O, Call me home againe, deare Chiefe, and put me
To yoaking foxes, milking of hee-goats,
Pounding of water in a morter, laving
The sea dry with a nut-shell, gathering all
The leaves are falne this Autumne, drawing farts
Out of dead bodies, making ropes of sand,
Catching the windes together in a Net,
Mustring of ants, and numbring atomes; all
That hell and you thought exquisite torments, rather
Than stay me here, a thought more: I would sooner
Keepe FLEAS within a circle, and be accomptant
A thousand yeere, which of ’hem, and how far,
Out-leap'd the other, than endure a Minute
Such as I have within.
—Ben Jonson, The Devil is an Ass
