The aged Hock—the Champagne bright,
Burgundia’s best, and Claret light,
The vintage of nineteen.
Alas! regardless of their doom
Each rich ragout they take,
No sense have they of pains to come,
Of head, or stomach-ache.
Yet see how all around them press,
Th’ attendants of each night’s excess;
Fell Indigestion’s followers vile: