Classic Poem

I like your collyrium,
Take my eyes, sir, and clear ye 'um,
'Twill gain you a great reputation;
By this you may rise,
Like the doctor so wise,
Who open'd the eyes of the nation.

And these, I must tell ye,
Are bigger than its belly;--
You know, there’s in Livy a story
Of the hands and the feet
Denying of meat,--
Don't I write in the dark like a Tory?

Your water so far goes,
'Twould serve for an Argus,
Were all his whole hundred sore;
So many we read
He had in his head,
Or Ovid's a son of a whore.

For your recipe, sir,
May my lids never stir,
If ever I think once to fee you;
For I'd have you to know,
When abroad I can go,
That it's honour enough, if I see you.