Besides, high living, sir, must wear you out
With surfeits, qualms, a fever, or the gout.
By some new pleasures are you still engross'd,
And when you save an hour, you think it lost.
To sports, plays, races, from your books you run,
And like all company, except your own.
You hunt, drink, sleep, or (idler still) you rhyme;
Why? — but to banish thought, and murder time.
And yet that thought, which you discharge in vain,
Like a foul-loaded piece, recoils again.