Classic Poem

When Celia frowns, I vow and swear
She makes both friends and foes despair:
I hate to think that things so vain
As heedless maids and dirty men,
A dish ill-cooked, a glass unwashed,
A petticoat wrong cut and slashed,
Should make good humour, wit, and sense
Give way to their impertinence.
Rather let me with sops in ale,
In nut-brown bowl, myself regale;
In Scottish plod, or Irish frieze,
Let me be dressed, if toys like these,
So foreign to substantial joy,
Can Celia's peace of mind destroy.