A SATYR AGAINST BRANDY.
FArewell Damn'd. Stygian Juice, who dos;t bewitch
From the Court Baud, down to the Country Bitch:
Thou liquid Flame, by whom each fiery Face
Lives witthout Meat, and blus;hes without Grace:
Sink to your native Hell, and mend the fire,
Or, if you rather chuse to settle nigher,
Return to the dull Clime from whence you came,
Where Wit and Courage may require your flame,
Where they Carouze in your Vesuvian Bowls,
To crust the Quagmire of their Spunngy Souls.
Had Dives for thy scorching moysture cry'd,
Abr'am in mercy had his suite deny'd:
Or Bonner known thy force, the Martyrs blood
Had Siss'd in thee and sav'd the Nations wood.
Essence of Embers, Scum of melting Flint,
With all the Native sparkles floating in't.
Sure the black Chymist with the cloven Foot
All Aetna's Simples in his 'Limbeck put,
And double still'd, nay Quintessenc'd thy Juice,
To charcoal Mortals for his future use.
Fire-ship to Nature, who do'st doubly wound,
For those that graple thee, are burnt and drown'd.
As when Heav'n pressd th' Auxil'arys of Hell,
A flaming storm on curse'd, Sodom fell.
And when it's single Plagues could not prevail,
Egypt was scal't with kindled Rain and Hail:
So Natures feuds are reconcil'd in thee,
Thou two great Judgements in Epitomy:
God's past and future anger breaths in you
A Deluge and a Conflagration too.
View yonder Sot (I do not mean Sheriff S—)
Grilly'd all o're by thee from Head to Foot:
His drowzy Eyelids shoard above their pitch,
His Cheeks with Carbuncles and Rubies rich;
His Soull instead of Brains supply'd with Cinder,
His Nose turns all his Handkerchifs to Tinder:
[Page 2] He breaths like a Smiths Forge, and wets the fire,
Not to allay the flame, but raise it higher:
His trembling hands scarce heave the liquor in,
His Nerves all crackle in his Parchment skin;
His Stomack don't concoct, but bake his food;
His Liver even Vitrisies his Blood;
His Guts from Natures drudgery are freed,
And in his Bowels Salamanders breed
He's grown too hot to think, too dull to laugh,
And steps as if he walk'd with Pindar's Staff.
The moving Glass-house lightens with his Eyes,
Singes his Cloaths and all his marrow fries;
Glows for a while, and then in Ashes dies.
Thus like a sham Prometheus, we find
Thou stealest a fire from Hell to kill Mankind.
But hold — lest we the Saints dire anger merit,
By stinting their Auxiliary Spirit:
We hear of late, whate're wicked think,
Thou art reform'd and turn'd a Godly drink:
And doubtless thou'rt con-natural to them,
For both thy Spirit and theirs abound in Phlegm;
'Ere since the Publick Faith for Plate did wimble,
And sanctifi'd thy Gill with Hannah's Thimble:
Thou left'st thy old bad Company of Vermin,
The Drunken Porters, and the swearing Carr-men;
And the lewd Drivers of the Hackney Coaches,
And now tak'st up with sage discreet Debauches;
Thou freely drop'st upon Gold Chains and Fur,
And Sots of Quality thy Minions are.
No more shalt thou foment an Ale-house brawle,
But the more sober Riots at Guild-hall,
Where, by thy Spirits fallible direction,
The Reprobates stood Poling for Election.
If this trade holds, what will the wicked doe?
The Saints sequester ev'n their Vices too,
For since the Art of Whoring's grown precise,
And Perjury hath got demurer Eyes;
'Tis time, high time to circumcise the Gill,
And not let drinking be Philistian still.
Go then thou Emblem of their torrid Zeal,
Add flame to flame and their stiff tempers Neal,
'Till they grow ductile to the Publick Weale.
And since the Godly have espous'd thy Cause,
Don't fill their heads with Libertys and Laws,
Religion, Privilege, and lawless Charters,
Mind them of Falstaffs Heir apparent Garters,
And keep their outward Man from Ketches Quarters.
One Caution more (now we are out of hearing
Many have died of drinking, some of swearing;
If these two Pests should in Conjunction meet,
The grass wou'd quickly grow in every street:
Save thou the Nation from that double blow,
And keep thy fire from Salamanca T O.
Printed for Jos. Hindmarsh at the Black-Bull in Cornhill, 1683.