Then, as doctors wise preserve
  Things from nature’s course that swerve,
  Insects of portentous shape—­worms,
  Wreathed serpents, asps, and tape-worms,
  Ill-fashion’d fishes, dead and swimming,
  And untimely fruits of women;
  All the thirty skins infuse
  In Alcohol’s Phlogistic dews. 
  Steep them—­till the blessed Sun
  Through half his mighty round hath run—­
  Hours twelve—­the time exact
  Their inmost virtues to extract.

  Lest the potion should be heady,
  As Circe’s cup, or gin of Deady,
  Water from the crystal spring. 
  Thirty quarterns, draw and bring;
  Let it, after ebullition,
  Cool to natural condition. 
  Add, of powder saccharine,
  Pounds thrice five, twice superfine;
  Mingle sweetest orange blood,
  And the lemon’s acid flood;
  Mingle well, and blend the whole
  With the spicy Alcohol.

  Strain the mixture, strain it well
  Through such vessel, as in Hell
  Wicked maids, with vain endeavour,
  Toil to fill, and toil for ever. 
  Nine-and-forty Danaides,
  Wedded maids, and virgin brides,
  (So blind Gentiles did believe,)
  Toil to fill a faithless sieve;
  Thirsty thing, with naught content,
  Thriftless and incontinent.

  Then, to hold the rich infusion,
  Have a barrel, not a huge one,
  But clean and pure from spot or taint,
  Pure as any female saint—­
  That within its tight-hoop’d gyre
  Has kept Jamaica’s liquid fire;
  Or luscious Oriental rack,
  Or the strong glory of Cognac,
  Whose perfume far outscents the Civet,
  And all but rivals rare Glenlivet.

  To make the compound soft as silk,
  Quarterns twain of tepid milk,
  Fit for babies, and such small game,
  Diffuse through all the strong amalgame. 
  The fiery souls of heroes so do
  Combine the suaviter in modo,
  Bold as an eagle, meek as Dodo.

  Stir it round, and round, and round,
  Stow it safely under ground,
  Bung’d as close as an intention
  Which we are afraid to mention;
  Seven days six times let pass,
  Then pour it into hollow glass;
  Be the vials clean and dry,
  Corks as sound as chastity;—­
  Years shall not impair the merit
  Of the lively, gentle spirit.

  Babylon’s Sardanapalus,
  Rome’s youngster Heliogabalus,
  Or that empurpled paunch, Vitellius,
  So famed for appetite rebellious—­
  Ne’er, in all their vastly reign,
  Such a bowl as this could drain. 
  Hark, the shade of old Apicius
  Heaves his head, and cries—­Delicious! 
  Mad of its flavour and its strength—­he
  Pronounces it the real Nepenthe.

  ’Tis the Punch, so clear and bland,
  Named of Norfolk’s fertile land,
  Land of Turkeys, land of Coke,
  Who late assumed the nuptial yoke—­
  Like his county beverage,
  Growing brisk and stout with age. 
  Joy I wish—­although a Tory—­
  To a Whig, so gay and hoary—­
  May he, to his latest hour,
  Flourish in his bridal bower—­
  Find wedded love no Poet’s fiction,
  And Punch the only contradiction.