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

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.