Fell lust of gold! abhorred, accurst! What will not men to slake such thirst? - John Conington

O Fortune, cruellest of heavenly powers,
Why make such game of this poor life of ours?

At Orcus' portals hold their lair
Wild Sorrow and avenging Care;
And pale Diseases cluster there,
And pleasureless Decay
Foul Penury, and Fears that kill,
And Hunger, counsellor of ill,
A ghastly presence they:
Suffering and Death the threshold keep,
And with them Death's blood-brother, Sleep.

In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb'd away.
Seize the present; trust to-morrow e'en as little as you may.