Free! what, and fettered with so many chains? Canst thou no other master understand Than him that freed thee by the prætor's wand?[248] Should he, who was thy lord, command thee now, With a harsh voice, and supercilious brow, To servile duties, thou would'st fear no more; The gallows and the whip are out of door. But if thy passions lord it in thy breast, Art thou not still a slave, and still opprest? Whether alone, or in thy harlot's lap, When thou would'st 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 tyrant Lucre no denial takes; At his command the unwilling sluggard wakes. What must I do? he cries:--What? says his lord; Why rise, make ready, and go straight aboard; With fish, from Euxine seas, thy vessel freight; Flax, castor, Coan wines, the precious weight Of pepper, and Sabæan incense, take, } With thy own hands, from the tired camel's back, } And with post haste thy running markets make. } Be sure to turn the penny; lie and swear, 'Tis wholesome 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 heaven! Resolved for sea, the slaves thy baggage pack, Each saddled with his burden on his back; Nothing retards thy voyage now, unless Thy other lord forbids, Voluptuousness: 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 would'st tempt the sea? Cubbed in a cabin, on a mattress laid, On a brown george, with lousy swobbers fed, Dead wine, that stinks of the borrachio, sup From a foul jack,[249] or greasy maple-cup? Say, would'st thou bear all this, to raise thy store From six i'the 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, chuse To be thy lord? Take one, and one refuse. But both by turns the rule of thee will have, And thou betwixt them both wilt be a slave. Nor think when once thou hast resisted one, That all thy marks of servitude are gone: The struggling grey-hound gnaws his leash in vain; If, when 'tis broken, still he drags the chain. Says Phædria to his man,[250] Believe me, friend, To this uneasy love I'll put an end: Shall I run out of all? My friends' disgrace, And be the first lewd unthrift of my race? Shall I the neighbours nightly rest invade