Flavia’s a wit, has too much sense to pray,
To Toast our wants and wishes, is her way;
Nor asks of God, but of her stars to give
The mighty blessing, “while we live, to live.”
Then all for death, that opiate of the soul!
Lucretia’s dagger, Rosamonda’s bowl.
Say, what can cause such impotence of mind?
A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind.
Wise wretch! with pleasures too refin’d to please;
With too much spirit to be e’er at ease;
With too much quickness ever to be taught;
With too much thinking to have common thought:
You purchase pain with all that joy can give,
And die of nothing but a rage to live.
IMAGE CREDIT: androphilia @ rebloggy.com
