Aris. Nay, there's the soul's expense
For what o'erdims her fair, majestic visions;
But fruits of sheltered vales grow lush for man,
And awny grasses droop with sugared grains,
And wine, tempered to reason's flow, oft lights
The questing mind.
Diony. Enough! No groaning board
That shifts its burden to the spirit! No revel
To pleasure Pleasure! Naught but what is meet
For fair philosophy's relaxive hour!