Read and ponder.
She's empty: hark, she sounds: there's nothing there
But noise to fill thy ear;
Thy vain enquiry can at length but find
A blast of murmuring wind:
It is a cask, that seems as full as fair
But merely tunned with air:
Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds:
The soul that vainly founds
Her joys upon this world but feeds on empty sounds.
She's empty: hark, she sounds: there's nothing in't
The spark-engendering flint
Shall sooner melt, and hardest raunce shall first
Dissolve and quench they thirst;
Ere this false world shall still they stormy breast
With smooth-faced calms of rest:
Thou mayst as well expect Meridian light
From shades of black-mouthed night
As in this empty world to find a full delight.
She's empty: hark, she sounds; 'tis void and vast
What if some flattering blast
Of flatuous honor should perchance be there,
And whisper in thine ear:
It is but wind, and blows but where it list,
And vanishes like a mist:
Poor honor earth can give! What generous mind
Would be so base to bind
Her Heaven-bred soul a slave to serve a blast of wind?
She's empty: hark, she sounds; 'tis but a ball
For fools to play withal:
The painted film but of a stronger bubble,
That's lined with silken trouble:
It is a world, whose work and recreation
Is vanity and vexation?
A hag, repaired with vice-complexion, paint,
A quest-house of complaint:
It is a saint, a fiend, worse fiend, when most a saint.
Francis Quarles (1592-1644)
