VI. ECCLESIASTES II. XVII.
All is vanitie and vexation of spirit.
1
How is the anxious soule of man befool'd
In his desire,
That thinks a Hectick Fever may be cool'd
In flames of fire,
Or hopes to rake full heapes of burnisht gold
From nasty myre!
A whining Lover may as well request
A scornefull brest
To melt in gentle teares, as woo the world for rest.
2
Let wit, and all her studied plots effect
The best they can;
Let smiling Fortune prosper, and perfect
What wit began;
Let earth advise with both, and so project
A happy man;
Let wit, or fawning Fortune vie their best;
He may be blest
With all that earth can give; but earth can give no Rest.
3
Whose Gold is double with a carefull hand,
His cares are double;
The Pleasure, Honour, Wealth of Sea and Land
Bring but a trouble;
The world it selfe, and all the worlds Command
Is but a Bubble:
The strong desires of mans insatiate brest
May stand possest
Of all that earth can give; but earth can give no Rest.
4
The world's a seeming Par'dise, but her owne
And Mans Tormentor;
Appearing fixt, yet but a rolling Stone,
Without a Tenter;
It is a vast Circumference, where none
Can find a Center:
Of more than earth, can earth make none possest;
And he that least
Regards this restlesse world, shall in this world find Rest.
5
True Rest consists not in the oft revying
Of worldly drosse;
Earths myry Purchase is not worth the buying;
Her gaine is losse;
Her Rest, but giddy toyle, if not relying
Upon her Crosse;
How worldlings droyle for trouble! That fond brest
That is possest
Of earth without a Crosse, has earth without a Rest.
CASS. in Ps.
The Crosse is the invincible Sanctuary of the humble: The dejection of the
proud; the victory of Christ: the destruction of the Divell; the confirmation of
the faithfull; the death of the unbeleever; the life of the just.
DAMASCEN.
The Crosse of Christ is the key to Paradise; the weake mans staffe; the
Converts Convoy, the upright mans perfection: the soule and bodies health; the
prevention of all evill, and the procurer of all Good.
EPIGRAM 6.
[Worldling, whose whimpring folly holds the losses]
Worldling, whose whimpring folly holds the losses
Of Honour, Pleasure, health and Wealth such Crosses,
Looke here, and tell me what your Armes engrosse,
When the best end of what ye hugg's a Crosse.
