Upon his toasting fork? Or who would care
For half the motley groups which at him stare,
Some morning early, stuck before the bench,
When soda-water would his fever quench,
But that a little thing within doth call?
Thus porter doth make rum ’uns of us all!
And thus our resolution to keep sober
Is drown’d and soon forgot in good October.
But hush! my ’Phelia comes, the pretty dear!
Oh! think of me love—when you fetch your beer.