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.