Vain are all sudden sallies of delight;
Convulsions of a weak, distemper’d joy. 966
Joy’s a fix’d state; a tenure, not a start.
Bliss there is none, but unprecarious bliss:
That is the gem: sell all, and purchase that.
Why go a-begging to contingencies,
Not gain’d with ease, nor safely loved, if gain’d?
At good fortuitous, draw back, and pause;
Suspect it; what thou canst insure, enjoy; 973
And nought but what thou givest thyself, is sure.