Classic Poem

[Good Jonathan, I've read your ditty
Which was, of course, well-turned and pretty;
It was as always charming, clever,
As you are in your writing ever.
I laud you with the highest praise;
To me you shine with Phoebus' rays.
O brother Phoebus, brother poet
Who brings me needed eyewash so it
Repairs the damages of mad
Diana's rays that struck—bedad,
Not scorched—and made my eyes a mess
With ever-growing iciness.
My quack prescribes a double blanket,
Then takes my wine and says, “Don't drink it.”
O Earth! O Sky! O heaving breast!
My mouth is dry, my mind distressed!
Your pleasing cup, so often proferred
With wit and gurgling wine's not offered.
O eyes of mine, I flatly spurn you
When joyous jug, O, I discern you.
I'd rather have a jug than eyes;
It more than legs or hide I'd prize.
The jug, which soothes the heart with laughter,
Was praised by Horace, and thereafter,
Whenever breasts were swelled by Bacchus
In joyous shouts, then shouts more raucous
Were doubled, doubled and repeated,
And gladness grew and hearts were heated.

[Of course, I propagate your japes,
And thus my voice your image apes.]