Classic Poem

But wanton now, and lolling at our Ease,
We suffer all th' invet'rate ills of Peace;
And wastful Riot, whose Destructive Charms
Revenge the vanquish'd World, of our Victorious Arms.
No Crime, no Lustful Postures are unknown;
Since Poverty, our Guardian-God, is gone:
Pride, Laziness, and all Luxurious Arts,
Pour like a Deluge in, from Foreign Parts:
Since Gold Obscene, and Silver found the way,
Strange Fashions with strange Bullion to convey,
And our plain simple Manners to betray.

What care our Drunken Dames to whom they spread?
Wine, no Distinction makes of Tail or Head.
Who lewdly Dancing at a Midnight-Ball,
For hot Eringoes, and Fat Oysters call:
Full Brimmers to their Fuddled Noses thrust;
Brimmers the last Provocatives of Lust.
When Vapours to their swimming Brains advance,
And double Tapers on the Tables dance.