The Hudribrastick Brewer Or, A Preposterous Union Between Malt and Meter. A Satyr Upon the suppos'd Author of the Republican Procession; or the Tumultuous Cavalcade [by Edward Ward] |
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 | The Hudribrastick Brewer |  |
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The Hudibrastick BREWER;
OR, A Preposterous Union BETWEEN MALT and METER, &c.
I sing the Bard, whose merry Strains.
Their Spirit draw from Hops and Grains;
Apollo's first degen'rate Son,
That e'er left Bacchus and his Tun,
To make dull, heavy Ale agree
With more aspiring Poetry,
And by the Help of Malt and Rhyme,
To brew and gingle at a time;
Tho' if consider'd as it should be
By all who Poets are, or would be,
'Tis not so great a Wonder neither,
Since merry Cobblers, o'er their Leather,
Like him, oft work and sing together.
Their Spirit draw from Hops and Grains;
Apollo's first degen'rate Son,
That e'er left Bacchus and his Tun,
To make dull, heavy Ale agree
With more aspiring Poetry,
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To brew and gingle at a time;
Tho' if consider'd as it should be
By all who Poets are, or would be,
'Tis not so great a Wonder neither,
Since merry Cobblers, o'er their Leather,
Like him, oft work and sing together.
The Tinker too, that Man of Mettle,
Tunes Ballads to the Sound of Kettle,
And ev'ry Vulcan at his File
In Song exalts his Voice the while;
Why therefore, tho' 'tis somewhat new,
Mayn't W---d both poetize and brew?
Since all Men know that Malt and Meter
Begin with one and the same Letter,
And therefore should agree the better.
Tunes Ballads to the Sound of Kettle,
And ev'ry Vulcan at his File
In Song exalts his Voice the while;
Why therefore, tho' 'tis somewhat new,
Mayn't W---d both poetize and brew?
Since all Men know that Malt and Meter
Begin with one and the same Letter,
And therefore should agree the better.
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Besides, the Bard that will be nibbling
At th' Art of Brewing well as Scribbling,
May from that wicked Weed call'd Hops
Draw bitter Satyrs for the Shops
Of Pamphleteers, whose only Art is
To teaze and gull contending Parties,
And scan the Worth of what is writ,
By Line and Page instead of Wit;
As Weavers judge their Spinners Pains,
By Number of their Lays and Scains.
At th' Art of Brewing well as Scribbling,
May from that wicked Weed call'd Hops
Draw bitter Satyrs for the Shops
Of Pamphleteers, whose only Art is
To teaze and gull contending Parties,
And scan the Worth of what is writ,
By Line and Page instead of Wit;
As Weavers judge their Spinners Pains,
By Number of their Lays and Scains.
'Tis true, the Muses have sometimes
In Stockings dealt, as well as Rhymes,
And condescended in their Freaks
To versify o'er Tiles and Bricks,
As 'tis well known to Prophet Dan,
And others of the Rhyming Clan,
But never had till now the Maggot
To stoop so low as Tub and Spiggot;
As if the Nine, so fam'd of Old
In musty Tales by Poets told,
Their Heliconian Streams had slighted,
And in good nappy Ale delighted,
Esteeming Cellars better Fountains,
Than any in Parnassus Mountains:
So careful Wives, whose common Chear
Hath been Tea, Coffee, and Small-beer,
When once refresh'd with Juice that's richer,
Turn Cossips, and adore the Pitcher.
Pray, therefore, let no Whig pick Quarrels
With Ned, about his Tubs and Barrels,
Or think his Pegasus must halt,
Because so grosly fed with Malt,
Like Brewer's Horse that drags a Score
Of Beer from Ale-house Door to Door;
But let them first look back upon
Saint Cromwell, who usurp'd the Throne,
And they may find, his Rise was owing,
Before his Fighting, to his Brewing,
From whence, as many do suppose,
He first deriv'd his Copper-Nose,
Inflam'd by tippling old October
With Satan's Party call'd the Sober,
Who, when they'd drank his Cellars dry,
And made him to the Army fly,
The Preaching proud Fanatick Scrubs
Made Pulpits of his empty Tubs,
That thro' the Bung-holes they might shew
Their Parts to the attentive Crew
Of pious Dames, those sighing Saints
Best won by Standing-Arguments.
In Stockings dealt, as well as Rhymes,
And condescended in their Freaks
To versify o'er Tiles and Bricks,
As 'tis well known to Prophet Dan,
And others of the Rhyming Clan,
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To stoop so low as Tub and Spiggot;
As if the Nine, so fam'd of Old
In musty Tales by Poets told,
Their Heliconian Streams had slighted,
And in good nappy Ale delighted,
Esteeming Cellars better Fountains,
Than any in Parnassus Mountains:
So careful Wives, whose common Chear
Hath been Tea, Coffee, and Small-beer,
When once refresh'd with Juice that's richer,
Turn Cossips, and adore the Pitcher.
Pray, therefore, let no Whig pick Quarrels
With Ned, about his Tubs and Barrels,
Or think his Pegasus must halt,
Because so grosly fed with Malt,
Like Brewer's Horse that drags a Score
Of Beer from Ale-house Door to Door;
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Saint Cromwell, who usurp'd the Throne,
And they may find, his Rise was owing,
Before his Fighting, to his Brewing,
From whence, as many do suppose,
He first deriv'd his Copper-Nose,
Inflam'd by tippling old October
With Satan's Party call'd the Sober,
Who, when they'd drank his Cellars dry,
And made him to the Army fly,
The Preaching proud Fanatick Scrubs
Made Pulpits of his empty Tubs,
That thro' the Bung-holes they might shew
Their Parts to the attentive Crew
Of pious Dames, those sighing Saints
Best won by Standing-Arguments.
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Nor did the Guides, that preach'd at Random,
Forget their Friend who had sustain'd 'em,
But labour'd hard, when they had broke him,
To set him up again, Pox choak him,
Who swallow'd, like an impious Sot,
Three Kingdoms at one bloody Draught;
And yet like other Saints, some say,
Would o'er his Cups both preach and pray,
And was the first that taught the Nation
To swear, forswear upon Occasion,
Cant and recant, make, take, and break
All sorts of Oaths for Heaven's Sake;
A Freedom modern Saints are proud of,
And hope 'twill always be allow'd of;
Because such Liberty agrees
The best with Tender Consciences;
For should a Zealot be confin'd
To take an Oath against his Mind,
The Principles of Revolution,
If Int'rest does but make the Motion,
Will without Scruple frankly give him
An Absolution to relieve him.
Therefore the Tories must agree
No People but the Whigs are free;
And they are really so, because
They're bound by neither Oaths nor Laws.
Forget their Friend who had sustain'd 'em,
But labour'd hard, when they had broke him,
To set him up again, Pox choak him,
Who swallow'd, like an impious Sot,
Three Kingdoms at one bloody Draught;
And yet like other Saints, some say,
Would o'er his Cups both preach and pray,
And was the first that taught the Nation
To swear, forswear upon Occasion,
Cant and recant, make, take, and break
All sorts of Oaths for Heaven's Sake;
A Freedom modern Saints are proud of,
And hope 'twill always be allow'd of;
Because such Liberty agrees
The best with Tender Consciences;
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To take an Oath against his Mind,
The Principles of Revolution,
If Int'rest does but make the Motion,
Will without Scruple frankly give him
An Absolution to relieve him.
Therefore the Tories must agree
No People but the Whigs are free;
And they are really so, because
They're bound by neither Oaths nor Laws.
Nor did Old Noll alone advance
These good Examples for the Saints,
But made in that domestick Strife
As many Shifts and Turns of Life,
And gave the World as much Surprize,
As Ovid's Metamorphosis,
Changing his Copper or his Kettle
T'a Dubblet made of tougher Mettle,
His Mash-staff to a trusty Sword
To fight the Battles of the Lord,
His broad-brim'd Hat to Cap of Iron
That did his plotting Head inviron,
His Firkins, Kilderkins and Barrels
To Drums that beat up Civil Quarrels,
His Horses, Dray-men, and his Coopers
Into rebellious plund'ring Troopers,
And into Waggons turn'd each Dray
To bear sequester'd Goods away;
Changing himself, who had been wrapp'd in
His Mother's Smock, into a Captain;
From thence by gradual Steps proceeded,
Till he the Kingdom's Head beheaded,
And after fifty Changes more
Became, in spite of Kingly Pow'r,
What Brewer never was before.
These good Examples for the Saints,
But made in that domestick Strife
As many Shifts and Turns of Life,
And gave the World as much Surprize,
As Ovid's Metamorphosis,
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T'a Dubblet made of tougher Mettle,
His Mash-staff to a trusty Sword
To fight the Battles of the Lord,
His broad-brim'd Hat to Cap of Iron
That did his plotting Head inviron,
His Firkins, Kilderkins and Barrels
To Drums that beat up Civil Quarrels,
His Horses, Dray-men, and his Coopers
Into rebellious plund'ring Troopers,
And into Waggons turn'd each Dray
To bear sequester'd Goods away;
Changing himself, who had been wrapp'd in
His Mother's Smock, into a Captain;
From thence by gradual Steps proceeded,
Till he the Kingdom's Head beheaded,
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Became, in spite of Kingly Pow'r,
What Brewer never was before.
Therefore since some from brewing Tubs
Of Ale have ris'n to Purple Robes,
And climb'd aloft, as 'tis well known,
From smoaky Stoke-hole to a Throne;
Why should a Poet, if he brews,
Become a Scandal to his Muse?
And e'ery Blockhead think his Brains
Run only upon Hops and Grains?
When Brewers have from Tons and Coolers
Arose to be our Sov'reign Rulers,
And still to their immortal Praise
Build Coaches daily out of Drays;
Nay, often sit with Approbation
Among the Wisdom of the Nation,
And look as big, and talk as fair,
As any Whig or Tory there;
When Poets, who can make fine Speeches,
Are jostl'd out as worthless Wretches,
As if 'twas wisely thought unfitting
That Men of Wit, who live by Writing,
Should in that House take up their Sitting.
Of Ale have ris'n to Purple Robes,
And climb'd aloft, as 'tis well known,
From smoaky Stoke-hole to a Throne;
Why should a Poet, if he brews,
Become a Scandal to his Muse?
And e'ery Blockhead think his Brains
Run only upon Hops and Grains?
When Brewers have from Tons and Coolers
Arose to be our Sov'reign Rulers,
And still to their immortal Praise
Build Coaches daily out of Drays;
Nay, often sit with Approbation
Among the Wisdom of the Nation,
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As any Whig or Tory there;
When Poets, who can make fine Speeches,
Are jostl'd out as worthless Wretches,
As if 'twas wisely thought unfitting
That Men of Wit, who live by Writing,
Should in that House take up their Sitting.
One, who of late aspir'd as high
As borrow'd Wings could hope to fly,
And had procur'd a Seat among
The awful Legislative Throng,
Was forc'd, alas! to quit his Place,
And turn Head-Hostler to his Grace,
For only threat'ning in his Letters,
Those dang'rous Persons call'd our Betters;
Asserting, when himself was chose
A Member of the Commons H**se,
That e'ery Man, tho' ne'er so big,
Should now account to Captain Whig;
Which made the Tories laugh to see
The Tool's Hibernian Modesty;
Yet when he found himself discarded,
And all his Insolence rewarded,
He then could change his Tone to please
The Whigs, and make it out with Ease,
That Members by the Country sent
To sit and serve in Parliament,
Were but the Peoples bare Attornies
Sent on their Errands and their Journies,
And must, as he vouchsafes to use 'em,
Be accountable to those that choose 'em,
From whence 'tis fairly to be noted,
That when the Tories are out-voted,
And Faction by her Brib'ry fills
The House with Hambdens, Pyms and St**ls,
The Parliament must be supreme,
And even Kings account to them.
As borrow'd Wings could hope to fly,
And had procur'd a Seat among
The awful Legislative Throng,
Was forc'd, alas! to quit his Place,
And turn Head-Hostler to his Grace,
For only threat'ning in his Letters,
Those dang'rous Persons call'd our Betters;
Asserting, when himself was chose
A Member of the Commons H**se,
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Should now account to Captain Whig;
Which made the Tories laugh to see
The Tool's Hibernian Modesty;
Yet when he found himself discarded,
And all his Insolence rewarded,
He then could change his Tone to please
The Whigs, and make it out with Ease,
That Members by the Country sent
To sit and serve in Parliament,
Were but the Peoples bare Attornies
Sent on their Errands and their Journies,
And must, as he vouchsafes to use 'em,
Be accountable to those that choose 'em,
From whence 'tis fairly to be noted,
That when the Tories are out-voted,
And Faction by her Brib'ry fills
The House with Hambdens, Pyms and St**ls,
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And even Kings account to them.
But, when the Tories have engross'd
The Pow'r, and justly rule the Roast,
They must not baffle the Intrigues
Of factious Schismaticks and Whigs,
Or heal our Wounds with wholsome Plaisters,
But the vile Crowd must be their Masters,
And Senates dread the Nation's Scum,
Hibernian Dick, and Captain Tom.
The Pow'r, and justly rule the Roast,
They must not baffle the Intrigues
Of factious Schismaticks and Whigs,
Or heal our Wounds with wholsome Plaisters,
But the vile Crowd must be their Masters,
And Senates dread the Nation's Scum,
Hibernian Dick, and Captain Tom.
Thus Whigs in Pow'r can never err,
Tho' wickeder than Lucifer,
Nor Tories by the Whigs be thought
Good Patriots, tho' without a Fau't;
Since those that hate the Church and Throne,
Approve no Works, except their Own,
But, Critick like, their Venom shew,
And damn in Spight what others do.
Tho' wickeder than Lucifer,
Nor Tories by the Whigs be thought
Good Patriots, tho' without a Fau't;
Since those that hate the Church and Throne,
Approve no Works, except their Own,
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And damn in Spight what others do.
Thus long have I digress'd to tell
How one poor Wit from Glory fell,
Whose formidable Pen of late
Was thought such Arms against the State,
That nothing could have brought about
The Down-fall of a Muse so stout,
But that sly Trick of Spewing out.
How one poor Wit from Glory fell,
Whose formidable Pen of late
Was thought such Arms against the State,
That nothing could have brought about
The Down-fall of a Muse so stout,
But that sly Trick of Spewing out.
Therefore, I think, since Poets may not,
And Brewers do remain in Senate,
Ned's in the right on't more for Brewing,
Than Dick for Scribbling to his Ruin;
For tho' one never hopes to thrive
Into a Representative,
Yet he's more bless'd whose Fortune falls
Below St. Stephen's Chappel-Walls,
Than he that climbs, and is from thence
Spew'd out for want of Pence or Sense.
And Brewers do remain in Senate,
Ned's in the right on't more for Brewing,
Than Dick for Scribbling to his Ruin;
For tho' one never hopes to thrive
Into a Representative,
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Below St. Stephen's Chappel-Walls,
Than he that climbs, and is from thence
Spew'd out for want of Pence or Sense.
His Cassock Friend had Wit to play
His Cards a much securer Way,
He wisely kept within his Tedder,
And follow'd his successful Leader;
Drudg'd Day and Night with Pen and Paper,
Like cunning Statesman's Under-Strapper,
And knew as well as any Man,
Which Side his Bread was butter'd on;
Thus whilst one Irish Author lost
His Credit, Int'rest, and his Post
In England, where he might have been
A Fav'rite of the Church and Queen;
The other wisely got, we see,
A good fat Irish Deanery,
And in that Isle began his Rise,
Whilst t'other idly sunk in this.
Thus Party-Wits are toss'd about,
Just as their Friends are in or out,
One for a time has all the Vogue,
Next Change his Writings prove a Drug;
So St**l, when Whigs shall re-obtain
The Rule, shall be a Wit again,
And Sw**t a Dunce; but not till then.
His Cards a much securer Way,
He wisely kept within his Tedder,
And follow'd his successful Leader;
Drudg'd Day and Night with Pen and Paper,
Like cunning Statesman's Under-Strapper,
And knew as well as any Man,
Which Side his Bread was butter'd on;
Thus whilst one Irish Author lost
His Credit, Int'rest, and his Post
In England, where he might have been
A Fav'rite of the Church and Queen;
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A good fat Irish Deanery,
And in that Isle began his Rise,
Whilst t'other idly sunk in this.
Thus Party-Wits are toss'd about,
Just as their Friends are in or out,
One for a time has all the Vogue,
Next Change his Writings prove a Drug;
So St**l, when Whigs shall re-obtain
The Rule, shall be a Wit again,
And Sw**t a Dunce; but not till then.
Therefore since Times are thus precarious,
And Faction spightful and nefarious;
Who then can blame a Man for driving
Two Projects on, in hopes of Thriving?
The Ancients wisely did allow
Themselves two Strings to ev'ry Bow,
That if one broke when over-strain'd,
Another might be near at hand.
But, cries the Critick, tho' the Strings
Are two, they're not two diff'rent Things;
The Use of both, if both are wanted,
Are still the same, it must be granted;
But Brewing join'd with Poetizing,
Nowns, 'tis Prepost'rous and Surprizing!
A Chimney-Sweeper may as well
In Sarsnet-Hoods and Ribbons deal,
Or Sav'ry Tom, to mend or prop
His Fortune, keep a Custard-Shop.
And Faction spightful and nefarious;
Who then can blame a Man for driving
Two Projects on, in hopes of Thriving?
The Ancients wisely did allow
Themselves two Strings to ev'ry Bow,
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Another might be near at hand.
But, cries the Critick, tho' the Strings
Are two, they're not two diff'rent Things;
The Use of both, if both are wanted,
Are still the same, it must be granted;
But Brewing join'd with Poetizing,
Nowns, 'tis Prepost'rous and Surprizing!
A Chimney-Sweeper may as well
In Sarsnet-Hoods and Ribbons deal,
Or Sav'ry Tom, to mend or prop
His Fortune, keep a Custard-Shop.
But let the carping World object
Whate'er they please, in Disrespect
To Ned, and make themselves a Jury
Between the Muses and the Brew'ry;
Yet have I often seen, I vow,
As odd Companions join e'er now;
Passive-Obedience have I known
Shake Hands with Toleration,
And High-Church Loyalists, like Fools,
Embrace revolving Principles.
Nay, I have seen an Oliverian
Hug Lawn, and Lawn a Presbyterian,
And ev'n Monarchy, by stealth,
Indulge and favour Commonwealth;
If such wide Opposites as these,
Such envious Contrarieties,
Can kiss and swim in peaceful Streams,
Like T**d and Orange down the Thames,
Why should ye wonder thus to find
The Mash-Tub with the Muses join'd?
Or think Apollo too officious,
In shaking Hands with Dionysius?
Whate'er they please, in Disrespect
To Ned, and make themselves a Jury
Between the Muses and the Brew'ry;
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As odd Companions join e'er now;
Passive-Obedience have I known
Shake Hands with Toleration,
And High-Church Loyalists, like Fools,
Embrace revolving Principles.
Nay, I have seen an Oliverian
Hug Lawn, and Lawn a Presbyterian,
And ev'n Monarchy, by stealth,
Indulge and favour Commonwealth;
If such wide Opposites as these,
Such envious Contrarieties,
Can kiss and swim in peaceful Streams,
Like T**d and Orange down the Thames,
Why should ye wonder thus to find
The Mash-Tub with the Muses join'd?
Or think Apollo too officious,
In shaking Hands with Dionysius?
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Besides, the Saints, those Sons of Grace,
Those English Jews of Holy Race,
Those pious Ch***s, exempt from Evil,
Have long united Pope and Devil,
And pass'd 'em on the Mob and others,
For Twins, at least two Loving Brothers,
Tho' e'ery Body knows, I hope,
The Devil's much older than the Pope,
Who, e'er the World was gull'd with Fictions,
Were held Two perfect Contradictions,
Yet now they're reconcil'd for ever,
Defam'd, and nam'd, and burnt together,
And Twice a Year are made as great,
As Leek and Taffy hung in State.
Those English Jews of Holy Race,
Those pious Ch***s, exempt from Evil,
Have long united Pope and Devil,
And pass'd 'em on the Mob and others,
For Twins, at least two Loving Brothers,
Tho' e'ery Body knows, I hope,
The Devil's much older than the Pope,
Who, e'er the World was gull'd with Fictions,
Were held Two perfect Contradictions,
Yet now they're reconcil'd for ever,
Defam'd, and nam'd, and burnt together,
And Twice a Year are made as great,
As Leek and Taffy hung in State.
The Papists too, those lamentable
Tremendous Bugbears to the Rabble,
To the same Year's Produce, we see,
Ascribe both Hops and Heresy,
And bind 'em, in these Pious Days,
Together often in one Phrase.
Why therefore is it thought a Crime,
For Malt to correspond with Rhyme,
Since Hops, in this reforming Land,
And Heresy walk Hand in Hand?
Yet you'll object, that Grains and Verse
Agree as ill as Brains and Stairs,
Which seldom meet by Trip of Foot,
But one, almost, knocks t'other out;
Therefore you may inferr from thence,
That Brewing Ale and Tagging Sense
Are Talents of as wide a Nature,
As Earth and Air, or Fire and Water;
Yet I on Ned's behalf agree,
There may be some Analogy
'Twixt Malt and Meter, since good Liquor
Makes Fancy operate the quicker,
And causes ev'ry Poetaster
To spur on Pegasus the faster.
I've often by Experience found,
When jaded Muse has been a-ground
For want of some damn'd crooked Word,
To make two Ultimates accord,
That then one nappy Dose inspires
My Brains with what my Verse requires,
And gives my Pen as quick Dispatches,
As Women make, that dip Card-matches;
Therefore I do from thence agree,
Good Ale turns all to Poetry,
When drank by Lovers of the Muses,
Those celebrated singing Huzzies;
Nor does the home-spun Juice of Malt,
Like foreign Wines, alone exalt
The Fancy, but if drank in Season,
Strengthens and modulates our Reason;
The fragrant Hop at the same time
Does with the Malt itself sublime,
And into Gingle tunes our Meter,
That ev'ry Line may found the sweeter,
And make the Sense pass off the better.
'Tis true, some ancient Bards assign
Their Raptures to the Pow'r of Wine,
And always took a hearty Dose,
Before they mounted Pegasus;
And then, as if the Devil drove 'em,
Made greater Speed than did behove 'em;
But modern Poets find the Muses
Are better pleas'd with good Malt-Juices,
Because they elevate the Senses,
By slow Degrees, at small Expences,
And keep 'em in these starving Times
From b'ing too lavish of their Rhymes.
Tremendous Bugbears to the Rabble,
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Ascribe both Hops and Heresy,
And bind 'em, in these Pious Days,
Together often in one Phrase.
Why therefore is it thought a Crime,
For Malt to correspond with Rhyme,
Since Hops, in this reforming Land,
And Heresy walk Hand in Hand?
Yet you'll object, that Grains and Verse
Agree as ill as Brains and Stairs,
Which seldom meet by Trip of Foot,
But one, almost, knocks t'other out;
Therefore you may inferr from thence,
That Brewing Ale and Tagging Sense
Are Talents of as wide a Nature,
As Earth and Air, or Fire and Water;
Yet I on Ned's behalf agree,
There may be some Analogy
22
Makes Fancy operate the quicker,
And causes ev'ry Poetaster
To spur on Pegasus the faster.
I've often by Experience found,
When jaded Muse has been a-ground
For want of some damn'd crooked Word,
To make two Ultimates accord,
That then one nappy Dose inspires
My Brains with what my Verse requires,
And gives my Pen as quick Dispatches,
As Women make, that dip Card-matches;
Therefore I do from thence agree,
Good Ale turns all to Poetry,
When drank by Lovers of the Muses,
Those celebrated singing Huzzies;
Nor does the home-spun Juice of Malt,
Like foreign Wines, alone exalt
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Strengthens and modulates our Reason;
The fragrant Hop at the same time
Does with the Malt itself sublime,
And into Gingle tunes our Meter,
That ev'ry Line may found the sweeter,
And make the Sense pass off the better.
'Tis true, some ancient Bards assign
Their Raptures to the Pow'r of Wine,
And always took a hearty Dose,
Before they mounted Pegasus;
And then, as if the Devil drove 'em,
Made greater Speed than did behove 'em;
But modern Poets find the Muses
Are better pleas'd with good Malt-Juices,
Because they elevate the Senses,
By slow Degrees, at small Expences,
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From b'ing too lavish of their Rhymes.
Peruse but G***d***n's Golden Lays,
Those matchless Numbers sung in Praise
Of Glorious Mild, that Drink Divine,
That Nectar, far surpassing Wine,
That Noble Cordial swill'd by Porters,
And bless'd by Soldiers at their Quarters;
And he who reads the same, must find
Such Wit with so much Learning join'd,
That he can do no less than think,
Full Pots of the immortal Drink
In Ale-house Box inspir'd the Poet,
For nothing but Mild-Beer could do it,
And cause the thoughtful Bard to dream
So well on such a drowzy Theme;
Thus English Poets, without Puzzle,
Can rhyme o'er Winchesters of Guzzle,
And from the gen'rous oily Strength
Of Malt, draw Lines of any Length;
Whilst fragrant Hops the same imbellish,
And give their Verse the better Relish;
Tho', I confess, I'm not inclin'd
To be of honest Carlo's Mind;
I'm for no fulsome, bitter Drenches,
That heighten Drought, but never quenches,
No Hockley-Brewer's grouty Drink,
But ever thought, and still must think,
Brown, foggy Belch inspires our Brains
With nothing but Balladian Strains,
And common Stout, like Bullock's Blood,
By merry Cobblers held so Good,
Whene'er it's drank by Men of Parts,
Turns half to Puns, and half to Farts;
Therefore the Bard that would inspire
His Muse with Hudibrastick Fire,
Must lay aside Brown Drink for Pale,
And tipple W**d's salubrious Ale;
Who, when he brews, invokes the Nine
To make his Liquor more Divine,
Than Indian Punch, or Gallick Wine.
Those matchless Numbers sung in Praise
Of Glorious Mild, that Drink Divine,
That Nectar, far surpassing Wine,
That Noble Cordial swill'd by Porters,
And bless'd by Soldiers at their Quarters;
And he who reads the same, must find
Such Wit with so much Learning join'd,
That he can do no less than think,
Full Pots of the immortal Drink
In Ale-house Box inspir'd the Poet,
For nothing but Mild-Beer could do it,
And cause the thoughtful Bard to dream
So well on such a drowzy Theme;
25
Can rhyme o'er Winchesters of Guzzle,
And from the gen'rous oily Strength
Of Malt, draw Lines of any Length;
Whilst fragrant Hops the same imbellish,
And give their Verse the better Relish;
Tho', I confess, I'm not inclin'd
To be of honest Carlo's Mind;
I'm for no fulsome, bitter Drenches,
That heighten Drought, but never quenches,
No Hockley-Brewer's grouty Drink,
But ever thought, and still must think,
Brown, foggy Belch inspires our Brains
With nothing but Balladian Strains,
And common Stout, like Bullock's Blood,
By merry Cobblers held so Good,
Whene'er it's drank by Men of Parts,
Turns half to Puns, and half to Farts;
26
His Muse with Hudibrastick Fire,
Must lay aside Brown Drink for Pale,
And tipple W**d's salubrious Ale;
Who, when he brews, invokes the Nine
To make his Liquor more Divine,
Than Indian Punch, or Gallick Wine.
Yet some, who do not care to see
Brewing shake Hands with Poetry,
Alledge that Two such diff'rent Trades
Require the Care of Two good Heads,
And that 'tis plain Ned has at most
But One, if he has that to boast,
And therefore do conceive 'tis better
For him to only mind his Meter,
And not to incommode his Brains
With Brew-house, Barrels, Tubs and Grains;
Such Implements that look fantastick
In Hand of Poet Hudibrastick,
And would be fitter for the Use
Of sordid Dray-man than of Muse.
But still, if we consider all Things,
And but compare Great Things with Small Things,
These Censures will not stick so hard
Upon the Brewing Poet W**d,
But that a Man in his Defence
May quote whole Reams of Precedents,
Wherein much greater Men than he
Have truckl'd to Necessity,
And oft been glad to humbly do
Those Things they ne'er were bred unto.
A King, e'er now, in Chimney-Nook
Hath wound up Jack for Betty Cook,
And Country Parson in the middle
O'th' Church-yard play'd both Bear and Fiddle;
Nay, Machiavelian Lords of late,
Whose Bus'ness 'tis to steer the State,
Think it no Scandal now to mix
Uncertain Stocks with Politicks,
Or to divide, the more's the Pity,
Themselves betwixt the Court and City.
Brewing shake Hands with Poetry,
Alledge that Two such diff'rent Trades
Require the Care of Two good Heads,
And that 'tis plain Ned has at most
But One, if he has that to boast,
And therefore do conceive 'tis better
For him to only mind his Meter,
And not to incommode his Brains
With Brew-house, Barrels, Tubs and Grains;
27
In Hand of Poet Hudibrastick,
And would be fitter for the Use
Of sordid Dray-man than of Muse.
But still, if we consider all Things,
And but compare Great Things with Small Things,
These Censures will not stick so hard
Upon the Brewing Poet W**d,
But that a Man in his Defence
May quote whole Reams of Precedents,
Wherein much greater Men than he
Have truckl'd to Necessity,
And oft been glad to humbly do
Those Things they ne'er were bred unto.
A King, e'er now, in Chimney-Nook
Hath wound up Jack for Betty Cook,
28
O'th' Church-yard play'd both Bear and Fiddle;
Nay, Machiavelian Lords of late,
Whose Bus'ness 'tis to steer the State,
Think it no Scandal now to mix
Uncertain Stocks with Politicks,
Or to divide, the more's the Pity,
Themselves betwixt the Court and City.
Why then should it degrade a Poet
To make good Ale, I fain would know it?
Or sell within Doors what he brews,
Without Dishonour to his Muse?
Since even Merchants turn Retailers,
And sell their Wines by Quarts in Cellars,
Where they appoint subservient Nizies
To vend their Stum at Under-Prices.
To make good Ale, I fain would know it?
Or sell within Doors what he brews,
Without Dishonour to his Muse?
Since even Merchants turn Retailers,
And sell their Wines by Quarts in Cellars,
Where they appoint subservient Nizies
To vend their Stum at Under-Prices.
29
Nay, Poets are so humble grown
To speak fine Prologues of their Own,
With Cloak and Foot-Boy at their Arses
To give New Life to their Old Farces;
And Players, prompted by their Spite,
Turn Poets, and presume to write,
Then act the same, to win Applause,
From mat-bound Petticoats and Beaux.
To speak fine Prologues of their Own,
With Cloak and Foot-Boy at their Arses
To give New Life to their Old Farces;
And Players, prompted by their Spite,
Turn Poets, and presume to write,
Then act the same, to win Applause,
From mat-bound Petticoats and Beaux.
The Saint that does the Dev'l renounce,
Squints Two contrary ways at Once,
And in these pious Times thinks fitting
To trim his Soul 'twixt Church and Meeting,
For fear he should be half undone,
By sticking close to either One;
So Ned divided, writes and brews,
To try if darling Gain accrues
More from his Mash-Tub than his Muse.
Squints Two contrary ways at Once,
And in these pious Times thinks fitting
To trim his Soul 'twixt Church and Meeting,
For fear he should be half undone,
By sticking close to either One;
So Ned divided, writes and brews,
To try if darling Gain accrues
More from his Mash-Tub than his Muse.
30
All sorts of Cobblers are in haste
For Int'rest to out-run their Last;
The Country Parson turns Physician,
And London Trader Politician;
Dull Pedants too, in quest of Pence,
Turn Criticks upon Men of Sense,
Pick Quarrels with the Faults they find,
But what's Praise-worthy never mind,
And by those Wiles make Others pass
For Block-heads of the lowest Class,
When 'tis the Critick that's the Ass.
In short, all sorts of Trades encroach
Upon their Neighbours, like the Dutch,
Whose Burgo-Masters, tho' they play
Their Parts in Senate-House to Day,
To Morrow lay aside their State,
And sit in Markets selling Skate,
Eggs, Butter, Brandy, all together,
And think it no Dishonour neither;
Why then mayn't we, who've been of late
So Dutchify'd in Church and State,
Deal without Scandal, or Offence,
In any Thing to gain the Pence?
Especially, when Party-Pride
Makes Envy grin on e'ery Side,
And nothing thrives, we plainly see,
But base, unbridl'd Villany.
For Int'rest to out-run their Last;
The Country Parson turns Physician,
And London Trader Politician;
Dull Pedants too, in quest of Pence,
Turn Criticks upon Men of Sense,
Pick Quarrels with the Faults they find,
But what's Praise-worthy never mind,
And by those Wiles make Others pass
For Block-heads of the lowest Class,
When 'tis the Critick that's the Ass.
In short, all sorts of Trades encroach
Upon their Neighbours, like the Dutch,
Whose Burgo-Masters, tho' they play
Their Parts in Senate-House to Day,
To Morrow lay aside their State,
And sit in Markets selling Skate,
31
And think it no Dishonour neither;
Why then mayn't we, who've been of late
So Dutchify'd in Church and State,
Deal without Scandal, or Offence,
In any Thing to gain the Pence?
Especially, when Party-Pride
Makes Envy grin on e'ery Side,
And nothing thrives, we plainly see,
But base, unbridl'd Villany.
When Bacchus, alias Dionysius,
First brew'd good Ale, 'twas so delicious,
That skilful Topers would prefer it
To Malmsey, Malaga, or Claret,
And suck it out of Jugs and Gobblets,
Till their Tun-Bellies burst their Dubblets;
And, when thus tippling, were as great
O'er Leathern Jacks of ancient Date,
As Kings in all their Pomp and State.
First brew'd good Ale, 'twas so delicious,
That skilful Topers would prefer it
To Malmsey, Malaga, or Claret,
And suck it out of Jugs and Gobblets,
Till their Tun-Bellies burst their Dubblets;
32
O'er Leathern Jacks of ancient Date,
As Kings in all their Pomp and State.
Brewing had then the Reputation
Of b'ing a notable Profession,
And e'ery Brewer thought to be
A Conjuror in Chymistry;
Who'd found the Grand Elixir out,
That Chymists make such Work about,
By which, to all Mens great Surprize,
They did to sudden Riches rise;
But 'twas before they paid Excise.
For ever since, the Throne secures
That Profit which was once the Brewer's,
And leaves him nothing but the Grains,
That Caput Mortuum for his Pains;
Nor are such Hardships any Wonder
In Kingdoms, where, if not kept under,
The stubborn People grow too Great
And Head-strong for the Church and State;
Rebell against the Sov'reign Sway,
And govern Those they should obey;
Belye the Good, applaud the Bad,
Depose, Elect, run on like mad,
Till like the croaking Frogs, Pox fool 'em,
They get some active Stork to rule 'em;
A Cromwell, who by Discord Civil,
Turns Truth to Error, Good to Evil,
And reigns like a Protecting Devil.
Thus, factious Nations, when they're rich,
Have always a rebellious Itch
To change the Prince, beneath whose Rule
They've cramm'd their Bags and Coffers full,
For some Usurper, who has Sense
Enough to drain 'em of their Pence,
And tame 'em, by removing wholly
The Cause that made 'em so unruly;
For the best Doctors, who by Tricks
And Stratagems cure Lunaticks,
Of Money always first divest 'em,
And strip 'em of the Cloaths that drest 'em,
Then, with Straw-Beds and slender Diet,
Reduce 'em to their former Quiet;
So restless Rebels should be us'd,
Who're most at Ease, when most abus'd.
Of b'ing a notable Profession,
And e'ery Brewer thought to be
A Conjuror in Chymistry;
Who'd found the Grand Elixir out,
That Chymists make such Work about,
By which, to all Mens great Surprize,
They did to sudden Riches rise;
But 'twas before they paid Excise.
For ever since, the Throne secures
That Profit which was once the Brewer's,
And leaves him nothing but the Grains,
That Caput Mortuum for his Pains;
33
In Kingdoms, where, if not kept under,
The stubborn People grow too Great
And Head-strong for the Church and State;
Rebell against the Sov'reign Sway,
And govern Those they should obey;
Belye the Good, applaud the Bad,
Depose, Elect, run on like mad,
Till like the croaking Frogs, Pox fool 'em,
They get some active Stork to rule 'em;
A Cromwell, who by Discord Civil,
Turns Truth to Error, Good to Evil,
And reigns like a Protecting Devil.
Thus, factious Nations, when they're rich,
Have always a rebellious Itch
To change the Prince, beneath whose Rule
They've cramm'd their Bags and Coffers full,
34
Enough to drain 'em of their Pence,
And tame 'em, by removing wholly
The Cause that made 'em so unruly;
For the best Doctors, who by Tricks
And Stratagems cure Lunaticks,
Of Money always first divest 'em,
And strip 'em of the Cloaths that drest 'em,
Then, with Straw-Beds and slender Diet,
Reduce 'em to their former Quiet;
So restless Rebels should be us'd,
Who're most at Ease, when most abus'd.
Perhaps, you'll ask me what Relation
This long Satyrical Digression
Bears to the Poetaster's Brewing,
Or Brewer's Scribbling to be doing;
I own, my Zeal hath warm'd my Mind,
That Ignis-fatuus of Mankind,
And led me, as it often hath
The Saints, a Mile beside the Path;
But if we do but well consider
How all Men run beyond their Tedder,
We may connive at one poor Poet,
Among the Crowd that daily do it.
This long Satyrical Digression
Bears to the Poetaster's Brewing,
Or Brewer's Scribbling to be doing;
35
That Ignis-fatuus of Mankind,
And led me, as it often hath
The Saints, a Mile beside the Path;
But if we do but well consider
How all Men run beyond their Tedder,
We may connive at one poor Poet,
Among the Crowd that daily do it.
However, since all Wit's a Drug,
Compar'd to th' Bottle or the Mug,
And nappy Ale, now Money's scarce,
Sells better far than Prose or Verse;
No Critick ought to damn the Bard
That humbly condescends, like W**d,
To brew, as if he meant in Spite
To low'r the Pride of those that write,
And turn the Heliconian Springs,
Where Fancy us'd to dip her Wings,
Into Good Ale, a Drink more fit
For Country Squires, than Men of Wit.
Compar'd to th' Bottle or the Mug,
And nappy Ale, now Money's scarce,
Sells better far than Prose or Verse;
No Critick ought to damn the Bard
That humbly condescends, like W**d,
To brew, as if he meant in Spite
To low'r the Pride of those that write,
36
Where Fancy us'd to dip her Wings,
Into Good Ale, a Drink more fit
For Country Squires, than Men of Wit.
‘But he that like a Friend would use him,
May very easily excuse him;
For Men of Sense must own’ is better
To live by Malt, than starve by Meter.
May very easily excuse him;
For Men of Sense must own’ is better
To live by Malt, than starve by Meter.
FINIS.
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