Let subtile Schoolmen teach these Friends to fight,
More studious to divide, than to unite,
And Grace and Virtue, Sense and Reason split,
With all the rash dexterity of Wit.
Wits, just like fools, at war about a Name,
Have full as oft, no meaning, or the same.
Self-love and Reason to one end aspire,
Pain their aversion, Pleasure their desire;
But greedy that its object would devour,
This taste the honey, and not wound the flower.
Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood,
Our greatest Evil, or our greatest Good.