Virtue the root, and pleasure is the flower;
And honest Epicurus’ foes were fools.
But this sounds harsh, and gives the wise offence;
If o’erstrain’d wisdom still retains the name.
How knits Austerity her cloudy brow,
And blames, as bold, and hazardous, the praise 580
Of Pleasure, to mankind, unpraised, too dear!
Ye modern Stoics! hear my soft reply;
Their senses men will trust: we can’t impose;
Or, if we could, is imposition right?