The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife, / To help me through this long disease, my life.
Women, as they are like riddles in being unintelligible, so generally resemble them in this, that they please us no longer once we know them.
The season when to come, and when to go, to sing, or cease to sing, we never know.
The young disease, that must subdue at length, Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength.
Some place the bliss in action, some in ease, Those call it pleasure, and contentment these.
But just disease to luxury succeeds, And ev'ry death its own avenger breeds.
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, as those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.