The MISCHIEF OF Intemperance. Occasioned by the DEATH OF A Young Gentleman, Who shortned his Days by Immoderate Drinking.
— Facit Indignatio Versum.
Wine is a Mocker, and Strong Drink is Raging, and whosoever is deceiv'd thereby is not wise,
Prov. 20. v. 1
LONDON, Printed for J. Deacon, and are to be Sold by Godfrey Bouchier, Book-Seller and Book-Binder in Peterborough, 1691.
THE MISCHIEF OF INTEMPERANCE.
‘Jeremiah, 9th. Ver. 1. Oh that my Head were Waters, and mine Eyes a Fountain of Tears, that I might weep day and night, for the slain of the Daughter of my People.’
WHat though I dip my Pen in briny Tears?
I know I shall but merit Scoffs and Jeers;
Since he that doth God's Image blind, 'tis known,
He must unwillingly behold his own:
Though Reason tells him he should wash his Face,
Rather than thus to quarrel with his Glass,
Which truly represents him as he is;
Draw back the Curtain then, and it is this:
God stamp't on Man his Image, and his Feature,
That Man may own his God, and God his Creature.
But he by Sin this Image hath deface't,
Stamping thereon, the Signature of Beast.
And so his Soul below a Beasts is sunk,
Since no Man ever knew that Beasts were drunk;
But if that Beasts they should be drunken, then
Men would not act like Beasts, but Beasts like Men;
Excepting sinful Man, Who ever saw,
The Creatures deviate from Natures Law?
Frogs croak like Frogs, and pritty Birds do sing
Their constant Notes, to complement the Spring:
But Man, the Darling of the God above,
The Object of His Wisdom, Goodness, Love;
Who's fix't the Lamp of Reason in his Breast,
That he may follow God, and lead the Beast;
Heir of the Gifts of Nature, and of Grace,
By which he looks his Maker in the face,
Bearing his Impress printed on his Breast,
That being God-like, God-like may be blest.
'Tis he alone that doth betray his Trust,
By being impious, and withal unjust:
And so to give the Creatures what's their Due,
They are our Preachers, and Accusers too;
Speaking to us, as once did Balaam's Ass,
In such like Language, and in such like Phrase,
We bear your Burdens (Men) both out and in,
But must we bear the Burden of your Sin?
We labour for your Needs, not your Excess,
And do supply your Wants, not Wantoness:
We are your Vassals then, and you may use us.
Why do you strike us? Why do you abuse us?
And by your Sin, pervert the ends of Nature,
Sining against your God, your selves your Creature.
God gave Men Feet, that they may stedfast walk,
Reason to guide, and Speech to grace their Talk:
But Sin transforms the Man, and makes him reel,
And where the Head should stand, there stands the Heel.
The Tongue no less when liquored and wet,
Becomes as much unstable as the Feet.
Since all the Chat is but an empty Tale,
Got of the Froth, and Foamings of the Ale.
Little of Christian Morals here abounds,
Little of Christ, base Swearing by his Wounds.
Feuds, Clamors, Bick'rings, Frauds, and all that shame us,
Nothing of God, except it be God Damm-us:
And thus the empty Casks do make a Noise,
As wanting Reasons Ballast, and her Poize.
These Follies do impair our Health no less,
Than here they do expose our Nakedness;
They dig an early Grave, prepare a Pit,
For him who least of all prepares for it.
Sometimes he strives his Comrades to out-brave,
And courting Death, rides gallop to a Grave.
Sometimes his angry Sword dissects a spout,
By which, Death enters in, and Life goes out;
Sometimes his Steed, grudging to bear the Pack,
Both of the Sin, and Rider on his back;
Commits him to a Mercy rarely found,
Stepping between the Stirrop and the Ground.
As Men for Drink are to the Stocks confind,
For to reduce them to a sober Mind,
Experience likewise tells him how he locks,
And fettereth his Feet in Gouty Stocks.
And then his pungent Dolours makes him feel,
How Pain doth take the Pleasure by the Heel,
Who can't be wean'd from sucking of the Tap,
But makes a Cask on's Carcass; 'tis his hap,
For to be tapped too, and by that Spout,
Both Life, as well as Liquor runneth out.
Sometimes the stiptick Liquors meet in one,
So petrifie and knead into a Stone,
Which grating on the Bladder, doth become
The only Stone that shapes him out a Tomb:
An Apoplexy knocks him on the head,
He's sometimes by an Asthma strangled;
Oft in a Dropsie drown'd, as oft expires,
By sullen, silent, hidden, Hectick Fires;
And so he doth the Devils Martyr burn,
Making his Pitcher to become his Urn:
Sometimes a Lethurgy beguiles his Reason,
And shuts him in a dark and dismal Prison,
Wreathing the Poppey Garland on his head,
Whose steams both Soul and Body over-spread;
Locking the Gates of Sense as well as Reason,
And so the Captive dyeth in his Prison:
Sometimes a Quinzy makes him change his Note,
Choak'd by a Grape-stone, sticking in his Throat;
So by a Paralitick Fit he feels,
As Death is in his Hands, so at his Heels:
For so a House that shakes and totters, all
Conclude, though under-propt, that it will fall:
These Maladies do from our Lusts proceed,
And Vermine-like, on putrid Matter breed;
And so as Lice do on their Masters feed,
Thus sprightly Liquors often burst the Tun,
And kills as sure, though not so soon as Gun,
So breaks the Glass before the Sand be run:
So have I seen the Sun extend his Beams,
And by imbibing moist and foggy steams,
Contract a sable Frontlet on his head,
And so at Mid-day steal away to Bed.
Intemperance no less contracts a shrowd,
Causing our Sun to set within a Cloud;
Which too too often doth presage, what may
Become the Fate of the succeeding Day.
And thus we steal away from human sight,
Nor bid our selves good Morrow, nor good Night;
And so the Lamp of Nature doth expire,
Quench't by the Oyl that should maintain the Fire:
Thus Men into the other State are hurl'd,
Before they know their Errand in this World;
Unfit for th' other World, unfit for this,
Unfit for Business, and unfit for Bliss.
And so in both Worlds doom'd to Misery,
Unfit to live, and more unfit to dye.
If after all, the Sinner still survives,
It is the Sin, and not the Man that thrives;
And then be sure, he can't from Judgment fly,
Except his God, or else his Soul can dye:
Nor do these Charming Pleasures, thus combine,
To wound the Body only, but the Mind;
Attempting on us what the Scriptures say,
That Jael once did unto Sisera;
She Courted him with Words as soft as silk,
To come and drink of her Inchanted Milk;
Then cov'ring him, she laid him fast for dead,
By driving home the Nail into his Head.
Thus Pleasures by intoxicating Charms,
Lulls us asleep, in their bewitching Arms;
Contracting on our Heads a cloudy scrowle,
Then nails the Body fast unto the Soul;
By which the Soul incurs her fatal Doom,
Craving the Body only for a Tomb:
Thus Souls do dye, by being downward prest,
And locked fast within the Bodies Chest;
Nor can they in this wretched state prevail,
To move beyond the Confines of a Jayl;
Nor can they Truth from Falsehood ever know,
Nor what is Good and Evil here below,
But what the Senses judges to be so.
Nor do we heed what should concern us most,
Not conscious to our selves that we are lost:
The bodies Malady is soon espy'd,
Soon felt, and soon the Remedy's apply'd.
But in Distempers that affect the Mind,
The Party most concern'd, is sadly blind,
And deadly sick, though in appearance, well,
Sleeping securely at the Gates of Hell.
Thus Man is lost within himself, and can
But by a Metaphor be called Man,
Spoyl'd of his Faculties, and of his Frame,
And is but Man in Anagram and Name;
So Houses oft are in their Ruines seen,
And what they are not, speak what they have been.
Look what that Serpent was that did deceive,
Our Father Adam, and our Mother Eve;
The same of tempting Pleasure may be said,
By which our souls are gull'd, and thus betray'd;
It is that Serpent here in Masquerade,
Which loves in tempting Coverts for to lye,
Tracing the steps of all that passeth by;
Shewing his speckled Coat, and spangled Skin,
Gaudy without, but Venome all within;
With creeping courtship, and with charming smiles,
With curling circles, and with twisting wiles,
He steals upon us, hoping to prevail,
First twining in his head, and then his tayl:
For so by things that lawful are, and small,
W'are tempted most, and by the Tempter fall;
And by such subtle and such sly Pretences,
He thus accosts our Eve, I mean our senses.
Canst thou deny that God made all things good,
And no less for thy Pleasure than thy Food?
Did not He paint the Colours in the Face,
And cause the Wine to sparkle in the Glass?
Doth not this Apple blazon like to Gold,
Sweet to the taste, and pleasant to behold?
At last, by poyson'd and inchanted breath,
We kiss and close, and sport our selves to death;
Not dreading once which will at length prevail,
The cuspid sting that's sheathed in his tayl,
Viewing the Apple in its dapled skin,
Unskilful of the Core that's wrap't within.
And thus we eat oth' Tree of Good and Evil,
Tempted by Pleasure, termed here a Devil,
Which proves a Tree of Knowledge to our cost,
Knowing the Evil by the Good we lost:
So darkness sets a Price upon the light;
Health is by sickness known, by blindness, sight.
Thus Pleasure is that Serpent that doth tempt us,
And is that Serpent too that doth torment us;
And dooms us to his Curse, as downward thrust,
To creep upon our breasts, and lick the dust,
The froath of Luxury, and foam of Lust;
Loathing that Manna which the Angels feed on,
Not rising up above the Ground we tread on:
Unable for to fix our Eyes aloft,
Cent'ring on Earth, in body and in thought;
Condemned to a dark and pinching Cell,
Moving but like a Crab-fish in a shell,
The only state on Earth that's termed Hell:
And thus benighted, little do we know,
From whence we come, or whither we shall go.
Nor do these Pleasures thus bewitch the Mind,
But do attract great Evils still behind;
Spending the talent of our time in vain,
Which the most grateful Man can't call again;
On which two vast Eternities depend,
Of Bliss and Wo, and both without an end.
Time, if improv'd, will prove a Friend in store,
When time will be that time shall be no more.
But ah! We see how oft the Glass in hand,
Deceives the Glass that presseth out the sand;
As he that in a Ship a Voyage makes,
Knows not the strimes and measures which he takes,
Sleep or awake, the Vessel rideth post,
And unexpectedly doth make the Coast.
And so our time doth slide away and pass,
Between the Looking and the Drinking-Glass;
Whilst we Carouse, and drink away our Care,
We know not where we go, nor where we are;
And so God's Gifts and Talents lye as dead,
Under a bushel, barrel, and a bed.
Nor can we shake off this beloved sleep,
Caus'd by the steams, which on our Temples creep,
'Till death comes in, and makes us quit the Room,
Calls for a Reckoning, and chides us home.
God turns the Glass of Time, but we do shake it,
And by our Follies too too often break it;
And then cry out, how short our time hath been,
And yet we make it shorter by our sin:
For so did Artaxerxes once complain,
And weep, that his Armado should be slain;
Not one among two Millions, should survive
Fifty or sixty Years, and be alive,
And yet through his own fault it was they dy'd,
As one great Sacrifice unto his Pride.
Thus Time and Life is spent by those that love it,
And we turn Prodigals of that we covet.
God doth impart his Gifts in ample measure,
But Man's the Prodigal of this his treasure,
Wrapping his Talents in a sordid Cloath,
Which rusty grows, through Idleness and Sloath;
Or spend them on our Luxury and Pride,
And so grow poor, and then our Maker chide;
As if His Bounty never had been shown,
Or reap'd the Crop that he had never sown,
Or we were independent and our own.
Living, we waste our time, and dying, crave it;
So Children eat their Cake, and cry to have it.
Intemperance no less contracts a Curse,
First blinds the Eyes, and after picks the Purse;
Unlocks our secrets, and betrays our trust,
Makes Man that would be honest, be unjust:
Or if he must discharge the debt and score,
Turns House, and Wife, and Children out of door;
Chequers our Joys with intermixing Fears,
Temp'ring our Liquors with our Childrens tears;
And makes them thus their Sire, for to upbraid,
We want your drink, and you consume our bread.
But then are Mischiefs still among the many,
Second to none, and are as great as any,
Cools our devotion, casts off godly fear,
Voids pious counsels, and and a prudent care.
Nor can the clean and holy Dove find rest,
Within a wet and moist and steamy breast;
No more than Noah's Dove refreshment found,
When once the waters overspread the ground:
For so the flame of Heaven must needs expire,
When so much liquor's cast upon the fire;
God's spirit, and the drunkards are at odds.
Who cannot keep his own, he cannot God's,
Which cannot choose, or e're concert in one,
Since like by like, as light by light is known.
Since Reason's fled, and Lust usurps the Throne,
And God can challenge nothing of his own,
Whose hidden Manna cannot yield a Gust,
To crazed Pallats, tinctured by Lust:
Nor can his soft, and sweet, and silent Word,
With tumults, noise and clamors, e're accord;
Whose Light cannot be seen through muddy steams,
Nor can his Spirit mix with puddle streams;
Nor can he bring the Olive Branch of Peace,
Home to the soul, until these Waters cease;
Nor can the flesh and spirit e're combine,
Nor can he mix his water with our wine,
Nor will he cast his Pearls of price, to swine.
Thus when the Holy Spirit's fled and gone,
No wonder there succeeds an evil one;
In other sins the Devil tempts us, here
'Tis we that tempt the Devil in our beer;
For so, when once the Good Man's gone from home,
Legion of Devils do possess the room,
Wrath, railing, lying, lust, oaths, void of fear,
These are the Fiends that will have quarter here;
If Pride be call'd the Devils Chair in fashion,
Intemperance and Sloth may be the Cushion,
Look as the Boats-swain that should guide the ship,
When by some Charming Philtre lull'd asleep,
How doth the Vessel stagger, reel and knock,
Wrecking her self upon some shelving Rock.
So when the Mind of Man design'd by God,
To rule by Reasons sceptre, and her rod,
Is drench't in Liquors, Riot and Excess,
And wrapped fast in steams of drunkenness,
How doth the Vessel reel, and overwhelm,
Wanting her Pilot for to guide the helm?
And look when Sampson's Eyes were forced out,
He was expos'd for sport to th' Rabble Rout:
So when the Eye of Reason waxeth dim,
Through steams of wine, the Drunkard's like to him.
Apt to be stricken, and as apt to strike,
Since in the dark, all Objects are alike.
And thus he's forc't to grind the Devils Grist,
Who fills the hopper, and drives on the beast;
So have I seen it in our Childrens Play,
When one of them is hood-wink't in the Fray,
He staggers too and fro, and little knows,
The hand from which he doth receive the blows:
'Tis here a truth, which is but play elsewhere,
Man speaks and acts he knows not what, in Beer,
Stumbling at every step he doth advance,
Bewildred in the Night of Ignorance;
Little perceiving who it is that blinds him,
When, all the while the Devil stands behind him,
Who's Author and Abettor of the sport,
And then severely doth torment him for't.
Oh cursed Master! He, who thus engages
To pay his Vassals stripes, instead of wages;
Since they most feel the burden of his hands,
Who most of all comply with his Commands:
Who will be then admitted in his School,
Must first commence a Beast, and then a Fool.
Can Reason make for that which spoyls our Reason?
And makes us no less guilty of High Treason,
Since God who stampt his Image on his Coin,
Finds it debased through Excess of Wine,
Which clips our speach, disfigureth our face,
Which blinds the mind, and blends the seal of Grace,
Causing God's Holy Spirit to decline,
Griev'd by our Mirth, and quenched by our Wine,
Which robs us of the treasure of our Mind,
And only leaves the broken Box behind,
Or rather Guilt, to be the only Test
To difference, that we are worse than Beast:
Since nothing's left to speak us Humane Creatures,
But inward sin, and outward shape and features.
Why should I drink then for to keep the round,
Tracing the Devils Circle, till I'me found
Dizzy at last, so falling on the ground:
So, by this Cadency, declare I have
Stumbled unwittingly upon a Grave;
If through a hand of Mercy I arise,
Though I'me alive, but then my Pleasure dies,
Which splits the Vessel on most dreadful shelves,
As wrecking others, so they wreck themselves:
No sooner are they come, but they are past,
And so by Pleasure, is my Pleasure lost.
Why should I court them then? Why should I woo 'em?
When looking on them, I have looked through 'em;
Their out-sides bulky, but their in-sides hollow,
Pleasant to meet, but ugly for to follow,
Sweet to the sense, but irksome to the mind,
Fair is the face, but crooked all behind:
So when the nimble Arrow takes her flight,
No sooner on the wing, but out of sight,
None can a Minute after trace her way;
And such are fading Pleasures, such are they,
Swift as an Arrow, fast away they send,
And are like it, sharp-pointed at the end:
They are, and are not, both within a breath,
And Serpent-like, bite keenest towards death;
So sweet, and most delicious things withal,
Makes, and fills up a Vessicle of Gall;
And so the Spleen is held to be the seat,
Where Mirth and Grief do both together meet;
For so we often find, in pressing Laughter,
That pain succeeds, or else a sigh comes after;
And so the Wise-Man Socrates did reason,
When once his Feet were galled in the Prison,
Then scratching them with pleasure till they smarted,
That Pain from Pleasure never can be parted;
For so I find, that when my Pleasures gone,
They are not to be found but in a Groan,
And thus the Serpent acteth in his kind,
Not only dies, but leaves his sting behind;
For so my head, or stomack pains me more,
Than was my pallate pleas'd the day before,
And then I must, bating my Pains and Cost,
Reckon with God, as well as with my Hoast.
FINIS.