 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
74
EPICURUS.
They have malign'd thy memory, grave good man,They have abused the truth thy pureness taught,
Beautiful truth with rare religion fraught,
That to cull pleasure whensoe'er he can
Is a man's wisdom,—so he keep in thought
That pleasure lies in living as he ought:
For, selfish vice, the fool's besotted plan
Of mis-call'd happiness, how false it is,—
What misery lurks beneath the painted cheek,
How much of sorrow in the wanton's kiss!
O would that, where thou walkest now in bliss,
Some garden of the stars, thy wrath could speak
To these degenerate sons, who blot thy fame,
Glad in their woe, and glorying in their shame!
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |