For here lies the pleasure of living: In taking God's bounties, and giving The gifts back again.
We two make banquets of the plainest fare In every cup we find the thrill of pleasure... For us life always moves with lilting measure We two, we two, we make our world, our pleasure
For every hour of pain I have had a day of pleasure. For every moment of worry, an hour of content.
Our lives are songs; God write the words And we set them to music at pleasure; And the song grows glad, or sweet or sad, As we choose to fashion the measure.
One bitter time of mourning, I remember, When day, and night, my sad heart did complain, My life, I said, was one cold, bleak December, And all its pleasures, were but whited pain.
I like the roar of cities. In the mart, Where busy toilers strive for place and gain, I seem to read humanity's great heart, And share its hopes, its pleasures, and its pain.
Life is a Shylock; always it demands The fullest userer's interest for each pleasure. Gifts are not freely scattered by its hands; We make returns for every borrowed treasure.
Rejoice, and men will seek you; Grieve, and they turn and go, They want full measure of all your pleasure, But they do not need your woe. Be glad, and your friends are many; Be sad, and you lose them all,-- There are none to decline your nectar'd wine, But alone you must drink life's gall.
It has always been my belief that children inherit the suppressed tendencies of their parents. A clergyman's son frequently shows abnormal tastes for the pleasures that his father denied himself.
There is room in the halls of pleasure for a large and lordly train, but one by one we must all file on through the narrow aisles of pain.
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