Ye sons of Pleasure, and ye foes to Thought,
Who search for bliss in the capacious bowl,
And blindly woo Intemperance for Joy;
Durst ye retire, hold converse with yourselves,
And in the silent hours of darkness court
Kind Contemplation with her peaceful train;
How won'd the minutes dance on downy feet,
And unperceiv'd the midnight taper waste,
While intellectual pleasure reign'd supreme!