I pay them home with that they most desire:
Oft have I spent the night in wantonness,
And in the morn been lively ne'ertheless,
He's happy who Love's mutual skirmish slays;
And to the gods for that death Ovid prays.30
Let soldiers[291] chase their enemies amain,
And with their blood eternal honour gain,
Let merchants seek wealth and[292] with perjured lips,
Being wrecked, carouse the sea tired by their ships;
But when I die, would I might droop with doing,