Classic Poem

By Wine, that common Cordial for all Grief,
In vain I seek, for Love or Care, Relief;
Drowning my Sense, can't my Desires, or Cares,
Nor stupefie my Troubles, Pains, or Fears;
I spoil the Strength of my Wine, with my Tears;
It turns, by my soure Humour, Vinegar,
And, from my Sighs for Love, takes too much Air;
Till Dead, and not Reviving, 'tis to me,
Me, from my Spleen's Oppression, cannot free;
Nor raise my Joy, my Trouble stupefie,
For Love, Care, Grief, cansbe no Remedy,
Nor with new Healths, wash from my Memory;
Or Breast, Old Griefs, which still lie heavy there,
And I must still, with Love's Heart burning bear;
Fuming in my Head, Broiling in my Breast,
In spight of Wine, to keep me from all Rest;
Tho', for some Griefs, both of the Breast and Head,
Wine's an effectual Remedy ('tis said);
To make thee Drunk with Love, to bring up all,
We Love's Heart-burning, or its Sickness call;
The Breast by new Qualms, from old Pains to free,
But Wine (alas!) can ne'er ease mine, or me;
Chloris , in spight of Wine, lies heavy there,
No Tavern Haustus can my Stomach clear;
My Friends, like Quacks, repeat their Dose in vain,
In spight of Wine, my Grief will still remain;
My Fev'rish Thirst of Love, I ne'er can quench,
Tho' me, thus oft, my Tavern-Doctors drench;
Wine does the Hot Fit of my Love renew,
Recals my long lost Chloris to my View,
Whose Health mends mine, tho' others make me Spew;
But turn my Pleasure into Nauceousness,
And make my Grief but more, as my Sense less,
With her Health, reas'nable is Wine's Excess;
When I, by Wine, and Loss of my Sense, wou'd
Recover my good Humour, (if I cou'd);
As losing Gamesters gain, by Loss of Sense,
In Wine, Loss of Concern for Loss of Pence;
But I my Grief, drinking her Health, increase,
Wine will, in petty Passions, (I confess)
Change Thoughtful Love to Chearful Thoughtlesness;
In Wine, my Soft Love can't be drown'd by me,
Like Oil mix'd with it, uppermost 'twill be;
So still I Drink, but as I Love, in vain,
To cure my Heart-ake, with an aking Brain,
In Head, and Breast, to feel next Day, more Pain;
Wine will Desire, as Thirst, but more increase,
By which, we wou'd have all Desires to cease;
So Love, like Sorrow, Drinking drives away,
With more Grief, to return th' ensuing Day;
As all Excess of Mirth, at first, is seen,
With Joy beginning, to conclude with Spleen;
Yet your Advice I kindly must receive,
Since th' only 'tis, (my Friend) as I believe,
You take your self, of all th' Advice you give;
To which, if you wou'd add your Company,
Wine then wou'd be my Cure infallibly,
Since Physic works best, when the Doctor's by.