And pledge your neighbour in a flowing bumper.
This sums my doctrine whole: cocker your genius—
Feast it with high delights, and mark it be not
Too sad—I know no pleasure but the belly;
'Tis kin, 'tis genealogy to me:
I own no other sire nor lady-mother.
For virtue—'tis a cheat: your embassies—
Mere toys: office and army sway—boy's rattles.
They are a sound—a dream—an empty bubble;
Our fated day is fix'd, and who may cheat it?