To get the shelter of some high-grown shade. To-morrow yet these base tricks they'll cast off, And cease for lucre be a jeering scoff. Ruscus will leave when once he can renew His wasted clothes, that are ashamed to view The world's proud eyes; Drusus will cease to fawn When that his farm, that leaks in melting pawn, 70 Some lord-applauded jest hath once set free: All will to-morrow leave their roguery. When fox-furr'd Mecho (by damn'd usury, Cut-throat deceit, and his craft's villainy) Hath raked together some four thousand pound, To make his smug girl bear a bumming sound In a young merchant's ear, faith, then (may be) He'll ponder if there be a Deity; Thinking, if to the parish poverty, At his wish'd death, be doled a halfpenny, 80 A work of supererogation, A good filth-cleansing strong purgation. Aulus will leave begging monopolies When that, 'mong troops of gaudy butterflies, He is but able jet it jollily In piebald suits of proud court bravery. To-morrow doth Luxurio promise me He will unline himself from bitchery; Marry, Alcides thirteenth act must lend A glorious period, and his lust-itch end, 90 When once he hath froth-foaming Ætna past, At one-and-thirty,[477] being always last. If not to-day (quoth that Nasonian), Much less to-morrow. "Yes," saith Fabian, "For ingrain'd habits, dyed with often dips, Are not so soon discolourèd. Young slips, New set, are easily mov'd and pluck'd away; But elder roots clip faster in the clay." I smile at thee, and at the Stagyrite,[478] Who holds the liking of the appetite, 100 Being fed with actions often put in ure,[479] Hatcheth the soul in quality impure Or pure; may be in virtue: but for vice, That comes by inspiration, with a trice. Young Furius, scarce fifteen years of age, But is, straightways, right fit for marriage-- Unto the devil; for sure they would agree, Betwixt their souls there is such sympathy. O where's your sweaty habit, when each ape, That can but spy the shadow of his shape, 110 That can no sooner ken what's virtuous, But will avoid it, and be vicious! Without much do or far-fetch'd habiture, In earnest thus:--It is a sacred cure To salve the soul's dread wounds; omnipotent That Nature is, that cures the impotent, Even in a moment. Sure, grace is infused By Divine favour, not by actions used, Which is as permanent as heaven's bliss, To them that have it; then no habit is. 120 To-morrow, nay, to-day, it may be got, So please that gracious power cleanse thy spot. Vice, from privation of that sacred grace Which God withdraws, but puts not vice in place. Who says the sun is cause of ugly night? Yet when he veils our eyes from his fair sight, The gloomy curtain of the night is spread.