Classic Poem

When my sense in Wine I steep,
All my cares are lull'd asleep:
Rich in thought, I then despise
Craesus , and his royalties:
Whilst with Ivy twines I wreath me,
And sing all the World beneath me;
Others run to martial fights,
I to Bacchus 's delights;
Fill the cup then Boy, for I
Drunk then dead had rather ly.