quin trabe vasta AEgaeum rapias, nisi solers Luxuria ante Seductum moneat; quo deinde, insane ruis?  Quo?  Quid tibi vis?  Calido sub pectore mascula bilis Intumuit, quam non extinxerit urna cicutae?  Tun’ mare transilias?  Tibi torta cannabe fulto Coena sit in transtro?  Veientanumque rubellum Exhalet vapida laesum pice sessilis obba?  Quid petis?  Ut nummi, quos hic quincunce modesto Nutrieras, pergant avidos sudare deunces?  Indulge genio:  carpamus dulcia; nostrum est Quod vivis; cinis, et manes, et fabula fies.  Vive memor lethi:  fugit hora.  Hoc quod loquor, inde est.  En quid agis?  Duplici in diversum scinderis hamo.  Hunccine, an hunc sequeris!——­

  Whether alone, or in thy Harlot’s Lap,
  When thou wouldst take a lazy Morning’s Nap;
  Up, up, says AVARICE; thou snor’st again,
  Stretchest thy Limbs, and yawn’st, but all in vain. 
  The rugged Tyrant no Denial takes;
  At his Command th’ unwilling Sluggard wakes. 
  What must I do? he cries; What? says his Lord: 
  Why rise, make ready, and go streight Aboard: 
  With Fish, from Euxine Seas, thy Vessel freight;
  Flax, Castor, Coan Wines, the precious Weight
  Of Pepper and Sabean Incense, take
  With thy own Hands, from the tir’d Camel’s Back,
  And with Post-haste thy running Markets make. 
  Be sure to turn the Penny; Lye and Swear,
  ’Tis wholsome Sin:  But Jove, thou say’st, will hear. 
  Swear, Fool, or Starve; for the Dilemma’s even: 
  A Tradesman thou! and hope to go to Heav’n?

    Resolv’d for Sea, the Slaves thy Baggage pack,
  Each saddled with his Burden on his Back. 
  Nothing retards thy Voyage, now; but He,
  That soft voluptuous Prince, call’d LUXURY;
  And he may ask this civil Question; Friend,
  What dost thou make a Shipboard?  To what End? 
  Art thou of Bethlem’s noble College free? 
  Stark, staring mad, that thou wouldst tempt the Sea? 
  Cubb’d in a Cabbin, on a Mattress laid,
  On a brown George, with lousy Swobbers fed;
  Dead Wine, that stinks of the Borachio, sup
  From a foul Jack, or greasy Maple Cup! 
  Say, wouldst thou bear all this, to raise the Store,
  From Six i’th’ Hundred to Six Hundred more? 
  Indulge, and to thy Genius freely give: 
  For, not to live at Ease, is not, to live: 
  Death stalks behind thee, and each flying Hour
  Does some loose Remnant of thy Life devour. 
  Live, while thou liv’st; for Death will make us all,
  A Name, a Nothing but an Old Wife’s Tale. 
  Speak, wilt thou Avarice or Pleasure choose
  To be thy Lord?  Take one, and one refuse.