There is no faith in claret, and it shall 
Henceforth with me be held apocryphal. 
I'll trust a small-beer promise, nay, a troth 
Washed in the Thames, before a French wine oath. 
That grape, they say, is binding; yes, 'tis so, 
And it has made your souls thus costive too. 
Circe transformed the Greeks; no hard design, 
For some can do as much with claret wine 
Upon themselves; witness you two, allowed 
Once honest, now turned air, and à la mode. 
Begin no health in this, or if by chance 
The King's 'twill question your allegiance; 
And men will, after all your ruffling, say 
You drink as some do fight, in the French way: 
Engage and trouble many, when 'tis known 
You spread their interest to wave your own. 
Away with this false Christian: it shall be 
An excommunicate from mirth, and me; 
Give me the Catholic diviner flame, 
To light me to the fair Odelia's name; 
'Tis sack that justifies both man and verse, 
Whilst you in Lethe-claret still converse. 
Forget your own names next; and when you look 
With hope to find, be lost in the church-book.