To all Lovers, Admirers and Doters on Claret,
(Who tho' at Deaths-Door, yet can hadly forbear it)
Who can Miracles credit, and fancy Red-Port
To be Sprightly Puntack, and the best of the sort.
To all Mornings-draught Men, who drink bitter Wine,
To Create a false Stomach against they'r to Dine.
To all Tavern-kitchen Frequenters and Haunters,
Who go thither to hear Mistress Cooks foolish Banters,
To Partake of a Dumpling, or Sop in the Pan;
A Large Rummer Drank up, troop as fast as they can.
To all sober Half-Pint Men, and serious Sippers.
To all old Maudlin Drinkers, and 12 a Clock Bibbers,
To all Drinking Committees, Knots, Clubs, Corporations
Who while others are snoaring, they'r settling the Nations
To all the brisk Beau's who think Life but a Play,
Who make Day like the Night, and turn Night into Day.
To all Lovers of Red and White-Port, Syracuse,
Barcelona, Navarr, or Canary's sweet Juice.
To all Drinkers of Sherry, Old Hock, or Moselle,
Or of Tent, which soon teaches the Flesh to Rebel.
To all Alicant-Tasters, and Malaga-Sots.
To all Friends to Straw-Bottles, and Nicking QuartPots.
To all Bacchus his Friends, who have Taverns frequented,
This following Poem
Is Humbly Presented.