That all we act, and all we think is vain:
That in this pilgrimage of seventy years,
O'er rocks of perils, and thro' vales of tears
Destin'd to march, our doubtful steps we tend,
Tir'd of the toil, yet fearful of its end:
That from the womb, we take our fatal shares,
Of follies, fashions, labours, tumults, cares;
And at approach of death shall only know,
The truths which from these pensive numbers flow,
That we pursue false joy, and suffer real woe.

After an enquiry into, and an excellent description of the various
operations, and effects of nature, the system of the heavens, &c. and
not being fully informed of them, the first Book concludes,

How narrow limits were to wisdom given?
Earth she surveys; she thence would measure Heav'n:
Thro' mists obscure, now wings her tedious way;
Now wanders dazl'd, with too bright a day;
And from the summit of a pathless coast
Sees infinite, and in that sight is lost.

In the second Book the uncertainty, disappointment, and vexation
attending pleasure in general, are admirably described; and in the
character of Solomon is sufficiently shewn, that nothing debases
majesty, or indeed any man, more than ungovernable passion.

When thus the gath'ring storms of wretched love
In my swoln bosom, with long war had strove;
At length they broke their bounds; at length their force