Classic Poem

The verses you sent on the bottling your wine
Were in everyone's judgement exceedingly fine,
And I must confess as a dean and divine,
I think you inspired by the muses all nine.
I nicely examined them every line,
And the worst of them all like a barn-door did shine.
Oh, that Jove would give me such a talent as thine!
With Delany or Dan I would scorn to combine;
I know they have many a wicked design,
And give Satan his due, Dan begins to refine.
However I wish, honest comrade of mine,
You would really on Thursday leave St Catherine,
Where I hear you are crammed every day like a swine.
But the loss of your cough will be the best sign;
With me you'll no more have a stomach to dine,
Nor after your victuals lie sleeping supine;
So I wish you were toothless like Lord Massereene.
But were you as wicked as lewd Aretine
I wish you would tell me which way you incline.
If when you return, your road you don't line,
On Thursday I'll pay my respects at your shrine,
Wherever you bend, wherever you twine,
In square or in opposite circle, or trine,
Your beef will on Thursday be salter than brine.
I hope you have swilled with new milk from the kine
As much as the Liffey's outdone by the Rhine:
And Dan shall be with us with nose aquiline.
If you do not come back we shall weep out our eyn,
Or may your gown never be good Lutherine.
The beef you have got, which I hear is a chine,
But if too many come your madam will whine;
And then you may kiss the low end of her spine.
But enough of this poetry Alexandrine:
I hope you will not think this a pasquine.