Joy's a fix'd state; a tenure, not a start. Bliss there is none, but unprecarious bliss: That is the gem: sell all, and purchase that. Why go a-begging to contingencies, Not gain'd with ease, nor safely loved, if gain'd? At good fortuitous, draw back, and pause; Suspect it; what thou canst insure, enjoy; 973 And nought but what thou givest thyself, is sure. Reason perpetuates joy that Reason gives, And makes it as immortal as herself: To mortals, nought immortal, but their worth. Worth, conscious worth! should absolutely reign; And other joys ask leave for their approach; Nor, unexamined, ever leave obtain. 980 Thou art all anarchy; a mob of joys Wage war, and perish in intestine broils; Not the least promise of internal peace! No bosom-comfort, or unborrow'd bliss! Thy thoughts are vagabonds; all outward-bound, 'Mid sands, and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure; If gain'd, dear-bought; and better miss'd than gain'd. Much pain must expiate, what much pain procured. Fancy, and Sense, from an infected shore, Thy cargo bring; and pestilence the prize. 990 Then, such thy thirst (insatiable thirst! By fond indulgence but inflamed the more!), Fancy still cruises, when poor Sense is tired. Imagination is the Paphian shop, Where feeble happiness, like Vulcan, lame, Bids foul ideas, in their dark recess, And hot as hell (which kindled the black fires), With wanton art, those fatal arrows form, Which murder all thy time, health, wealth, and fame. Would'st thou receive them, other thoughts there are, On angel-wing, descending from above, 1001 Which these, with art divine, would counterwork, And form celestial armour for thy peace. In this is seen Imagination's guilt; But who can count her follies? She betrays thee, To think in grandeur there is something great. For works of curious art, and ancient fame, Thy genius hungers, elegantly pain'd; And foreign climes must cater for thy taste. Hence, what disaster!--Though the price was paid, 1010 That persecuting priest, the Turk of Rome, Whose foot (ye gods!) though cloven, must be kiss'd, Detain'd thy dinner on the Latian shore; (Such is the fate of honest Protestants!) And poor Magnificence is starved to death. Hence just resentment, indignation, ire!-- Be pacified: if outward things are great, 'Tis magnanimity great things to scorn; Pompous expenses, and parades august, And courts, that insalubrious soil to peace. 1020 True happiness ne'er enter'd at an eye; True happiness resides in things unseen. No smiles of Fortune ever bless'd the bad, Nor can her frowns rob Innocence of joys; That jewel wanting, triple crowns are poor: So tell his Holiness, and be revenged. Pleasure, we both agree, is man's chief good;