This page needs to be proofread.
 | An image should appear at this position in the text. To use the entire page scan as a placeholder, edit this page and replace "{{missing image}}" with "{{raw image|The works of Anne Bradstreet in prose and verse.djvu/472}}". Otherwise, if you are able to provide the image then please do so. For guidance, see Wikisource:Image guidelines and Help:Adding images. |  |
The Vanity of all worldly things.[1]
AS he said vanity, do vain say I,
Oh! vanity, O vain all under Sky;
Where is the man can fay, lo I have found
On brittle Earth a Consolation found?
What is't in honour to be set on high?
No, they like Beasts and Sons of men shall dye:
And whil'st they live, how oft doth turn their fate,[2]
He's now a captive[3], that was King[4] of late.
What is't in wealth, great Treasures to obtain[5]
No, that's but labour, anxious care and pain.
He heaps up riches, and he heaps up sorrow,
It's his to day, but who's his heir to morrow?
What then? Content in pleasures canst thou find.
More vain then all, that's but to grasp the wind.
The sensual senses for a time they please.
Mean while the conscience rage, who shall appease?
[234] What is't in beauty? No that's but a snare,
They're foul enough to day, that once were fair.
What is't in flowring south, or manly age?
The first is prone to vice, the last to rage.
AS he said vanity, do vain say I,
Oh! vanity, O vain all under Sky;
Where is the man can fay, lo I have found
On brittle Earth a Consolation found?
What is't in honour to be set on high?
No, they like Beasts and Sons of men shall dye:
And whil'st they live, how oft doth turn their fate,[2]
He's now a captive[3], that was King[4] of late.
What is't in wealth, great Treasures to obtain[5]
No, that's but labour, anxious care and pain.
He heaps up riches, and he heaps up sorrow,
It's his to day, but who's his heir to morrow?
What then? Content in pleasures canst thou find.
More vain then all, that's but to grasp the wind.
The sensual senses for a time they please.
Mean while the conscience rage, who shall appease?
[234] What is't in beauty? No that's but a snare,
They're foul enough to day, that once were fair.
What is't in flowring south, or manly age?
The first is prone to vice, the last to rage.
