Classic Poem

How distant from th'Inachian root
Was patriot Codrus, who so bravely fell,
You in your histories compute,
Of Peleus' race, and Trojan wars you tell,
But what a cask of Chian costs,
And who the bath shall temper and prepare,
When I shall 'scape these chilling frosts,
And at whose house, to mention you forbear.
Fill up, my boy, for this new moon,
For midnight, and Muraena's num'rous poll,
Mix liquor handily and soon,
Three or nine bumpers in each toper's bowl.
The bard that loves th'odd-number'd train
Of Muses, takes nine bumpers in his glee.
The Grace, with naked sisters twain,
Fearful of wrangling, will admit but three.
It is my pleasure to be mad,
Why cease to blow the Berecynthian horn?
Why hang the pipe and harp so sad?
All niggard hearts and sparing hands I scorn.
Bring roses, bring abundance in,
Let neighbour Lycus, and his blooming girl,
Unfit for Lycus, hear our din,
To mortify that old invidious churl.
At thee, with bushy hair so spruce,
And bright as Vesper, buxom Chloe aims;
Me slow-consuming cares reduce,
As Glycera now checks, now fans the flames.