Would come most opportune to save the trouble
Of a sick stomach and an aching head:
But whilst the punishment is out of sight,
And the full chalice at our lips, we drink,
Drink all to-day, to-morrow fast and mourn,
Sick, and all o'er oppress'd with nauseous fumes;
Such is the drunkard's curse, and Hell itself
Cannot devise a greater. Oh that nature
Might quit us of this overbearing burthen,
This tyrant-god, the belly! take that from us,