Against Pleasure. Set by Dr. Coleman.

THere's no such thing as Pleasure,
'Tis all a perfect Cheat,
Which does but shine and disappear,
Whose Charm is but Deceit:
The empty bribe of yielding Souls,
Which first betrays, and then controuls.

'Tis true, it looks at distance fair;
But if we do approch,
The fruit of Sodom will impair,
And perish at a touch:
It being then in phancy less,
And we expect more then possess.

For by our Pleasures we are cloy'd,
And so Desire is done;
Or else, like Rivers, they make wide
The Channel where they run:
And either way true bliss destroys,
Making Us narrow, or our Joys.

We covet Pleasure easily,
But it not so possess;
For many things must make it be,
But one way makes it less.
Nay, were our state as we could chuse it,
'Twould be consum'd for fear to lose it.

What art thou then, thou winged Air,
More swift then winged Fame?
Whose next successour is Despair,
And its attendant Shame.
Th' Experience-Prince then reason had,
Who said of Pleasure, It is mad.