His luxuries have left him no reserve,
No maiden relishes, unbroach’d delights;
On cold served repetitions he subsists,
And in the tasteless present chews the past; 320
Disgusted chews, and scarce can swallow down. 321
Like lavish ancestors, his earlier years
Have disinherited his future hours,
Which starve on orts, and glean their former field.
Live ever here, Lorenzo?—shocking thought!
So shocking, they who wish, disown it too;