Classic Poem

Thus said the Royall preacher, who did spring
From holy David Israels blessed King;
All things are vain, most vain, nay vanity,
Yea vanity of vanities they be.
See how the industrious mortalls toil and care!
Look how they travel, how turmoyl'd they are!
When their work's ended, and their race is run,
What profit gain they underneath the Sun?
This Generation that appears to day,
To morrow vanisheth and fleets away:
In whose unstable mansion there comes
The next, to fill their Predecessours rooms:
And these but come and go; but this vast frame
Th'Earth still remains, though not the very same:
The glorious Heavenly Charioter new drest,
Riseth in burnish'd glory in the East,
And circles this vast Globe with constant race,
Till it returnes to its first rising place
Th'unconstant wind that now doth southward blow,
Anon to th'North from whence it came, will go:
It whirleth still about, yet in its change
It still returnes from whence it first did range
The posting river, though about it wanders
Curling it self in intricate Meanders,
Yet with a greedy, and a head-strong motion
It runs to its original the Ocean
Whose vast unsatiate womb it cannot fill;
For as it's taking, so 'tis giving still;
And by alternate gratitude supplies
The thirsty Earth, and makes new streams arise,
Which by an ever active imitation
Return from whence they had origination
Thus in this toilsome fabrick every thing
Is full of labour, and doth trouble bring
To the still craving Mortal, whose false breast
Vainly supposes this a place of rest;
And while he toyles his labours to possess,
Endures more troubles then he can express
The restless Eye is never satisfi'd
With viewing objects; nor doth th'ear abide
Content with hearing; But the senses all
Grow by fruition more hydropical;
And every fresh enjoyment straight expires,
And's buried in the flames of new desires.
The thing which hath been in the dayes of yore,
Shall be again, and what's now done no more
Then what hereafter shall agen be done;
And ther's no new thing underneath the Sun;
There's no Invention; that which we stile wit,
Is but remembrance; and the fruits of it,
Are but old things reviv'd. In this round World,
All things are by a revolution hurl'd
And though to us they variously appear,
There are no things but what already were.
What thing is there within this world that we
Can justly say is new, and cry Come see?
We can't remember things that have been done
I'th' Nonage of the World, when time begun:
And there will come a time, when those that shall
Succeed us, shan't remember us at all;
When things that have been or that shall be done,
Shall be entomb'd in vast oblivion
I that your Preacher am, was he that sway'd
A Royal Scepter, and have been obey'd
By th' Israelites , and in Jerusalem
Did wear great Judah's Princely Diadem,
And us'd my wealth, my power, and strength of mind,
To seek and search for wisdom, and to find
Thereby the causes and effects of all
Things done upon this subsolary ball;
The works of our great Architect survey'd,
The firm foundation which his hand had laid;
The various superstructures small and great,
Mens labours how they strive to Counterfeit,
And in their several postures how they strive
To feed, and fence, and keep themselves alive;
How they do love and hate, are foes and friends,
Upon mistaken grounds, and false self-ends;
How they doe do, and undoe, how they pant
And tug to kill imaginary want;
What they both do and suffer, how and why,
Their self-created troubles I did spy:
And in my Towring over-search I see
Both what Men are, and what they ought to be
A sore and tedious travell to the mind,
Which our great God in wisdom has design'd
For us poor Sons of mortals, and thought fit
That we therein should exercise our wit.
All that hath been, and all that hath been done,
All Creatures actions underneath the Sun,
My searching soul hath seen by contemplation,
And lo all's vanity, and the souls vexation.
All men, all things are crooked and perverse,
Full of defects are it, and they, and theirs,
All so imperfect that they're not at all;
And (which we may the great'st vexation call)
This crookedness cannot be rectifi'd,
Nor those defects (though numberless) supply'd
When I arriv'd the very top of all,
That the mistaken Mamonists miscall,
And think their chiefest blessings, wealth and wit,
With all th'additaments that cleave to it:
Then did I to my heart Communicate
And said; Lo I've attained a vast estate,
And do in wisdome far transcend all them
That reigned before me in Jerusalem ;
And to compleat the wisdome of my mind,
To my large knowledge have experience joyn'd:
I did apply my active mind to know
Wisdom and folly, nay and madness too:
And from th'experience of all, I find
All this is but vexation of the mind:
For in much wisdom lyes much grief; and those
That increase knowledge, but increase their woes.