What is this thing call'd Pleasure ? but false Gold ,
Which does amuse the Sense, in Heaps untold,
Double the Summe , appearing in the great,
Counted, falls short, and wanting in the weight.
Beheld thus at large , and in gen'rals view'd,
It cheats the Eye , and does with Shows delude,
Cast up, is found defective in the tale ,
And when examin'd, by the touch , or scale ,
A lighter proves, but courser Coine , wash't o're,
A golden Out-side only, and no more.
That, which for th' Image -sake, we over-rate,
And from the Royal Stamp , mistake for Plate .
Such, is the Beauty of this lying Stone ,
Which Clearness has, and Hardness wants alone;
Its colour , and its flames , for Orient pass,
Till th' undeceiving Hammer , proves it Glass .

Our distant Hopes , present our Pleasures fair,
And bigger shap'd, then our Enjoyments are ;
But when the Landscape , we behold too nigh,
Which standing off, did seem to court the Eye,
The fineness of the Stroaks , does disappear,
What Painting shew'd far off, is Daubing near.
Our Wants , and Expectations , both thus kind,
These, shew Joyes fair before , and those, behind .
Fame, seems to speak of them untried , and new ,
With that Civility, to Strangers due;
And mentions them with that Respect, when fled ;
We use to give the Absent , and the Dead .
Opinion , thus our Pleasures over-rates,
As idle Rumor , magnifies Estates ;
Which swell, and rise, to many Thousand Pounds ,
Coin'd only in pure Air , and empty Sounds :
So dear we purchase , when our Hopes bid high,
Yet dearer part with , what we dearly buy ,
Like Gamesters then, that have been beat at Play ,
When once we come, our Losses to survey;
Too lib'ral Mistakes, we in counting make,
And frankly lose, more then was laid at Stake,
While gen'rous Grief , does to the Winner throw,
More then he did, to his good fortune owe.

The Scenes , and Images , of vain Delight ,
Seen by false Beams , and a deluded Sight ;
Among the Joyes , of Misers Dreams , have place,
Who, Fairy Gold , with empty Arms embrace,
But when at last the golden Dream is o're,
With a rich Sigh , lament their waking poor .
So swift, our Joyes are snatch't, that they but last,
For our sad Pleasure , to behold them past .
So yong , are all things fair , and all things gay ,
Which can no more then Angels , with us stay.
The best of Good things thus like Spirits are,
They have their Wings , or vanish into Air :
When seen but once, and we their Stay invite,
The pretty winged Strangers , take their flight .
They, for our Tast, too heav'nly are, and pure ,
Too delicate , and subtle to endure;
Our Senses too, as much too gross , and rude ,
Which things too strong o'recome, too fine elude.
The Æther thus, too delicate for Breath ,
Instead of Life , lets in a finer Death .
And thus the piercing, over-radiant Light ,
Scatters, and blinds the weaker Raies , of Sight .
Things soft , and smooth , we cannot nicely tast,
Nor will the Air , or Water be embrac't ;
The Down of Swans , the finest Touch deceives,
And Oyl , no certain Tast , behind it leaves.
What's Hard , or Rough , the Sense does best excite,
And what is Sharp , best moves the Appetite .

Rareness , and Labour , all good things commend,
Which once grown cheap , and easie , do offend.
Like Hunters , we the Pleasure do misplace,
And lose the dear Enjoyment , in the Chace .
The Game we prize, because we hunted hard ,
And by the Toil , we measure the Reward .
Plenty , and Want , our Sense alike does blame,
While deep Draughts drown, and little Tasts inflame.
Perfumes , enjoy'd too free, delight us less,
And are impair'd , with nauseating Excess .
Tasted more rarely , they inflame us more,
Then their Excess , did surfeit us before.
Thus, some in Feavers , their sick Palates please,
And cure their Thirst , by feeding their Disease .