Poetical Epistle to Dr. Sheridan

Some ancient authors wisely write,That he who drinks will wake at night,Will never fail to lose his rest,And feel a streightness in his chest;A streightness in a double sense,A streightness both of breath and pence:Physicians say, it is but reasonable,He that comes home at hour unseasonable,(Besides a fall and broken shins,Those smaller judgments for his sins;)If, when he goes to bed, he meetsA teasing wife between the sheets,'Tis six to five he'll never sleep,But rave and toss till morning peep.Yet harmless Betty must be blamedBecause you feel your lungs inflamedBut if you would not get a fever,You never must one moment leave her.This comes of all your drunken tricks,Your Parry's and your brace of Dicks;Your hunting Helsham in his laboratoryToo, was the time you saw that Drab lac a PeryBut like the prelate who lives yonder-a,And always cries he is like Cassandra;I always told you, Mr. Sheridan,If once this company you were rid on,Frequented honest folk, and very few,You'd live till all your friends were weary of you.But if rack punch you still would swallow,I then forewarn'd you what would follow.Are the Deanery sober hours?Be witness for me all ye powers.The cloth is laid at eight, and thenWe sit till half an hour past ten;One bottle well might serve for threeIf Mrs. Robinson drank like me.Ask how I fret when she has beckon'dTo Robert to bring up a second;I hate to have it in my sight,And drink my share in perfect spite.If Robin brings the ladies word,The coach is come, I 'scape a third;If not, why then I fall a-talkingHow sweet a night it is for walking;For in all conscience, were my treasure able,I'd think a quart a-piece unreasonable;It strikes eleven,--get out of doors.--This is my constant farewellYours,