Thy thoughts are vagabonds; all outward-bound,
’Mid sands, and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure;
If gain’d, dear-bought; and better miss’d than gain’d.
Much pain must expiate, what much pain procured.
Fancy, and Sense, from an infected shore,
Thy cargo bring; and pestilence the prize. 990
Then, such thy thirst (insatiable thirst!
By fond indulgence but inflamed the more!),
Fancy still cruises, when poor Sense is tired.
Imagination is the Paphian shop,