Thy ceaseless agitation, restless roll

From cheat to cheat, impatient of a pause;

What is it?—’tis the cradle of the soul,

From Instinct sent, to rock her in disease,

Which her physician, Reason, will not cure.

A poor expedient! yet thy best; and while 910

It mitigates thy pain, it owns it too.

Such are Lorenzo’s wretched remedies!

The weak have remedies; the wise have joys.

Superior wisdom is superior bliss.