Time’s use was doom’d a pleasure: waste, a pain; 156
That man might feel his error, if unseen:
And, feeling, fly to labour for his cure;
Not, blundering, split on idleness for ease.
Life’s cares are comforts; such by Heaven design’d;
He that has none, must make them, or be wretched.
Cares are employments; and without employ
The soul is on a rack; the rack of rest, 163
To souls most adverse; action all their joy.
Here then, the riddle, mark’d above, unfolds;