“Here a circle of idle women, supping a decoction of Indian herbs, talk or laugh all together, like so many chirping birds, or chattering monkeys, and, scandal excepted, every way to as good a purpose. And there, a club of graver men blow, by the hour, clouds of stinking smoke out of their mouths, or wash it down their throats with repeated draughts of intoxicating liquors. The strong fumes have already reached their heads, and, while some stagger home, others triumphantly keep the field of excess; though one is already stamped with the heaviness of the ox, another worked up to the fierceness and roar of the lion, and a third brought down to the filthiness of the vomiting dog. “Leave them at their _manly_ sport, to follow those musical sounds, mixed with a noise of stamping, and you will find others profusely perspiring, and violently fatiguing themselves, in skipping up and down a room for a whole night, and ridiculously turning their backs and faces to each other a hundred different ways. Would not a man of sense prefer running ten miles upon an _useful_ errand, to this useless manner of losing his rest, heating his blood, exhausting his spirits, unfitting himself for the duties of the following day, and laying the foundation of a putrid fever or a consumption, by breathing the midnight air corrupted by clouds of dust, by the unwholesome fumes of candles, and by the more pernicious steam that issues from the bodies of many persons, who use the strong exercise in a confined place. “In the next room they are more quiet, but are they more rationally employed? Why do they so earnestly rattle those ivory cubes; and so anxiously study those packs of loose and spotted leaves? Is happiness graven upon the one, or stamped upon the other? Answer, ye gamesters, who curse your stars, as ye go home with an empty purse and a heart full of rage. “‘We hope there is no harm in taking an innocent game at cards,’ reply a ridiculous party of superannuated ladies; ‘gain is not our aim; we only play to kill time.’ You are not then so well employed as the foolish heathen emperor, who amused himself in killing troublesome flies and wearisome time together. The delight of rational creatures, much more of Christians on the brink of the grave, is to redeem, improve, and solidly enjoy time; but yours, alas! consists in the bare irreparable _loss_ of that invaluable treasure. Oh! what account will you give of the souls you neglect, and the talents you bury? “And are _public_ diversions better evidence of our innocence and happiness?” Fletcher then proceeds to descant, in the same style, on theatrical performances, annual wakes, horse-racing, cock-fighting, man-fighting, and dog-fighting; and then concludes his “Twenty-third Argument,” as follows:—