Classic Poem

Dear Telephus, you trace divinely
The Grecian king who died so finely;
And show a zeal that betters us,
For all the house of Aeacus;
And make us, to our special joy,
Feel every blow bestowed at Troy: —
But not a syllable do you say
Of where we are to dine some day;
Not one about a little stock
Of neat, you rogue; nor what o'clock
Some four of us may come together,
And shut the cold out this strange weather.
Good gods! I feel it done already;
More wine, my boy: — there — steady, steady:
" Whose health?" Whose health! Why, — here's the Moon;
She 's young; may she be older soon.
" Whose next?" Why next, I think, it 's clear,
Comes mother Midnight. — Here 's to her:
And after her, with three at least,
Our reverend friend the new-made priest
Three cups in one then. Three , and we !
Fill, as 'tis fitting, three times three:
For poets, in their moods divine,
Measure their goblets by the Nine;
Although the Graces (naked tremblers!)
Talk of a third to common tumblers.
Parties like us, true souls and glad,
Have right and title to be mad
Who told the flutes there to leave off?
They've not been breathed yet, half enough:
And who hung up the pipes and lyres?
They have not done with half their fires.
The roses too — heap, heap one's hair!
I hate a right hand that can spare.
Let the old envious dog next door,
Old Lycus, hear the maddening roar,
And the blithe girl (she'll love it well)
Whom Lycus finds — not haveable.
Ah, Telephus! Those locks of thine,
That lie so thick and smooth, and shine,
And that complete and sparkling air,
That gilds one's evenings like a star,
'Tis these the little jade considers,
And cuts her poor, profuser bidders.
" And you, dear Horace, what fair she
Inspires you now?" Oh, as for me,
I'm in the old tormenting way;
Burnt at a slow fire, day by day,
For my dull, dear Glycera