We take strange Pleasure in our Pain,
And make a Mountain of a Grain,
Assume the Load, and pant and sweat
Beneath th' Imaginary Weight.
With our dear selves we live at strife,
While the most constant Scenes of Life
From Peevish Humours are not free;
Still we affect Variety:
Rather than pass an Easie Day,
We Fret and Chide the Hours away,
Grow weary of this Rolling Sun,
And vex that he should ever run
The same old Track; and still, and still
Rise red behind yon Eastern Hill,
And chide the Moon that darts her Light
Thro' the same Casement every Night.