Ecclesiastes, Chapter 1

This Sermon the much-knowing Preacher made:
King Davids Sonne; who Judah's Scepter swai'd.
O restlesse vanitie of Vanities!
All is but vanitie, the Preacher cries.
What profit have we by our Labors won,
Of all beneath the Circuit of the Sun?
The Earth is fix't, we fleeting: as one Age
Departs, another enters on the Stage.
The setting Sunne resignes his Throne to Night:
Then hastens to restore the morning Light.
The Winde flyes to the South, shifts to the North;
And wheeles about to where it first brake forth.
All Rivers run into th'insatiate Maine;
From thence, to their old Fountaines creepe againe.
Incessantly all toyle. The searching Minde,
The Eye, and Eare, no satisfaction finde.
What is, hath beene; what hath beene shall ensue:
And nothing underneath the Sun is new.
Of what can it be truely said, Behold
This never was? The same hath beene of old.
For former Ages we remember not:
And what is now, will be in time forgot.
Lo I, the Preacher, King of Israel;
Who in abilitie and power excell;
In wisedomes search apply'd my Industrie,
To know what ever was beneath the skie:
(For God this toile, on Mans ambition layes,
To travell in so intricate a Maze.)
I all their workes have seene: all are but vaine;
Conceiv'd with sorrow, and brought forth with paine
The crooked never can be rectifi'd;
Nor the defective numbred, or supply'd.
Thus in my Heart I said; Thou art arriv'd
At Honors hight; more wisedome hast achev'd
Then all that liv'd in Solyma before:
Thy Knowledge, Judgement, and Experience more.
As wisedome, so I folly did pursue;
And madnesse try'de: these were vexations too.
Much wisedome great anxieties infest:
And griefe of Minde by Knowledge is increast.