Classic Poem

Sir,
When I left you, I found myself of the grape's juice sick:
I'm so full of pity, I never abuse sick;
And the patientest patient that ever you knew sick;
Both when I am purge-sick, and when I am spew-sick.
I pitied my cat, whom I knew by her mew sick;
She mended at first, but now she's anew sick.
Captain Butler made some in the church black and blue sick;
Dean Cross, had he preached, would have made us all pew-sick;
Are you not, in a crowd, when you sweat and you stew, sick?
Lady Santry got out of the church when she grew sick,
And, as fast as she could, to the Deanery flew sick.
Miss Morice was (I can assure you 'tis true) sick:
For, who would not be in that numerous crew sick?
Such music would make a fanatic or Jew sick:
Yet, ladies are seldom at ombre, or loo, sick;
Nor is old Nanny Shales, whene'er she does brew, sick.
My footman came home from the church, of a bruise sick,
And looked like a rake, who was made in the stews sick;
But you learned doctors can make whom you choose sick.
Poor I myself I was, when I withdrew, sick,
For the smell of them made me like garlic and rue sick.
And I got through the crowd, though not led by a clue, sick.
You hoped to find many (for that was your cue) sick;
But, there were not a dozen (to give 'em their due) sick,
And those to be sure, stuck together like glue, sick.
So are ladies in crowds, when they squeeze and they screw, sick.
You may find they are all, by their yellow pale hue, sick.
So am I, when tobacco, like Robin, I chew sick.