Classic Poem

Eschines . Tom, Will , and Dick , and I, a jovial Crew,
Not minding Fate that did too close pursue,
Drank at my House, the Glass went briskly round,
Our hearts were merry, and each head was crown'd;
I made them welcome, got the best I cou'd,
A sucking Pig, two Chicken, Country food,
And, tho I say't my self, my Wine was good:
Twas four years old, yet mild, I vow tis true,
With Burrage mixt it drank as well as new:
At last we voted each should crown a Glass
What Health he pleas'd, but name whose health it was;
We drank, and halloo'd, She mute all the while
And sullen sate, without one word or smile;
How was I vext to find a change so soon?
What Mute? what have you seen a Woolf says one?
At that she flusht, her guilty color rose,
That you might light a Candle at her Nose:
There's Woolf , there's Woolf , my Neighbour Labia 's Son,
Tall, slender, and the beauty of the Town:
For him she burns, and sighs, and sighs again,
And this I heard, but loath to find my pain,
I let it lye, and grew a Man invain:
When we were heated well, and flusht with Wine,
One sang a Song of Woolf , a curst design,
For streight Cunisca wept at the surprize,
And soon betray'd her passion at her Eyes;
She wept as wanton Girls that leave their Pap,
And would be dandled on their Mother's lap:
Then I, you know me, vext at this disdain;
Fled at her, strook, and swore, and kickt again;
She rose; Oh Mischief! can I please no more?
Have you another Sweet-heart? Out you Whore;
Must you do this now to confirm my fears?
Go to him, toy, and court him with your tears:
As swift as Swallows sweeping o're the Plain,
To catch their young a fly, with nimble pain,
Catch one, then feed, and streight return again;
So quick she left her Seat, so swift her hast,
So soon she thro the Hall and Parlor past,
I scarce could see her move, she went so fast:
Now twenty days, and ten, and nine, and eight,
And one, and two are past; two months compleat;
Yet still we differ, nor in all this space
Have I shav'd once, regardless of my face:
But she is Woolf 's, and Woolf 's her chief delight,
For him she will unlock the Gate at night,
But I am scorn'd, I can't be lookt upon,
Shee'l scarce vouchsafe the favor of a frown: [. . .]