Classic Poem

1

There's no such thing as pleasure here,
'Tis all a perfect Cheat,
Which does but shine and disappear,
Whose charm is all deceipt:
The empty bribe of yielding souls,
Which first betrays, and then controules.

2

'Tis true it looks at distance fayr;
But when we doe approach,
The fruit of Sodom will impayr,
And perish at the touch:
In being then in fancy Less,
And we expect more then possess.

3

For by our pleasures we are cloy'd,
And so desire is done;
Or elce, like Rivers, they make wide
The Channells where they run:
And either way true bliss destroys,
Making us narrow, or our Joys.

4

We covet pleasure easily,
But it not so possess;
For many things must make it be,
But one may make it less.
Nay, were our 'state as we could choose it,
'Twould be consum'd by feare to loose it.

5

What art thou then, thou winged ayr,
More swift and weak then fame?
Whose next successor is despayr,
And its attendant shame
Th experienc'd Prince then reason had,
Who sayd of Pleasure, it is Mad.