SAMUEL DANIEL

Ulysses. Delicious Nymph, suppose there were

No honour nor report, Yet manliness would scorn to wear

The time in idle sport : For toil doth give a better touch

To make us feel our joy, And ease finds tediousness as much

As labour yields annoy.

Siren. Then pleasure likewise seems the shore

Whereto tends all your toil, Which you forgo to make it more,

And perish oft the while. Who may disport them diversely

Find never tedious day, And ease may have variety

As well as action may.

Ulysses. But natures of the noblest frame

These toils and dangers please ; And they take comfort in the same

As much as you in ease ; And with the thought of actions past

Are recreated still : When Pleasure leaves a touch at last

To show that it was ill.

Siren. That doth Opinion only cause

That 's out of Custom bred, Which makes us many other laws

Than ever Nature did. No widows wail for our delights,

Our sports are without blood ; The world we see by warlike wights

Receives more hurt than good.

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