The buck, the chase, ne'er warms his soul;
No huntsman's cheer can make him stay,
He runs to nothing, but his porridge bowl.
Throughout the race of men, 'tis still the same,
And all pursue a different kind of game.
Taverns and wine will form the tastes of some,
Others success in maids or wives undone.
To solid good, the wise pursues his way;
Nor for low pleasure ever deigns to stay.
Though in thy chamber all the live-long day,