet
Thy tear-bedabled Funerals in the Street.
Then shall the Sinews silver Cord be los'd;
Thy Brains gold Bowl be broke: The undispos'd
And idle Liver's Fountain dry'd;
The Bloods meandring Cisterns unsupply'd.
Then shall the Dust her Dust to Dust deliver,
Whose Spirit shall return to God the Giver.

Whereto th'Ecclesiastick thus replies,
All, all is vain, and vainest Vanities.
Because his true repentant Soul was wise,
He read this Wisdom-lecture, did advise
And search the Fountain, whence he did convey
The fruitful Streams in a proverbial Way.
He sought and found such Words, which had the Might
To entermingle Profit with Delight;
And what his Spirit-prompted Pen did write
Was Truth itself, and most exact upright.
The wise Man's Words are like to Goads, that do
Stir up the Drowzy, and spur up the Slow:
And like to Nails to be made fast and driv'n
By Hands to th'Hearts of Men sent down from Heav'n.

Make Use, my Son, of what this Hand hath pen'd,
There is no End of Pamphlets to no End;
These tire the Flesh, and after Age is spent,
They breathe some Knowledge, but no true Content.
Mark then the Ground where the main Building stands,
Fear thou thy God, observe his just Commands.
Within the Limits of this sacred Ground
Man's Duty lies; true Happiness is found:

No Work shall pass untry'd: No Hand hath done
What shall not plead at Heav'ns Tribunal Throne:
All Secrets good and bad attend his Eye;
His Eyes behold where Day could never pry.

Deus his quoque finem.

SOLILOQUY, XII.

Now launch, my Soul, into this Sea of Tears;
Fear Storms and Rocks, yet smile upon thy Fears;
Weigh Anchor; hoist thy weather beaten Sails;
The Tides run smooth; the Wind breathes prosp'rous Gales.
Tridented Neptune now hath struck a Peace
With full-mouth'd Æolus, and the Wars surcease:
They sound a Parley, and begin to treat,
And sea-green Triton sounds a shrill Retreat.
March now, my Soul, through Hadadrimmon's Vale
Without a Tear; or if thou must bewail,
Mourn for vain Earth, and drop in Alms one Tear
For him that finds no Happiness but there.
Now mayst thou trample on the Asp, and tread
On the young Lyon, and th'old Dragon's Head;
Wisdom shall guide thee, Love shall circumclose thee,
That Fraud shall not beguile, or Force oppose thee.
Thy Prince shall honour thee, thy Peers embrace thee;
No Crime shall shame thee, and no Tongue disgrace thee;
The Rich shall rev'rence thee, the Poor shall bless thee;
Wrath shall not over-rule, nor Pride oppress thee;
Thy Want shall not afflict, nor Wealth betray thee,
This shall not puff thee up, nor that dismay thee:
Pleasure shall not ensnare, nor Pains torment thee,
This shall not make thee sad, nor that repent thee.
Blest shall thy Labours be, and sweet thy Rest;
Blest shall thy Thoughts be, and thy Actions blest;

Blest in thy Peace, and blest in thy Promotion;
Blest in thy Sports, and blest in thy Devotion;
Blest in thy Losses, blest in thy Increases;
Blest in thy Health, and blest in thy Diseases;
Blest in thy Knowledge, blest in thy Corrections;
Blest in thy Soul, and blest in thy Affections.

O then, my Soul, let thy Affections flow
In Streams of Love to him that lov'd thee so;
Let not his high-priz'd Benefits depart
From thy Remembrance, grave them in thy Heart
With Tools of Adamant, that they may last
To after-times, that when thy Days be past,
Thy well-instructed Children may emblaze
Thy Maker's Goodness to the Last of Days.
Bless thou the Lord, my Soul; let thy whole Frame,
And all within thee magnify that Name
That blest thee so; bless thou the Lord, my Soul,
Report his precious Favours, and enrole
His numerous Mercies in thy grateful Breast:
Remember thy Creator; O protest
His Praises to the World, and let thy Tongue
Make him the Subject of thy youthful Song;
Give him the Firstlings of thy Strength, e'en then
When fading Childhood seeks to ripen Man
Upon thy downy Cheeks; when Vigor trains
The sparkling Blood through thy meandring Veins;
Before thy flowing Marrow shall foment
Thy lustful Fires; before the false Content
Of frothy Pleasures shall begin t'invite
Thy fond Affections to a vain Delight.
Then, then, my Soul, whilst thy Supplys are fresh
And strong, wage War with thy rebellious Flesh;
Gird up thy Loins, and march, spare neither Sweat
Nor Blood, take Courage, strike, subdue, defeat:
Sing a triumphant Song, sing Io Pæan;
Adorn thy Brows with Palm, and again, sing Io Pæan.
Take time while time shall serve; 'tis thine to day,
But secret Danger still attends Delay.

Do while thou mayst; to day has Eagle Wings,
And who can tell what Change to morrow brings?
Advantage wastes, and Strength of Body wares,
Life has no Lease; and Youth no Term for Years:
When creeping Age shall quench thy sprightly Fires,
And breathe cold Winter on thy chill Desires.
What Fire shall burn thy Offerings? O what Praise
Can issue forth from cold decripit Days?
When ebbing Bloods neap-tides shall strike thy Limbs
With trembling Palsies; when dry Age bedims
The optick Sun-shine of thy bed rid Days,
What boots thy cold, thy paralytick Praise?
When secret Ulcers shall attaint thy Breath
With Fumes more noysome than the Sinks of Death,
What Pleasure shall thy great Creator raise
From thy breath-tainted, and unsavoury Praise?

Come then, my Soul, rouse up thy dull Desire,
And quicken thy faint Coals of sacred Fire,
That lie rak'd up in th'Embers of thy Flesh;
Fetch Breath from Heaven, and with that Breath refresh
Thy glim'ring Sparks, brook not the least Delay,
Embers grow cold, and Sparks will soon decay.

FINIS.