Classic Poem

I.

Still to be drunk, with Love or Fame,
A scouring round the World to run,
For a small Whore, or greater Name,
Honour is rather lost, than won;
When drunk with Love, or Fame, the Sot,
More sensless grows, than by the Pot;
Pushing his Friend, or Mistress, to his Shame:

II.

Then Heroes drunk with Vanity,
And Coxcombs with Love's Passion too,
Lead their Lives most dishonourably;
Themselves most mad, or sensless show;
And make their giddy Brains more hot,
By Love or Rage, than by the Pot;
To fall more low, by looking but more high:

III.

Since nothing Sober can be found,
Out of the Tavern, there I still
Will sit, till Wine turns my Head round,
And it with Joy, not Care, I fill;
Grow less a Wit, so more a Prince,
But by the losing of my Sense;
When in my Wine, my Care, Fear, Grief, are drown'd:

IV.

Since he, who keeps his Senses, does
More Care, Fear, Trouble by them gain;
Mine then in good Wine will I lose,
And elevate my Heart and Brain,
Above the Fear of Falling too,
Which no Harm can the Drunkard do;
Who Safety more by Wine, than Thought may gain:

V.

For, as we think more soberly,
We have, for more Thought, less Delight;
But Drinking makes us lay Thought by,
Us, with vain Cares nor Fears, to fright;
Then, but as our Thought, is the less,
More is our Ease, or Happiness,
And our Sense, in our Loss of Thought, more right:

VI.

Since Chance, to Sots, and Mad-men still,
Is kinder, than to Men of Sense;
To Loss of my Sense, will I swill,
To have, to better Luck, pretence;
To turn a Sot, I'll wisely chuse,
Good Sense, before Good Luck, to lose;
Men, of my having more Wit, to convince: