The restless merchant, he that loves to steep His brains in wealth, and lays his soul to sleep In bags of bullion, sees th immortal crown, And fain would mount, but ingots keep him down: He brags to-day, perchance, and begs to-morrow: He lent but now, wants credit now to borrow. Blow, winds, the treasures gone, the merchants broke; A slave to silvers but a slave to smoke. Quarles.Book II. Emblem 4.