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

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.