They, first, themselves offend, who greatly please;
And travel only gives us sound repose.
Heaven sells all pleasure; effort is the price;
The joys of conquest, are the joys of man;
And glory the victorious laurel spreads
O’er pleasure’s pure, perpetual, placid stream. 790
There is a time, when toil must be preferr’d,
Or joy, by mistimed fondness, is undone.
A man of pleasure, is a man of pains.
Thou wilt not take the trouble to be blest.