Sot's Paradise: OR, The HUMOURS of a Derby-Ale-House: WITH A SATYR UPON THE ALE.
The Second Edition.
LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1699.
THE PRINTER TO THE READER
REader what e'er the
Author truly meant
I know not, but he told me his intent
Was not to Lampoon, or Reflect on any;
But thro' Necessity he writ, like many,
In
Pinch-Gut Times, to get the
Ready Penny.
Suppose
(said I) you've anger'd some Bravado,
I hate the standing of a Bastinado?
Poh, poh, said he,
such Dangers never heed,
I'de such a Cockscomb Ridicule indeed,
Each Sentence should have Gaul
and Venom
in't,
Which you, to recompence your Drubs, shall print:
Mortals have oft, to their distruction, found,
Poets,
like Gods,
can at a distance Wound.
I thank you Sir
(said I) such Verse, I doubt,
S'But a poor Plaister for a batter'd Snout.
He prest the Copy forward, I seem'd shie,
Till by these words he brought me to comply.
The Characters are random writ, God knows,
Slightly dispatch'd; design'd, like Salesmens
Cloaths,
For no one in particular, but where
They best by chance shall fit, for them to wear.
Nay then,
said I, if any Sot can find
His Picture here, and not as his design'd,
And Angry be, I'll hire the Author then,
To whet his Wits, and Write as Keen again:
Since I can justly say (to save my Bacon)
I no Offence intend, I pray let none be taken.
Sot's Paradise: OR, The HUMOURS of a Derby-Ale-House,
WHEN anxious Thoughts my troubled Brains possest,
And the wild Hag rid straddling o'er my Breast,
Loaded with Sorrow, I pursu'd my rest.
My Pockets far too empty were for
Wine.
That
Noble Juice! That
Cordial of the
Vine!
By
Humane Race so justly held
Divine.
To ease my Cares I stumbl'd into
R—'s,
Sots Paradise, so Fam'd of latter days;
For
Derby-Ale, it bears away the
Bays.
Thro' Entry dark I th'
Tippling Mansion sought,
Whose close Dimensions rais'd a Jealous thought
I'd been
Trappan'd and in a
Mouse-Trap caught.
Like
Weesel thro' a Cranny thus I crept;
And as he
Screams, so I a
Murm'ring kept;
Now Paus'd and Swore, then Gropt, and forward step't.
Through stumbling craggy Ways the Godly steal
To Heaven, whence I concluded, without fail,
This narrow Path must lead to Heavenly Ale.
But in this
Pot-gun Passage did I meet
A bulky
Sot, who forc'd me to Retreat;
And shot me, like a Pellat, to the Street.
I gain'd the Barr by several Essays,
Where mourning Widow sat with doleful Face;
And on each Hand a Room, but ne'er a Place.
I turn'd to th' Left, and did amongst them squeese,
There heard some
Belch, some
Fart, and others
Sneeze;
Buzzing and Humming like a Hive of Bees.
This Room I did for Ease and Cleanness chuse,
The
Chappel call'd, from having
Seats like
Pews,
Where grizled
Sots sit nodding o'er the
News.
With painful jostling I a Place possest,
Sat down, then
Belch'd and
Farted like the rest,
Thump'd with my Fist, and cry'd I broke a Jest.
In comes a Female Tapstress, Pale and Wan,
Sod'n with the fumes of what she'd Drank and Drawn,
Looks worse than the green Girl who wants a Man.
Sir do you please, I pray, to have your Ale
Drawn New, or with a little dash of Stale?
I gave her answer, and she soon turn'd Tail.
One sage old Bard next Chimney Nook was got,
Fix'd as a
Statue, motionless he sat,
His Eyes regarding neither Who nor What.
This speechless Image most I did admire,
No
Derby could this Mortal Lump Inspire,
Who like Old Puss, sat Purring o'er the Fire.
One whim he had was often put in play,
By Name salute this Monumental Clay,
He Huffs and Puffs, starts up and runs away.
Then in thrusts one, strives hard to get a Place;
Witty in Words, and Satyr in his Face,
Thus boldly speaks in
Derby-Ales disgrace.
Pox on't, said he,
I Yesterday stept in,
And drank Nine Tankards to divert my Spleen,
It fail'd, and now I'm come to drink Nineteen.
At Squire
's I heard a Beaux
so Damn and Sink it,
Four Tankards numb'd his Wits, you wou'd not think it;
He swore we all are Clod-skul'd Sots who drink it.
This much disgruntl'd all the swilling Herd,
Who grin'd, and at him enviously star'd,
In answer not a Mortal wag'd his Beard.
One Gapes, a second Nods, a third he Winks,
A fourth he Smoaks, a fifth blows Pipe and Drinks,
Not One in Ten that either
Talks or
Thinks,
Thus seldom
Speak unless 'tis to complain
Of Phthisick, Stone, the Gout, or some old Pain
That grieves them sorely, when the Moon's i'th'
Wane.
Here worn-out
Sinners at their Ails repine,
(The Herd thus sympathetically joyn)
All Grunting o'er their
Hogwash-Ale like
Swine.
Up rises now and then, a brawny
Sot,
Before the Fire he turns his Arse about,
Hauks up his Flegm, then Spitting staggers out.
With me this smoaky Clime did not agree,
These
Sots too Grave were, that's too Dull, for me;
No Talk is worse than much Loquacity.
Willing to take a General
Survey,
T▪ observe the
Difference in
Mortal Clay,
I stole from thence, to the next Room made way.
This call'd the
Bear-Garden, where at a Table
I heard, amongst a wild Promiscuous
Rabble,
More
Tongues confus'd then ere were known at
Babel.
A
Beau repeating to his friend a
Novel,
Two
Lawyers in
Dispute began to
Cavel,
A fifth, with Chalk, was scoring out an
Oval.
And, being as cunning as a
Hocus Pocus,
Had laid a Wager with a
John a
Nokus,
He'd with a
Thred and
Pins find out the
Focus.
A
Scholar, next, of
Batchelor's Degree,
Standing four Years at
Ʋniversitie,
Rose up and flung a
Witticism at me.
I lik'd the
Sport, and did retort the same;
I
hit him
Home according to my
Aim;
But could not get his
Hair Brain'd fury tame.
So
Learn'd he seem'd, so
Witty in
Discourse,
He'd hold me all the
Money in his
Purse,
Tho' I seem'd
Man, he'd prove me but a
Horse.
I gravely said it did his
Skill surpass,
And, in return, I instanc'd him a
Case
Wherein a
Scholar prov'd himself an
Ass.
He smelt a
Rat, and found he was mistaken,
Shut up his
Brains, true knowledge had forsaken,
And dwindl'd into
News to save his
Bacon.
A
little Captain, tho' of
great Renown,
Cock'd up his Hat, swore
Zoons; and then sat down,
Out-chatter'd all the
Magpies in the Town.
He talk'd of
Heros, Hectors, and Bravadoes,
Of
Gashes, Slashes, Cuts, and
Carbonadoes,
Of
Cannons, Mortars, Bombs and
Hand Granadoes.
The
Valiant Pigmy, eagre to declare
His
Broils in
Taverns, not
Exploits in
War,
Teas'd me with
Nonsence more than I could bear.
The
Di'lect he retain'd he learn'd at Nurse,
And that his
Words might be of greater force,
He tagg'd each
Sentence with an
Oath or
Curse.
A
Dapper Blade was Squeez'd among the rest,
Who would have made each
Word he spoke a
Jest;
Aim'd at
much Wit, but
little he possest.
Like
Ill Rung Bells he did
Confus'dly Nock
His
Ill Tun'd Words to hammer out a
Joak,
Whose
Tongue out-run the
Larum of a
Clock.
This
Mortal prov'd a
Midnight Magistrate,
Who ask's us,
Why so drunk, and why so late?
Little in
Person, tho' in
Office Great.
He Huckles much, tho' what by that he means,
Let
Oldish, Shirley, or such Learned Brains,
T' inform the World, imploy their Skilful Pens.
Next sat a
Drone, whose VVits had but a Dull-Edge,
His
Gravity and nice
Grammatick Knowledge,
Spoke him some Senior
Cock's comb of a
Colledge.
He Learned Reasons offer'd unto some,
VVhy
Gerounds end in
di, in
do, or
dum,
They grave attention gave, and sat
hum Drum.
Next him a Spark bedaw'd with Golden Twine,
So very
Grave, and eke so very
Fine,
I took him for some
Statesman on Design.
Some humble
Lord, so generously free,
Seeking
Applause and
Popularity,
Came here to Court the good
Mobility.
I turn'd about, and view'd him for a space,
No Sword he'd on, and in his
Mein no Grace,
Dulness instead of
Grandure in his Face.
My Judgment err'd, I quickly found its failure,
No
Honour in his Speech, in's Looks no
Valour,
A
Lord, thought I! Wounds, this must be a
Taylor.
When e're he spoke, it matter was of fact,
So Emphatical his Words, and so compact,
No
Strowling Player could be more exact.
Against him
Teague, an
Irish Barber sat,
Who has a Thousand Whimsies in his Pate,
Makes
Wigs, tunes
Bagpipes, does the Lord knows what.
By chance, said I,
What is't a Clock I Pray?
After some time he'd study'd what to say,
He Answer'd,
By my Shoul 'tis Shaturday.
Each loving each, as truly as a Brother,
In all things act alike,
Speak, Drink and
Smother,
Delight, as
Monkeys, to
Buffoon each other.
Like the
Twin-Stars, these two United are
It's no great matter whether both appear,
If you see one, in him the other's there.
The
Ale at last to these weak Noddles stole,
Supply'd the want of
Brains in every
Skull,
And made them
Merry, tho' it made me
Dull.
The
Taylor begg'd of his
Reverse a
Tune,
Teague for his
Bagpipes sent, and fix'd his
Drone,
Then Play'd
Dundee's Farwel, and Sung
O hone.
This pleas'd the
Mob, and made them hoop and hollow,
As when the
Brindled Dog, against the
Fallow,
Pins down the
Bull, and makes him Roar and Bellow.
I Teas'd and Tir'd with this
Bear-Garden Play,
In doleful dumps did for Ten Tankards Pay,
And
Sick not
Drunk I homewards steer'd my way.
A SATYR UPON Derby-Ale.
BASE and Ignoble Flegm, dull DERBY-ALE,
Thou canst o'er none but Brainless
Sots prevail;
Chokes them if
New, and
Sowr art if
Stale.
Thou drown'st no Care, or do'st thou Elevate;
Instead of quenching Drouth, do'st Drouth create,
Makes us dull
Sots at an expensive rate.
Old English Ale, which Upstart Fops disdain
Brew'd by our Grandsires, Chear'd the Heart of Man,
Quench'd Drouth with pleasure, and prolong'd their Span.
But thou!
Poor Slime, thou art not
Ale, for why?
Thou neither Cheares the Heart, or Brisks the Eye;
The more we Drink the more we still are Dry.
Rare Fat'ning
Swill, to Belly up Lean Guest,
It feeds a Man in fix Months to a Beast,
And gives him bulk for a
Church-Ward'n at least.
Puff'd up with thee, Dispirited, Debas'd,
We into
Gray's-Inn reel (O Pump be prais'd)
There Quench that Drouth thy Treacly Dregs have rais'd.
One hearty Draught prepares for Pipe of Funk,
Three Tankards whets my Appetite for Punk,
Four makes me Sick; but Ten wont make me Drunk.
O'er
Nipperkins of thee six Hours I sit,
Till spent my Total, and benum'd my Wit,
Thus nothing have, and just for nothing fit.
Our Wits, or Thoughts, thou never canst advance
Above th' affairs of
Poland, or of
France,
Wounds! Thou'rt a Booby to a Cup of
Nantes.
Thou'rt fit for those who are from Troubles free,
Thou Cur'st no
Spleen thou art unfit for me,
I'd's live almost drink
Adam's Ale as thee.
Thou mak'st us Fat in little time, 'tis true,
The same will
Swins-Flesh and
Potatoes do;
They covet Flesh, not Brains, that follow you.
Thou Noble Ale! Mere Caudle, and unfit
For Men of Care to drink or Men of Wit,
Poor
English Coffee for a ploding
Cit.
Guzzle for Carmen, Foggy and unfine,
For nothing fit but to Exhaust our Coin,
Water to Brandy, and small-Beer to Wine.
Forgive my drowsy Muse where e'er she nods,
She's not Inspir'd or Tutor'd by the Gods,
She Rhimes o'er
Ale, others o'er
Wine, that's odds.
What if you say she's Dull, it's no great matter,
Cross Muddy Ale's a heavy Theam for Satyr,
Tom Brown be judge, or honest
Ben Bridgewater.
FINIS.