O
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Yur Chancery-Lawyer, who by conscience thrives,
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In spining a sute to the length of three lives,
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A sute which the Clyent doth wear out in slavery,
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whilst pleader makes conscience
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a cloak for his knavery:
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Can boast of his cunning but i'th present-Tence,
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For Non est inventus a hundred years hence.
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Then why should we turmoyl in cares and fears?
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And turn our tranquillity to sighs and tears,
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Let's eat, drink, and play, e'r the worms do corrupt us
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For I say, that
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Post mortem nulla voluptas,
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Let's deal with our Damsels, that we may from thence
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Have broods to succeed us a hundred years hence.
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I never could gain satisfaction upon
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Your dreams of a bliss when we'r cold as a stone,
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The Sages, call us Drunkards, Gluttons & wenchers.
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But we find such Morsels,
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Upon their own trenchers:
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For Abigal, Hannah, and sister Prudence,
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Will simper to nothing a hundred years hence.
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The Plush-cooted Quack that his fees to inlarge,
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Kills people with Licence, and at their own charge,
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Who builds a vast structure of ill gotten wealth,
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from the degrees of a [Piss-pot,]
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and ruines of health,
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Though treasures of life he pretends to dispence,
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Shall be turn'd into mummy a hundred years hence.
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The Butterfly Courtier that Pageant of state,
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The Mouse-trap of honour, and May-game of fate,
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Withall his ambitions, intrigues, and his tricks[,]
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must dye like a Clown,
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and then drops into Stir,
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His plots against death, are too slender a fence,
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For he'l be out of place a hundred years hence.
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Yea, the Poet himself that so loftily sings,
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As he scorns any subjects, but Hero's or Kings,
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Must to the Capricio's of fortune submit,
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and often be counted
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a fool for his wit,
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Thus beauty, wit, wealth, law, learning, and sence,
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All come to nothing a hundred years hence.
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