Classic Poem

Since thy third curing of the French infection,
Priapus hath in thee found no erection,
Yet eat'st thou ringoes, and potato roots,
And caviar, but it little boots.
Besides the bed's head a bottle's lately found,
Of liquor that a quart cost twenty pound:
For shame, if not more grace, yet shew more wit,
Surcease, now sin leaves thee, to follow it.
Some smile, I sigh, to see thy madness such
That that which stands not, stands thee in so much.