THE Bacchanalian Sessions; OR THE Contention of Liquors: WITH A Farewel to Wine. By the Author of the Search after Claret, &c. To which is added, A Satyrical Poem on one who had injur'd his Memory. By a Friend.
LONDON, Printed for E. Hawkins. 1693.
To the Memory of Mr. Richard Ames: Being a SATYR on a BOOKSELLER, Who injur'd him after his Death.
THO nothing else these lines can recommend,
They'll show I'm not asham'd to own my Friend:
Who e're upon his Ashes rudely tread,
Living I lov'd, and will revenge him dead;
Accept these grateful
Exquies, dear Shade!
Those Rites to thy much injur'd
Manes paid:
Thus dies the
Wretch who dar'd blaspheme thy Name,
Thus o're thy
Tomb I sacrifice his
Fame.
Baser than—or that
Traytrous Crew,
Who would the
Work of Heaven itself undo;
Say, Monster! what
foul Lust of gain possest,
What
Fury seiz'd thy
Sacrilegious breast?
That no less
Wickedness cou'd thee content,
Than madly tearing up a Monument?
What
Wolf begat thee? Manhood ne're pretend!
Not
any Beast
beside: the Dead
would rend.
[Page] No Bookseller but H—e're cantriv'd,
To plague an Author longer than he liv'd.
This thy Indictment is, the Proofs are clear,
And now thy Sentence,
Wretch, prepare to hear.
In the same Road of Dullness still trot on,
Till to the end of those
Vast Realms thou'st gone.
Print ten times weaker, sillier Stuff than he,
That mauls us with the
City Mercury.
Fleckno and
Bu
[...]ian call from
Lethe Lake,
More
Ballads and more
Godly Books to make.
Nothing but these e're print, or what's as well,
If a good Copy;
may it never sell.
Such weighty Profe as
K—or
N—indite,
Such humble Rymes as
I or
G—n write;
Or some dull Treason for the
Jacobite.
Th' Impression seiz'd, e're thou of one dispose,
And when 'tis burnt just underneath thy Nose,
May'st thou Sev'n Years the crowded Street survay,
Thro
Wooden-Ring-enchanted, twice a day.
This Pennace past, if this thou shouldst out-live,
Perhaps on
Due contrition, I'll forgive.
EPITAPH.
HEre lies one who liv'd free from ill Nature and Pride,
He liv'd but too
fast, and too
quickly he dy'd.
He lasht all the
Vintners, whom he knew but too well,
And the Ghost of
Tom Saffold rejoyc'd when he fell.
Light lie the soft dust, untrod let it be,
As far from
constraint, and as
easy as he.
THE Bacchanalian Sessions: OR THE CONTENTION OF LIQUORS.
SInce to drive away cares, or the plague of Dull Thinking,
All men more or less give themselves to good Drinking,
To refresh their tir'd Senses, and chase away Sorrow,
Grief, Pain, and the troublesom thoughts of to morrow:
Yet in the choice of the Liquors Disputes have arisen,
What to one Palate's grateful, to others is Poison;
For one man shall swoon at the sight of good
Claret,
While another, tho rack't with the Gout, can't forbear it.
At the sight of a
Punch Bowl will some Men look pale,
Yet lay all their Senses a soaking in
Ale.
[Page 2] Six Men in a Tavern dispor'd to be merry,
Shall drink six sorts of
Wine; the first he drinks
Sherry;
The second to
Clares, makes only pretension,
And the third treats his Palace with
White Wine and
Gentian;
And pale
Rhenish the fourth before all other Wine chuses,
And the fifth thinks
Good Tent is the best of all Juices;
While the sixth Men from all their Opinions does vary,
Pleas'd only with mixture of
Hock and
Canary.
To the Ears of God
Bacchus, that Heathen old Toper,
The Patron of Drunkards, and Foe to the Sober,
The News soon arriv'd, as his
Godship was making
A Jol
[...]s full Bo
[...]l or some gr
[...] Undertaking.
So throwing by
Sugar, Toast, Nutmeg and
Lemons;
Call'd a Council, and presently order'd a
Summons,
Commanding all
Liquors, small, strong, mild and stale,
From the
Juice of the Grape, up to
Adams plain Ale,
To repair to the Hal
[...] of the
Vintners
[...]errestrial,
Where his
Godship bestriding a Hogshead celestial,
Would sit Umpire, and judge in the mighty Convention,
And hear every Liquors Complaint and Pretension.
The Summons receiv'd, each and every
Liquor,
Strove who in Obedience should be the quicker.
When strait from
Vaults, Stare-houses, Cellars and
Arches,
Each
Liquid in haste to the grand Meeting m
[...]rches,
In overgrown
Tuns, Pipes,
[...], Hogsheads and
Barrels,
Puncheons, Kilderkins, Firkins, Gallons, Quarts, or what e're else
Does good moisture contain, rolling through Streets and Allies
With a motion like Ships between
Dover and
Calais.
[Page 3] Till they came to the Court of the
Vintners Hall stately,
Where all in good order to hear the Debate lye.
By a double
Huzzah from the Court of Assistants,
(Which as Authors relate, was heard Twenty Miles distance)
Timely Notice was given,
Mars, Bacchus, Apollo,
And some other brisk
Gods who their Footsteps did follow,
Were descended in Shape of some mortal
Virorum,
To hear the Disputes which were ready before 'em.
But 'fore Tryal began, as our Histories tell us,
God
Bacchus and all his
Celestial Fellows,
Took a gentle
Carouse at the Head of the
But,
Their Judgments to clear when the
Case should be
put.
Proclamation for Silence first made by the Cryer,
Who by birth was a
German, or Fame is a Lyar,
The
God (with a Rosie Wreath circling his Forehead)
In a short pithy Speech but sententious and florid:
Told 'em he for his part, was most heartily sorry,
That Mortals so strangely 'bout Liquors should vary,
And that his sole Errand, as boldly he would say,
Was only to judge of what ev'ry one could say;
And by weighing what Arguments each one pretended,
Give his Sentence that so all Disputes might be ended.
Upon this a loud Uproar was heard in the Hall,
And each for Preheminence loudly did bawl,
With such Clamors the Noise you might hear it a Mile hence,
But Orders were instantly given for Silence:
With a hoarse broken Voice
[...] for to tell how,
That above all the rest he was Heir to the Crown,
As being the Liquor to th' World first was known.
For I am,
Mighty Sir, without mincing the Matter,
The Primitive Liquor the Learned call'd
Water,
Which the Patriarchs
[...] and then 'twas not wondred,
That some Men attain'd to the Age of Nine Hundred;
Whereas now by made Liquors of humane contriving,
Men at Forty or Fifty go out from the Living;
Or else—Hold your prating (says Bacchus
in Fury)
I my self in this Case will be hath Judge and Jury;
And amaz'd as I am at thy fancy Presumption,
With thy Looks pan and man like a generous is Consumption,
To contend for the Palm with these generous Juices,
What Man in his Wits e're for Pleasure thee chuses?
To thy Cistern return, and I charge by strict Rules,
That none ever drink thee but Madmen and Fools.
The Court all approv'd what his
Godship had utter'd,
And
Element vanisht, tho he frown'd stampt and mutter'd;
When
Canary starts up, and in florid Oration,
Gave himself very ample and large Commendation:
How he cherisht the Blood and enliven'd the Spirits,
No other Wines having the half of his Merits;
Nay more, that of all the rich
Wines in the Hall,
His was the most
Catholic Grape of them all
But
Bacchus not pleased with this hussing
Bravado▪
With a Frown quickly silenc'd this Rhotomantado,
Tent and
Muskadine next gan to open their Throats,
And each loudly bawl'd for Major'ty of Votes
Nor was
Alicant wanting to joyn in the Chorus,
And of his great Vertues told many odd Stories,
But
Bacchus well knowing 'twas not very fit,
That a Meal should be made of a Relishing Bit,
Quickly told 'em that he in his Judgment did think,
Cordials ne're were intended for Man's Common Drink.
The next that stood up with a Countenance merry,
Was a pert sort of Wine which the Moderns call
Sherry.
Who told all the Gods that their Votes he not doubted,
Since of late so belov'd scarce a Tavern without it.
Hah,
says Bacchus, as sure as Discharge of a Pistol,
This Dapper young Spark is but knew come from
Bristol:
And told him his Juice, tho the most
Vintners did buy,
It was never esteemed as a Liquor to sit by;
But assur'd him when e're he to
Bristol came down,
He'd take care to create him the
Mayor of the Town.
Skipping over the heads of
Tuns, Hogsheads, and
Barrels,
(On which there had like to have hapned some Quarrels)
A
Red Wine appears, and in Language most pretty,
Told
Bacchus, and all the Assembled Committee,
His Vertues (says Bacchus) but pray Sir what are you,
I am, Mighty Sirs, a new Wine call'd
Red Sherry,
Redsherry? quoth Bacchus, and pray Master Sheeps-head
Where live you?—Why, Sir, at the
Shepherd in
Cheapside.
[Page 6] After which the God took off a large brimming Taster,
And bid him commend his kind Love to his Master,
But told him such precedents never had knowledge,
That a Fresh-man was e're chose the head of his Colledge.
The
Red Wines were next to have spoken in order,
But by bawling and yelping they made such Disorder,
That 'twas presently told by the
Great God of Wine,
They all should give place to the
Grape of the Rhine;
Upon which, in clean Vessel, not tatter
[...]d and shagrag,
Appears
Rhenish, Hock, Old and
Young, Moselle, and
Backrag;
But knowing their Interest-grew weaker and weaker,
They the great
Tun at Heidelburg chose for their Speaker.
Being chosen (says he) Mighty Sir,
to say truly,
Some Palates judicious have own'd or they do lie,
No Wines do the Stomach so highly replenish,
As a Brimmer of Hock,
or a Bumper of Rhenish.
If your Godships can then but approve of the
Rhine Tiff,
Your Verdict we hope you'll give in for the Plaintiff.
Brother Guts, then quoth
Bacchus, methinks you're too quick Sir,
To bespeak our good word for your
German Elixar:
I'le tell you before the Cause come to an end on't,
If we've Ears for the Plaintiff, we've for the Defendant;
Besides I must tell you, ye Sons of the
Rhine,
You'r at best but a kind of
Hermophradite Wine;
For those who of late have carous'd a good Drench,
Do say your part
German, part
Dutch, and part
French.
Till then, by the force of Arms powerful and strong,
I shall be known to what
Prince all your Vineyards belong;
To your several Quarters you all may return,
And so for this time the Debate we adjourn.
The
White Wines were next to the Bar closely pressing,
And
Trusty Langoon to God
Bacchus addressing,
Told his Godship what mighty and great Reputation,
His Liquor had gained in the
English Nation.
That of him ev'ry morning each thirsty poor Sinner,
Took a Pint for a
Whet, to prepare him for Dinner;
And therefore it must be a truth very lasting,
The Wine must be best which the Mortals drink fasting.
In vain then,
quoth Bacchus, we make drinking Laws,
When you are the Wine which still ruins our Cause.
The
Whets you pretend I can never think well of,
You
Whet, but pray what? Don't you whet all the Steel of
The Stomack, and then a Man's ready for drinking,
As much as a Man in a Storm is for thinking;
For he in my Books is the only good Fellow,
In the Morning who's sober, in the Evening who's mellow.
Therefore Mr.
Langoon pray desist from your prating,
And talk no more Nonsence in praise of your
Whetting:
For Ten Mornings Draught Men,
and Whetting young Blades,
Have for one
Evenings Toper gone down to the
Shades.
The
Red Wines together march decently all,
Like a Call of New
Serjeants which go by
Whitehall
In Coats party-colour'd, so these by Extraction,
Were half of them
Spanish, and half the
French Faction.
But in this they agreed all, that since the Word
Claret,
Was so dangerous that
Vintners to name scarcely dare it,
To be freely content to have Names full as many,
As sharping young Bullies,
or City Puncks
any,
[Page 8] Made use to bilk an old Lodging or manage
A
Raw Country Cully as yet in his Non-age.
Hah,
says Bacchus, these look like true Lads of brisk Mettle,
But from whence pray you came all this drove of Red Cattle;
Down
the Gulph, cross
the Alps, or the
Mediterranean;
For ev'ry one looks like a jolly Companion?
We are Mighty Sir, (
the reply'd they) poor Strangers,
Who passing through infinite Hazards and Dangers
Of Pyrates by Sea, and of Robbers by Land,
Came to wait on your
Highness, and hear your Command;
We are call'd Syracuse, Barcelona, Navarre,
And what other hard Names our new Masters prepare,
But let's be of any kind, species, or sort,
We would all be thought
Claret, but nam'd the
Red Port.
Ah,
says Bacchus, how e're you pretend all to flatter,
I doubt there's some Roguery, at th' bottom o'th' matter;
Had you been what you'r not, I protest by this Barrel,
To you, and you only, I'de given the
Lawrel:
For Gods all above, well as Mortals below,
Th' Effects of good
Claret too sensibly know.
For there once was a time, but alas the time's fled,
When a
Punch Bowl gave place to a
Bottle of Red;
When no other Name ran throw
Jove's
Olympic great Hall,
But for
Claret did
Gods and their
Goddesses call;
But since Civil Wars have in
Europe arose,
What's become of the Rich
Burdeau
[...] Claret who knows?
To our hands came a Letter from mortals judicious,
Humbly shewing that
Claret was now grown so vicious,
[Page 9] So counterfeit, poor, pall'd, dull, flat, and insipid,
That scarcely 'tis fitting for Man to lay Lip at,
Unless by strong faith between sleeping and waking,
They would drink a damn'd Wine of the
Vintners own making;
For I'll hear you no more, till it happen that one Day,
The Hogshead I stride in fill'd with
Burgundy.
If such a kind present your Master can raise,
'Tis forty to one I present you the
Bays.
The
Red Wines went mumbling, and grumbling away,
And a jolly full
Punch Bowl came next into play,
When a hollow voice spoke from the bottom o'th' Bowl,
Mighty God of strong Liquors, which cherish the Soul,
Since that Wines are so bad as Old Mortals complain,
Make me King of good Company once more again,
Renew my old Charter and settle my Reign.
Yes, my merry Old Friend,
said the God, 'tmust be own'd,
That thou of all Liquors deserv'st to be Crown'd,
But the Mortals for thee who their Reason would Barter,
Must now be contented to quit their Old Charter.
They who once on thy Liquors did greedily fall on,
Must now pine, since good
Nants is twelve shillings the Gallon.
An Argument which all our Reasons convinces,
Thou'rt a Juice only fit now for
Gods and for
Princes,
And Mortals for want of thee must be contented,
Till
Brandy is Cheaper, or else the Wars ended.
The
Punch Bowl no sooner retir'd or did vanish,
But with grave sober pace and a look
Aldermanish,
[Page 10] Having first made a Rev'rence, to Bar there does come,
From
Brunswick, a fat swinging Barrel of
Mum,
And in stile grave and modest to audience in part does,
Relate his good Qualifications and Vertues:
But
Bacchus considering that that kind of Liquor
Made twenty Heads dull, for one head it made Quicker;
And when Men with that Liquor began to be bowzy,
They always inclin'd to be sleepy and drowzy,
Refus'd him his praises, and what ever might hap,
Thought the
Lawrel lookt scurvily over a
Night-Cap.
The
Mum-cask thus silenc'd, the next that pretended,
Were
Cyder call'd
Redstreak with
Perry attended.
Hah! hah! hah! quoth
God Bacchus what fellows are these?
We are, answer'd they, if your
Godship it please,
The Old
Britains Liquors call'd
Cyder and
Perry,
Which chears up the Spirits, and makes the Heart merry;
And we once in our Lustre and Glory did shine,
Till our Credit was ruin'd by Foreigners Wine.
Those villanous Juices—hold, hold, ye Slaves hold,
With the
Blood of the Grape e're you make but too bold.
Cry'd
Bacchus in passion, how dare you compare
Your balderdash, crabbed, adulterate ware
With the Generous
Grape, who has Vertues such odds,
It can equalize Mortals almost with the
Gods?
U
[...]
[...]y passion no further, but hence get ye skipping,
Ye squeezings of
Pears and the Juices of
Pippin.
No sooner had these slily sneakt out of Court,
But
Mead and
Metheglin strait made their Report.
Made 'em perfectly dumb just like
Cyder and
Perry.
Not Bawds drunk at a Christning, Fish-wives a scolding,
Or Rabble the Tricks of a Jugler beholding,
Could make half such a Clamour or lowder could bawl,
Than the Noise which was suddenly heard in the Hall;
Occasioned by crowding, and heaving, and thrusting,
Of a hundred
Brew'd Liquors with anger half bursting.
About the first Place and Precedence, Priority,
Each of them pretending an equal Authority,
Having first given large Testimonials of Praise
To deprive all the rest of the Honor of Bays.
God Bacchus red-hot now with anger was grown,
To hear such a Clamor so near to his Throne.
By the Stars which adorn my
Great Fathers high way,
What mean you? whence come you? what are you I say?
At which they all open, and each did not fail
To cry out, we are Beer, we are Beer, we are Ale.
This Clamor his
Godship incensed more and more,
And by
Styx and by
Cerberus loudly he swore;
That if each of them did not leave off these disorders,
For
Pluto's black warrant he'd quickly send orders,
Then as mute as dumb Fishes, they all ceas'd their bawling,
And each in submission low, prostrate and falling,
For offending his
Godship their sorrow exprest,
And the tumult now over in
Bacchus his breast,
He then order'd that two should declare for the rest.
Then
Beer'gan to speak. May't with Reverence be spoke,
My self and my brethren most humbly invoke,
Your own, and your
Fellow Gods kind approbation
Of us the best Liquors i' th'
English Nation.
A Drink much applauded, and thought very good,
Not by
English alone, but by Nations abroad;
For 'tis plain that the
French and the
Dutch do prefer,
Before their Rich Wines,
the Bon Beer d' Angleterre;
And both
Monsieur and
Hans will leave
Bourdeaux and
Rhenish,
That their Gats with
good Beer they may fully replenish.
'Tis the Staff of the Aged, and Life of the Young;
Make Weak men grow vigorous, and Lusty more strong.
'Tis—hold, hold,
says Bacchus, no more of your talking,
For 'tis—nay it shall be the thing of your making.
It shall be what you please, like a Juglers paper,
First a Horse, then a Fish, then a Boar, then a Taper:
But since
Ale and your self in the Cause are concern'd,
'Twere but fit that both Pleadings were rightly discern'd;
Therefore speak to the
Ale there, your
twin Brother muddy,
That himself he recover from out his brown study.
With a Countenance foggy,
Dull Ale does appear,
And bowing his
Dropsical Corps to the Bar;
Says I, come mighty Sir, in the name of the rest,
Of my fellow Collegiates to stand to the Test,
By what Names or Titles so ever we're known by,
Or else by what age or complexion we're shown by;
Whether
York, Hull, or
Lincoln, as Parents we own,
Or else brew'd in
Darby, and
Nottingham
[...]own:
Or from
London, or
Southwark, or
Lambeth we come;
We humbly implore since the Wine in the Nation,
Has of late so much lost its once great Reputation;
That such Liquor as ours which is genuine and true,
And which all our Masters so carefully brew,
Which all men approve of, tho 'many drink
Wine,
Yet the
good Oly of Barly there's none will decline:
That we as a body call'd corp'rate may stand,
And a Patent procure from your Seal and your Hand,
That none without Licence, call'd
Special, shall fail,
To drink any thing else, but
Strong Nappy Brown Ale.
At this started
Beer, and soon made some Objections,
To's Brother, not wanting some sawcy Reflections.
But
Bacchus by order soon parted the fray,
And askt 'em if any thing else they could say;
They reply'd that at present they'd utter no more,
But humbly his Favor and Grace did implore.
Then ye Sons of thin Element, Barly and Dry Hops.
How hapned your Thoughts thus to mount on the high ropes?
(
Says Bacchus) to fancy I e're should ever afford.
You my Favor, who scarcely deserve a good Word;
Ye dull, foggy, muddy, flat, spiritless Liquors,
Fit only for
Plowmen, or dull Country
Vicars.
Get you gone to your Cellars, to Vaults hence away,
If a
Crown 'tis you want, 't shall be one made of
Clay.
For did ever a
Poet in writing excel,
Who with dull Beer and Ale made his heavy Panch swell?
[Page 14] What Fancy, what Muse, did you ever inspite,
You are Sons of the Earth, not the Offspring of Fire.
When Statesmen have held a Committee, or Council,
Durst either of you but tread over the Groundsel
Good Wine has been suffre'd bear the Debate;
Which without it had been unactive and flat.
But why on such vermin my breath do I spend,
Who dare with the Juice of the Grape to contend▪
When
Carmen and
Porters are Judges of sence,
Perhaps I may bear you, till when get you hence▪
At command, the last Liquors in Droves went away,
And none but
Cock Ale did behind the rest stay:
The Court at his impudence gun for to scoff,
And askt why he staid, when the rest were troopt off?
The I am not so vain to pretend to the Bans,
(
Answer'd he) yet I will not be robb'd of my praise.
For 'tis but a truth, which is very well known,
How much I'm belov'd by the
Sparks of the Town,
And their
Mistresses too, who 'fore Wine me prefer,
When they meet at a Hoarse very near
Temple ban
What precious intre
[...]gues could
[...] Pimpship discover,
Between a Town Jilt, and a
[...] young Lover.
But
mum—you may call me a saw
[...]y young Prig,
If I can't have the
Bays, I'll at least have a Sprig,
Then
Bacchus confidering 'twould be very
[...]ard,
If Boldness like his should not meet with reward
Fearing impudence would
[...] last bring hi
[...] to th' Gallows,
Made him
Page of the Back Stairs to his drunken Palace.
Small Beer whilst the others so loudly did bawl,
Went sneaking and santring all over the Hall;
And to speak for his goodness was very unwilling,
Since the Cloths on his back were but all worth
Six Shilling.
Tho he took it in dudgeon, and thought it was hard,
To be pinch'd and abus'd by th'
Yeomen o' th' Guard.
Which so often was done that a Quarrel arose,
And
Bacchus himself did i' th' fray interpose.
But how angry he was when his Godship did hear,
That the Quarrel was only 'bout paltry
Small Beer,
So before for himself he could make his report,
He was threatned a Pumping, and kickt out of Court.
Then the
Coffee-house Liquors began for to swarm,
And came up to Bar, some cold, and some warm.
Says Bacchus, how happen'd it that in these doors,
Came this Crew of
half sober, half drunk Sons of Whores?
But since they are here let 'em make their report,
For perhaps it may give some diversion to th' Court.
Then touching his
Turbant by way of Respect,
Stood up
Coffee, and spoke to this kind of effect;
That when men overheated by
Wine and Debauches
Had gotten their Loads, and were drunker than Roaches,
By his pow'r they their sence would recover again,
And no longer be Brutes, but approve themselves Men.
Why then Mr.
Coffee, in true sober sadness,
Says Bacchus, you think that all drinking is madness;
[Page 16] But I know and am sure, when men part with their Reason,
Tho Nonsence they talk, yet they never think Treason;
But in drinking of thee, Men too oft frame a Plot,
Which costs them their Necks—so be silent you Sot.
The next that attempted to put in his Plea,
Was a Drink much admir'd by the Ladies, call'd
Tea.
But the Court plainly saw how he trifled and fool'd,
So without much debate was his Plea over-rul'd.
Then up to the Bar with a Countenance bold,
Came another Tea Liquor by Moderns call'd
Cold,
But
Bacchus soon found by acquaintance with Spirits,
He lately had lost very much of his merits.
For a Man would soon find should he walk the Town round,
Good Brandy, like Honesty, hard to be found.
Then the Ladies
and Sparks
admir'd Drink Chocolate,
In words very modish began a short prate.
How he cherisht the Spirits, and tickled the Blood,
And to make the Back strong was undoubtedly good.
Hah! says Bacchus, what Pimp of a Liquor is this?
With the Cherish and Tickle you may if you please,
Be to Streets of
St. Albans, and
Bridget be jogging,
For if longer you stay have a care of a flogging.
He is only my Fav'rite, and true
Bully Rock,
When he hugs a
Half Flask, crys a
Fig for the Smock,
Rosa Solis spoke next, but he quickly gave o're,
By
Bacchus struck dumb for a Son of a Whore.
[Page 17] All Liquors by accident pimp and perswade,
But he and some others were Pimps by their Trade.
Whue by Chreesht my Dear Joy, by Shaint
Patrick my Shoul,
Usqueb
[...]gh
then set up with an Irish Howl.
Pridee
Bacchush, if that be thy own Chreeshen Name,
For thou hast a Swheet fauce, and I poor Teague came
To make a Petishion upon thy sweet Grash,
That 'mongst other Liquors I may ha a Plaush:
This silly Expression made all the Court smile,
Thou hast it (
says Bacchus) and this is thy Stile:
Thou'rt the
Aetna of Juices, a
Damn'd Liquid fire,
Hence,
Teaguelander, hence, now thou hast thy desire.
The Court now began to appear very thin,
And nothing like Liquor about it was seen,
But two or three Vessels who speechless did crawl,
And at last, like cast Clients, crept out of the Hall.
Now all things were silent,
The God started up,
And taking of
Nectar Celestial a Cup,
To his Fellow Gods drank, and concluded the Session,
With this pithy short Speech, and ingenuous Confession.
You see
Brother Deities, what a Contention,
There is amongst Liquors of humane Invention;
That 'tis vain should I strive for to end the Contest,
Or nicely determine which Liquor is best.
Let each Mortal his skinful most soberly drink
Of the Liquor he likes, or what best he does think;
[Page] But yet let him always
[...]
To fill what he drinks, and to drink what he fill
[...].
The
Deities all, by a
treble Haz
[...],
Approv'd of the verdict that
Bacchus did say,
And in Chariot of Clouds they th
[...]n vanisht away.
A FAREWEL TO WINE.
I.
TEmpt me no more, I swear I will not go:
As soon you may in Winters deepest Snow,
Perswade me
Tenariff to climb,
Or into
Aetna's scorching flame,
My Mortal Carcass throw,
As to a
Tavern go—I hate the Name.
There was indeed my Friend, there was a time,
When to avoid the hurry, noise, and strife,
With the tumultuous Cares of Life,
[Page] We in an Evening o're a
Bottle met,
And while the tempting flowing Glass,
Did round about in order pass,
Conferr'd we Notes of Pleasure, Love and Wit,
The Wine then was—would a dull Muse inspire,
Make Blockheads witty, Cowards bold;
And in the bloodless, wither'd, old
Men of Threescore blow vp a youthful
[...]
II.
But no
[...]—with what regret the
[...] name,
The
Wine we drink is now no more the
[...]me,
In former happy days it was,
Than can a Man of Ninety Nine be said,
With Withered Limbs and hoary Head,
To be the self-same Creature as,
He was at Fourteen Years of Age.
No, no, the vigorous Heat, the Spirit's gone:
The
Wine with which we now engage,
Has not that body;
[...] or age,
It had before the War beg
[...]n,
It either chills the blood—or puts it in a flame.
III.
What arts my friend you have? What tricks you use?
My easy Temper to seduce.
Methinks a
Tavern Door I enter in,
With such unwillingness as when
a Maid,
By Oaths and
Promises betraid,
Does venture on the
Pleasing Sin.
But here most solemnly I vow,
Not to exceed a Glass or two:
No
Bumpers shall your Friendship fill me,
One Glass, if
Aqua fortis, would not kill me.
IV.
Some Claret
Boy— Indeed Sir we have none.
Claret Sir—Lord there's not a Drop in Town;
But we've the best Red Port—
What's that you call
Red Port?—a Wine Sir comes from
Portugal,
I'll fetch a Pint Sir,—Do make haste you Slave,
In things of sence what mighty faith some have,
To give their healths up to a Vintners Boy,
Who with one
Dash perhaps can it destroy;
And when the threatning
Gout. or
Fever comes,
To
Quack in
Velvet Coat,
Who all his Learning has by
roat,
To purchase Health again give lib'ral Sums.
V.
Pray taste your Wine Sir,—Sir, by your good favor,
I'll view it first, and nose its flavor;
Is this the Wine you so commend?
Pray look upon't my
dearest Friend,
It looks almost as brown and yellow,
As is the face of warlike Fellow,
Who has for seven Campaigns in
Flanders lain,
Observe, observe it once again;
See how
Ten Thousand Attoms dance about the Glass,
Of
Eggs, and
Lime, and
Iseinglass:
Mark how it smells, methinks a real pain,
Is by its odor thrown upon my brain.
I've tasted it—'tis spiritless and flat,
And has as many different tastes,
As can be found in
compound pastes,
In
Lumber Pye, or soporisrous
Methridate.
VI.
Sir, If you please, I'll a fresh Hog shead peirce.
Peirce your own head you
Dog—which now contains,
Maggots and
Lies, instead of
Brains.
What other
Wines you brewing Ass,
Have you; you would for
Clarets pass?
Speak quickly come their names rehearse.
A Glass of Wine with our
Navarre,
And then for Barcelona, Syracuse,
Or Carcavella
now so much in use,
With rich Gallicia
Wine a mighty Store,
Florence
and—hold you prating Whelp, no more,
But fetch us up a Pint of any sort,
Navarre, Galicia, any thing but
Port.
Yes Sir—These nimble Rogues of Flippant Talk,
How merrily their Tongues can walk.
As sure as
Moral Certainty,
The
Vintners have some
needy Spark in Fee,
T' invent hard names for all their Wines, that so,
They off more quick, and currantly may go.
VII.
Come Boy the Wine—
I hope 'twill please you Sir,
No question on't—Come
of all Saints to th' Mother,
A Health—Pox take it, this is worse than t' other:
From this Floors Center may I never stir,
If 'tis not sweet, and sowre, and hot, and smells
Of Brimstone, or of something else.
Wine do you call this poysnous Drink,
They'r quite besides their wits I think;
'Tis
Florence, Port, Navarre, and all together,
For
Bacchus Boys, is not this lovely weather?
Here, take your Money for your (
Stuff call'd)
Wine,
Which from this time I utterly decline.
VIII.
You see my Friend, these
Rogues by their pretences,
How they impose
[...] our very Sences:
And we a Price extravagant allow,
For that Damn'd
[...] which in their Vaults they brew,
Which Mystery
[...] throughly knew,
Sooner we'd leap into
[...]
Thames or
Severn,
Than Venture on the
[...] in any
Tavern.
FINIS.