Epigram, on a Tippler

Traffick, a low but wealthy sot, Had made too free with porter-pot, He wish'd himself asleep in bed, But fear'd his wife wou'd comb his head? She was a very rough physician, Whene'er he was in that condition.— A comrade told him with a jeer, Your legs won't bear you home, I fear; Why then I'll trust to my good porter, For he's an excellent supporter. Your porter's good, that I'll allow, But he's, I fear, your master now; If you use your slave too free, He'll treat you oft contemptuously; Whene'er he finds his master reels, He sometimes will trip up his heels.