University of Virginia Library

For shame (said Ebony) for shame,
Tom Ruby, troth you're much to blame,
To drink at this confounded rate,
To guzzle thus early and late.
Poor Tom, who just had took his Whet,
And at the Door his Uncle met,
Surpriz'd and Thunder-struck, would fain
Make his escape, but oh! in vain.
Each Blush that glow'd with an ill Grace,
Lighted the Flambeaux in his Face;
No Loop-hole left, no slight Pretence,
To palliate the foul Offence.
I own (said he) I'm very bad—
A Sot—incorrigibly mad—
But Sir—I thank you for your Love,
And by your Lectures wou'd improve:
Yet give me leave to say, the Street
For Conference is not so meet.
Here in this Room—nay, Sir, come in—
Expose, chastise me for my Sin;
Exert each Trope, your utmost Art,
To touch this senseless, flinty Heart.
I'm conscious of my Guilt, 'tis true,
But yet I know my Frailty too,
A slight Rebuke will never do.
Urge home my Faults—come in, I pray—
Let not my Soul be cast away.
Wise Ebony, who deem'd it good
T'encourage by all means he cou'd,
These first Appearances of Grace,
Follow'd up Stairs, and took his place.
The Bottle and the Crust appear'd,
And wily Tom demurely sneer'd.
My Duty, Sir—Thank you, kind Tom—
A gain, an't please you—Thank you, come—
Sorrow is dry—I must once more—
Nay Tom, I told you at the Door
I wou'd not drink—What before Dinner?—
Not one Glass more, as I'm a Sinner—
Come, to the point in hand; Is't fit
A Man of your good Sense, and Wit,
Those Parts which Heav'n bestow'd, shou'd drown,
A Butt to all the Sots in Town?
Why tell me, Tom—What Fort can stand
(Tho' regular, and bravely mann'd)
If night and day the fierce Foe plies
With never-ceasing Batteries;
Will there not be a Breach at last?
Uncle, 'tis true—forgive what's past.
But if nor Interest, nor Fame,
Nor Health, can your dull Soul reclaim,
Hast not a Conscience, Man? no Thought
Of an Hereafter? dear are bought
These sensual Pleasures. I relent,
Kind Sir—but give your Zeal a vent.
Then pouting hung his Head; yet still
Took care his Uncle's Glass to fill,
Which as his hurry'd Spirits sunk,
Unwittingly, Good Man, he drunk.
Each Pint, alas! drew on the next,
Old Ebony stuck to his Text,
Grown warm, like any Angel spoke,
Till intervening Hiccups broke
The well-strung Argument. Poor Tom
Was now too forward to reel home:
That preaching still, this still repenting,
Both equally to drink consenting,
Till both brim-full could swill no more,
And fell dead drunk upon the Floor.

Bacchus, the Jolly God, who sate
Wide-straddling o'er his Tun in state,
Close by the Window side, from whence
He heard this weighty Conference;
Joy kindling in his ruddy Cheeks,
Thus the indulgent Godhead speaks:
Frail Mortals know, Reason in vain
Rebels, and wou'd disturb my Reign.
See there the Sophister o'erthrown,
With stronger Arguments knock'd down
Than e'er in wrangling Schools were known!
The Wine that sparkles in this Glass,
Smooths ev'ry Brow, gilds ev'ry Face:
As Vapours when the Sun appears,
Far hence Anxieties and Fears,
Grave Ermin smiles, Lawn Slevees grow gay,
Each haughty Monarch owns my Sway,
And Cardinals and Popes obey:
Ev'n Cato drank his Glass, 'twas I
Taught the brave Patriot how to die,
For injur'd Rome and Liberty.
'Twas I, who with immortal Lays
Inspir'd the Bard that sung his Praise.
Let dull unsociable Fools,
Loll in their Cells, and live by Rules;
My Votaries, in gay Delight,
And Mirth, shall revel all the night;
Act well their Parts on Life's dull Stage,
And make each Moment worth an Age.