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

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!