Classic Poem

All Pleasures ride with spurs: they goar the heart,
And drive it first to run, and then to smart.
Pleasures are Bees; Bees have their bag, and sting;
Those drops of sweet, these streams of torment bring.
The bag flies with the Bee; the sting remains:
How flitting are our joyes? how lasting pains?
He that in honied Hive of Pleasure dwells,
Soon dies to Heav'n, lives to a thousand hells.