This bliss supreme of the supremely blest?
Death, only death, the question can resolve. 200
By death, cheap bought th’ ideas of our joy;
The bare ideas! solid happiness
So distant from its shadow chased below.
And chase we still the phantom through the fire,
O’er bog, and brake, and precipice, till death?
And toil we still for sublunary pay?
Defy the dangers of the field and flood,
Or, spider-like, spin out our precious all,