For, not to name the pains that pleasure brings 245
To counterpoise itself, relentless Fate
Forbids that we thro’ gay voluptuous wilds
Should ever roam: And were the Fates more kind
Our narrow luxuries would soon be stale.
Were these exhaustless, Nature would grow sick, 250
And, cloy’d with pleasure, squeamishly complain
That all was vanity, and life a dream.
Let nature rest: Be busy for yourself,
And for your friend; be busy even in vain