Classic Poem

Dear George, were Sarum palace mine,
I'd keep the Vaults well stowd with wine.
Than Drought, no curse can greater bee,
For Moisture comes from Heaven we see.
A Sober Sot is but at best
A Priestrid Ass, with burdens prest.
While the brisk Toper, gay and light,
Drowns all Cares in one merry night.
Tell me what broken Soldier e'er
O're Wine complained of Want or Scar?
Rather he prais'd the Generous Red,
Or talkd of some stoln maidenhead.
But that this Dear Enlivening Juice
May serve for pleasure or for use,
With a slow pace let Cups go round
Least Reason with our Cares be drownd.
And like true Mohocks we prepare
With Loyal Watch to wage a War.
Bacchus it was did first instill
The Knowledge both of good and Ill.
The Drunken God shoud I expose
With bloated Face and pumpled Nose,
His drowsy Head Supine you'd find
With Leaves around His Temples twin'd.
Thus careless of his Phrygian Train
He lets them Riot o're the Plain.
Madly through Hedge and Ditch they fly,
And with their yelling rend the Sky.
Then in full Bowls at night they quaff,
And spight of very Dullness laugh.
Each Secret, which they shoud Conceal,
With Drunken Confidence reveal,
And soon are seen through like the Glass,
Which no reflecting merc'ry has.