Classic Poem

Let me but Credit have with thee, my Boy!
In Lombardstreet , let Bankers Boys be coy;
Let me have my Fill of thy Florence -Chest,
The Chest, my Boy! that thou shalt think the Best;
Let Half-Pint-Drinkers Chests of Money keep,
Which Rest disturb, but thine are Helps to Sleep;
Their Chests afford them but more Cares, or Fears,
Thy Florence -Chest does ease our Pains and Cares;
Does us with Satisfaction best supply,
For he that's Drunk, may Love or Fate defie;
If he can Pay his Reck'ning for thy Wine,
Or Credit has with thee, he wants no Coin;
More, than the Goldsmiths coz'ning Prentices,
You trade in that, which makes the Poor at Ease,
Can Pris'ners, Lovers from their Chains release;
With Wine, more sparkling than their Gold, you can
Restore Joy, to the lost, or broken Man;
Best Use of Money you to Misers give,
When Wine, which gives Joy, for it they receive;
The Dying too, for Love, you can revive;
Best all our Cares, Wants, Pains too, can you cure,
Drown Rich Men's Fears, and Poor Men's Hopes ensure;
You to Men's Empty Heads, and Pockets, can
Afford wherewith their Credit to maintain;
When from your Florence -Chest your Sparkling Store
Makes our Wants less, our Satisfactions more;
Will, Joys to all your Customers impart,
Give ev'n to Lawyers Wit, to Cowards Heart,
Truth to the Courtiers, to the Cullies Art;
To the close Misers Open-heartedness,
Thou mak'st 'em, when they have enough, confess;
To Drunken Sinners, who give thee no Coin,
Thou't give Repentance, next Day, by thy Wine;
Thy Wine, which Aid to all our Wants, affords,
Gives Points to Men's Wits, Edges to their Swords,
Nay, sharpens both their Weapons, Thoughts, and Words;
You make the Coward, for a Bravo pass,
Yet drown Disputes, and Quarrels, with the Glass;
You can make Old Men youthful, Matrons kind,
The Modest Wife show all, the Husband blind;
So, you revive the State of Innocence,
Since no Sex, in Good Wine, can give Offence;
You give Good Nature to the surly Knave,
Freedom of Speech, to th' Pris'ner, or the Slave,
Frankness, and Mirth, to th' Formal, and the Grave;
Friends, Foes, Disputes with Words, or Blows you'll end,
Prove the Truth of a Lover, or a Friend,
Make Men and Women, Flinchers discommend;
So, for my best Friend, (you my Boy) may go,
A Friend to Truth, Faith, Love, and Honour too;
Nay, Love himself, is not so kind a Boy,
From Fame, Love, Bus'ness, such a good Decoy;
Nor, making us stark Blind, gives half the Joy,
As we, my Boy! have from good Wine, and Thee,
When we Drink with Thee, till we cannot see.