Remorse, the fatal egg by Pleasure laid / In every bosom where her nest is made.
There is a pleasure in poetic painsWhich only poets know.
Thus always teasing others, and days teas'd, His only pleasure is to be displeas'd
So turning to his horse, he said, / I am in haste to dine; / 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, / You shall go back for mine.
I never received a little pleasure from anything in my life; if I am pleased, it is in the extreme.
Mortals, whose pleasures are their only care,/ First wish to be imposed on, and then are.
Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.
Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few.
Religion does not censure or exclude Unnumbered pleasures, harmlessly pursued.
Pleasure admitted in undue degree, enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much.