There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain.
Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
Forced from home, and all its pleasures, afric coast I left forlorn; to increase a stranger's treasures, o the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, paid my price in paltry gold; but, though theirs they have enroll'd me, minds are never to be sold.
Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.
Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few.
Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
Religion does not censure or exclude Unnumbered pleasures, harmlessly pursued.
Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid, In every bosom where her nest is made, Hatched by the beams of truth, denies him rest, And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.
Vice stings us even in our pleasures, but virtue consoles us even in our pains.
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