They strive; they strive, heap luxury on bliss,
And worship Pleasure as their goddess-queen.
Ah, take who will the subtle harlot's kiss!
Yes, seize thy moment's sweetness--then, I ween,
A pageantry of pain, such throbbing throes
As rive the soul, and cut the quick with keen,
Imprisoned edges till the life-blood flows.
Man little knows it; but two aims has he:
By present anguish, store up future woes,
By present anguish, pain posterity.
The quest for pleasure is a quest in vain;
Pleasure is Nothing in Eternity.
Men rather act than think, for thought is pain,
And action is the opiate of the brain.