THe Pot-Companion Poet is the Dregs of wit, yet mingled with good Drink, may have some Relish, his inspirations are more reall then others, for they do but feign a God, but he has his by him, his verses run like the Tap, and his in­ventions as the Barrell, ebbs and flowes at the mercy of the Spiggot, in Thin drink he aspires not above a Ballad, but a cup of Sack inflames him, and sets his muse and nose a fire together; the Presse is his mint, and stamps him now [Page] and then a six-pence or two, in regard of the baser coyn his Pamphlet, his works would scarce sell for three halfe pence, though they are oftentimes given for three shillings, but only for the pre­ty title that allures the Country Gentle­men, and for which the Printer main­tains him in Ale a whole fortnight, his verses are like his cloaths, miserable Centos and Patches; yet their pace is not altogether so hobling as an Alma­nack. The death of a great man, or the burning of a house doth furnish him with an Argument, and the 9. muses are out straight in mourning Gowns, and Melpomine cryes fire, fire; his other Po­ems are but brief in ryme, and like the poor Greeks Collections, to redeem him from captivity; he is a man now much imployed in commendations of our Navie, and a bitter inveigher against the Spanyard; his frequents works go out in single sheets, and are fomed in every part of the City, and then chanted from Market to Market, to a vile tune, and a worse throat, while the poor Countrey [Page] wench melts like her butter to hear them, and these are the stories of Sam men of Tyburn, or some strange Mon­ster, or a notorious lye out of Germanie, or sitting in a Baudy-house: he writes Gods Judgments, and ends at the last in some obscure painted cloth, to which himself made the verses, and his life is like a Can too full, spills upon the bench. But in conclusion, leaves twenty shillings on the score, which my Ho­stesse must lose.

THe Kitchin is his Hell, and he the Divell in it; where his meat and he fryes together, his Reve­nues are showr'd down from the fat of the Land, and he interlards his own grease among it to helpe the dripping, Cholerick he is, not by Nature so much as by Art; and it is a shred temptation, his Chopping-knife lyes so neer him; his offensive weapons are a messe of hot Broth, or scalding water: and wo be to him that comes in his way. In the Kit­chin he domineers and rules the Rost, in spight of who says nay, and Curses is the very dialect of his calling; his la­bour is meer blustering and fury, and [Page] his Speech like that of Saylors in a storm, a thousand businesses at once, yet in all this tumult he does not love combustion, but will be the first man that will go and quench it; he is never good Christian till a hissing pot of ale hath shakt him like water cast on a fire-brand, and for that time he is tame and dispossest, his cunning is not smale in Architecture; for he builds strange Fabricks in Paste, Towers, and Castles, which are offered to the assault of va­liant Teeth, and like Darius his Palace, in one Banquet demolisht. He is a pitti­lesse murder of Innocents, and mangles poor souls with unheard of Tortures, and it is thought the Martyrs Persecu­tion were devised from hence? Sure, we are St. Laurence his Grid-iron, came out of his Kitchin; his best faculty is at the Dresser, where he seems to have great skill in the Tracticks, ranging his Dishes in Order Military, and placing with great discretion in the fore-front meats more strange and hardy, and the [Page] more cold and cowardly in the Rear; As quaking Tarts, and quavering Cu­stards, and such milksop Dishes, which scape many times the fury of the En­counter. But now the second course is gone up, and he down into the Cellar, where he drinks and sleeps till four a clock in the Afternoon, and then re­turns again to his Regiment.