Horace

“ The merchant fears, and hugs the rural ease
Of his own village home; but soon, ashamed
⁠Of penury, he refits his batter'd craft.
⁠There is, who thinks no scorn of Massic draught,
Who robs the daylight of an hour unblamed,
Now stretch'd beneath the arbute on the sward,
⁠Now by some gentle river's sacred spring ”