Classic Poem

Thither I'll go at midnight, if the sexton
Is some bucolic lout I can discover.
But first I'll surely dine, and go unvext on
The oddest errand ever tried by lover.
Dinner . . . the cook is curiously perplext on
My coming, but I like her eggs of plover
In aspic . . . and I'm rather glad my fellows
Have left me some few bottles of Bucellas.