Classic Poem

To a length of new birth-days, your health we drink round,
In this glass of good punch, may your sickness be drown'd;
You've insur'd a long life, by your gout held so fast,
And your grand climacteric, this morning, o'er-past:
So, we've nothing to wish you, but bliss, at a stay,
'Till the nation hates bribes , and her rogues run away.