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Lettered inside image: "57 | Still-streaming thoroughfares of full debauch! | *Trembling each gulp, lest death should snatch the bowl. | Such of our fine ones is the wish refined-- | So would they have it: elegant desire! | Why not invite the bellowing stalls and wilds? | But such examples might their riot awe. | Through want of virtue, that is, want of thought, | Though on bright thought they father all their flights, | To what are they reduced? to love and hate | The same vain world; to censure and espouse | This painted shrew of life, who calls them fool | Each moment of each day; to flatter bad | Through dread of worse; to cling to this rude rock, | Barren, to them, of good, and sharp with ills, | And hourly blacken'd with impending storms, | And infamous for wrecks of human hope-- | Scared at the gloomy gulph that yawns beneath. | Such are their triumphs! such their pangs of joy! | 'Tis time, high time to shift this dismal scene: | This hugg'd, this hideous state what art can cure? | One only, but that one what all may reach, | Virtue--she, wonder-working goddess! charms | That rock to bloom, and tames the painted shrew; | And what will more surprise, LORENZO! gives | To life's sick nauseous iteration, change; | And straitens nature's circle to a line. | Believest thou this, LORENZO? lend an ear, | A patient ear, thou'lt blush to disbelieve. | A languid leaden iteration reigns, | And ever must o'er those whose joys are joys"; lower right: "inv & s | WB"; Lettered on facing page: "56 | Ere man has measured half his weary stage, | His luxuries have left him no reserve, | No maiden relishes, unbroach'd delights: | On cold-served repetitions he subsists, | And in the tasteless present chews the past; | Disgusted chews, and scarce can swallow down: | Like lavish ancestors, his earlier years | Have disinherited his future hours, | Which starve on orts, and glean their former field. | Live ever here, LORENZO!--Shocking thought! | So shocking, they who wish, disown it too; | Disown from shame, what they from folly crave. | Live ever in the womb, nor see the light! | For what live ever here?--With labouring step | To tread our former footsteps? pace the round | Eternal? to climb life's worn, heavy wheel, | Which draws up nothing new? to beat and beat | The beaten track? to bid each wretched day | The former mock? to surfeit on the same, | And yawn our joys? or thank a misery | For change, though sad? to see what we have seen? | Hear, till unheard, the same old slabber'd tale? | To taste the tasted, and at each return | Less tasteful? o'er our palates to decant | Another vintage? strain a flatter year, | Through loaded vessels, and a laxer tone? | Crazy machines to grind earth's wasted fruits! | Ill-ground, and worse concocted! load, not life! | The rational foul kennels of excess!"