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

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?