The love of pleasure is man’s eldest-born,
Born in his cradle, living to his tomb;
Wisdom, her younger sister, though more grave,
Was meant to minister, and not to mar,
Imperial Pleasure, queen of human hearts.
Lorenzo! thou, her majesty’s renown’d,
Though uncoift, counsel, learned in the world!
Who think’st thyself a Murray,[47] with disdain 602
May’st look on me. Yet, my Demosthenes!
Canst thou plead Pleasure’s cause as well as I?