Grocott & Ward, comps. Grocott’s Familiar Quotations, 6th ed. 189-?.
Pleasure
’Tis all my pleasure thy past toil to know,
For pleased remembrance builds delight on woe.
Gay.—Epi. VIII.
The pleasure your letter gave me surpassed all the anxiety your silence had occasioned me.
Miss Kelly.—To Swift on his silence. (Roscoe’s Life of S.)
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Dryden.—Alexander’s Feast, Verse 3.
And pleasing others, learn’d herself to please.
Churchill.—Epi. to Hogarth, Line 104.
And if you mean to profit, learn to please.
Churchill.—Gotham, Book II. Line 88. (A Quotation.)
Yours be the care to profit, and to please.
Dryden.—The Wife of Bath, Line 517.
No person spoke without being pleased himself, and pleasing his companions.
Swift.—Voyage to the Houyhnhnms.
The pleasures of the vulgar are ungrounded, this, and superficial, but the other are solid and eternal.
Seneca.—Of a Happy Life, Chap. I. near the end.
Approach love’s awful throne by just degrees,
And, if thou would’st be happy, learn to please.
Prior.—Solomon, Book II. Line 266.
And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain.
Spenser.—Fairy Queen, Book III. Canto X. Verse 60.
May you be all as old as I,
And see your sons to manhood grow;
And, many a time before you die,
Be just as pleased as I am now.
Bloomfield.—Richard and Kate.
Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes;
And when in act they cease, in prospect rise.
Pope.—Essay on Man, Epi. II. Line 123.
If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale!
Burns.—Cotter’s Saturday Night, Verse 9.
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed!
Burns.—Tam O’Shanter, Line 59.
Or like the snow-fall in the river,
A moment white—then melts for ever.
Burns.—Tam O’Shanter, Line 61.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar.
Byron.—Childe Harold, Canto IV. Stanza 178.