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

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.