Classic Poem

When first Pandora's baneful crew
Of fell disorders outward flew;
They quickly spread themselves around,
'Till each its proper object found.

They, who the sensual feast adore,
Are seldom found to reach three score;
Who walks in love's forbidden way,
With aches and pains is sure to pay;
Those, who to sloth are much inclin'd,
Cut short by lethargy we find;
The toper quenchless in his thirst,
Swills till his very bowels burst.
Thus each excess, full-fraught with pain,
Brought its own poison in its train.

But one, engender'd by the rest,
Lay in the bottom closely prest,
And still hath lain, nor cou'd escape,
Had not gay Bacchus squeez'd the grape.
This juice divine, as poets sing,
Of many woes has prov'd the spring:
It first dissolv'd the hard cement,
By which the gout was closely pent;
Then bade it rage thro' mortal bones,
To make us fetch unpity'd groans;
Unpity'd surely are our cries,
Unless where sympathy applies.
Tho' sorely rack'd with pain you lie,
Your laughing neighbours passing by,
Will thus, just providence admire,
“The labourer deserves his hire,
“How wisely she dispenses favours,
“And well rewards the man who labours;
“If same does not poor T——belie,
“He's drain'd off many magnums dry;
“Has held his glass, and grasp'd the bottle,
“'Till claret guggl'd in his throttle;
“Has stuck to ven'son to the last,
“Nor ever kept, from wench, a fast;
“In scenes nocturnal took delight,
“And turn'd his days all into night.”
Thus will your conduct be accus'd,
Your morals blasted, life abus'd,
By those who live on borrow'd fame,
And censure others for a name.
Tho' one perhaps last night was drunk,
Another revel'd with a punk,
In cellar vile, midst bawds unclean,
Where you or I would blush, if seen.
Then do dear T——I pray attend,
And take instruction from a friend,
'Twill stop at least those prating elves,
Who censure all men but themselves.
Your large potations first resign,
And mingle water with your wine;
Your midnight revels next give o'er,
Nor languidly awake at four;
But to your bed by times repair,
And rise when Phœbus mounts his car;
Let no high sauce enrich your meat,
But sparingly of chicken eat;
Nor, when your present pain is over,
Again attempt to live in clover.

You'll find these precepts will agree,
E'en tho' they are prescrib'd by me,
Who never did in actual deed,
Upon such principles proceed,
But follow'd close this proverb quaint,
“In health a sinner, sick a saint.”
You may, perhaps, from this infer,
That none shou'd preach who're prone to err,
But know that truants may teach wise men,
As brewers make the best excisemen;
And all divines allow 'tis ample,
To follow precept and not sample.