’Tis now the summer of your youth: time has not cropt the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them. The Gamester (1753)
I'll tell thee what it [the world] says: it calls me a villain: a treacherous husband; a cruel father; a false brother; one lost to nature and her charities; or, to say all in one short word, it calls me—gamester. The Gamester (1753)