A Satyr against Brandy.

FArewel damn'd Stygian Juyce, that dost bewitch,
From the Court Bawd, down to the Country Bitch;
Thou Liquid Flame, by whom each fiery Face
Lives without Meat, and blushes without Grace,
Sink to thy Native Hell to mend the Fire,
Or if it please thee to ascend yet higher,
To the dull Climate go, from whence you came,
Where Wit and Courage do require your Flame;
Where they Carouse it in Vesuvian Bowls,
To crust the Quagmire of their spungy Souls:
Had Dives for thy schorching Liquor cry'd;
Abraham in Mercy had his suit deny'd;
Had Bonner known thy force, the Martyrs Blood
Had hiss'd in thee, and sav'd the Nations Wood:
Essence of Ember, scum of melting flint,
With all the Native sparkles floating in't;
Sure the Hack-Chymist with his Cloveh foot,
All AEtna's simples in one Lymbeck put,
And double still'd, nay quintescenc'd thy Juyce,
To charcoal Mortals for his future use.
Fire-ship of Nature, thou dost doubly wound,
For they that graple thee, are burnt and drown'd:
Gods past and future Anger breath in you
A Deluge and a Conflagration too.
View yonder Sott, I do not mean Sh—
Grilled all o're, by thee, from head to foot,
His greasie Eye-lids shoar'd above their pitch,
His Face with Carbuncles, and Rubies rich,
His Scull instead of Brains supply'd with Cinder,
His Nose turns all his Handkerchiefs to Tinder;
His Stomach don't concoct, but bake his Food,
His Liver even vitrefies his Blood;
His trembling hand scarce heaves his Liquor in,
His Nerves all cracle under's Parchment Skin;
His Guts from Natures drudgery are freed,
And in his Bowels Salamanders breed.
The moveing Glass-house lightens with his Eyes,
Singes his Cloaths, and all his Marrow frys,
Glows for a while, and then in Ashes dyes.
Thus like a sham Promethius we find,
Thou stol'st a Fire from Hell, to kill Mankind.
But stay, least I the Saints dire Anger merit,
By stinting their Auxilliary Spirit.
I am inform'd, whate're we wicked think,
Brandy's reform'd, and turn'd a godly Drink
Thou'st left thy old bad Company of Vermin,
The swearing Porters, and the drunken Carmen;
And the new drivers of the Hackney Coaches,
And now takst up with fage discreet debauches;
Thou freely dropst upon Gold Chains, and Furr,
And Sots of Quality thy Minions are.
No more shalt thou foment an Ale-house brawl,
But the more sober Riots of Guild-Hall;
Where by the Spirits fallible Direction,
We Reprobates once pol'd for an Election:
If this trade hold, what shall we Mortals do,
The Saints Sequester even our Vices too.
For since the Art of Whoring's grown precise,
And Perjury has got demurer Eyés,
'Tis time, high time to circumcise the Gill,
And not let Brandy be Philistian still.

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