Where is it? Squander'd, vanish'd, gone for ever:
So rapid was his dissipation.—Stop!
Stop! my good friend, you cry; not quite so fast!
This man went fair and softly to his ruin;
What talk you of two years? As many days,
Two little days, were long enough to finish
Young Epicharides; he had some soul,
And drove a merry pace to his undoing—
Marry! if a kind surfeit would surprise us,
Ere we sit down to earn it, such prevention