A journey to h---- :: :: University of Virginia Library

A journey to h----

or, a visit paid to, &c. : a poem

Ward, Edward (1667-1731)

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A Journey to H****:

OR, A Visit paid to, &c.

A POEM.

II. PART II.

In the Court's absence hot Disputes arose,
Betwixt the Doctors and their Dogst**d Foes;
No Blows they had, but every warm Debate
Did in abusive Language terminate;
Quack, Emp'rick, Clyster-giver, Fool, and Knave,
Close-stool-Promoter, Buttock-peeping Slave,
Physician's Vassal

Apothecaries originally Servants to Physicians.

kept at first to Trot
With Vomit, Vial, Purge, and Gally-Pot,
To pick our Drugs and Herbs, and what is worse,
To bear the Teaze of ev'ry tatt'ling Nurse;
Drudge to the Pestle and a Charcoal Fire,
Only maintain'd to save a Porter's Hire,
And now! to thus audaciously presume
To prescribe Physick in a Doctor's room,
When you no more of Theory understand,
Than Monsters in the Ocean do of Land:
Whence sprang this unaccountable advance,
But from base Impudence and Ignorance?

Whence can you boast your Knowledge, lest you own,
By study of your Files you're Learned grown?
And if you do, 'tis but a weak defence,
For none but Quacks from Recipes Commence:
If from Prescriptions you could once attain
To be a competent Physician,
Read Usher's Sermons, where the Gospel shines,
And you as well may make your selves Divines:
How will ye find, by an old musty Bill,
New Patients Constitutions when they're Ill?
Or if unlearn'd in Physick's crabbed Laws,
How the Distemper judge, or guess the Cause?
No, your pretended Skill's a dangerous Cheat,
To bubble those who want both Health and Wit.
If an old File can such Instructions give,
As teach you how to make the Dying Live,
How far must we Excel, what Wonders do,
Who gave at first those Recipes to you!

This Scourge made all the Crabs-Eye Crew run mad,
Who answer'd 'em in Language full as bad,
They hum'd and buz'd about like angry Bees,
And look'd as poys'nous as Cantharides,
Vex'd at the two-edg'd Sayings of the Bard,
Thus they began, spoke loud, and wou'd be heard:
Cast on your selves but an impartial Eye,
Look round your ill-compos'd Society,
And you as empty Dunces there may find,
Quite deaf to Learning, and to Reason blind,

As e'er swept Shop, or did a Counter wipe,
Or ty'd a Bladder to a Clyster-Pipe:
Some Hogan Mogan Quacks, first Taylors bred,
And from the Shop-board were Physicians made,
By old Receits of others, not their own,
Grow famous Curers of the Gout or Stone:
Why may not we Prescribe as well as these,
Who ne'er read Galen or Hippocrates,
Or any part of Physick's System know,
Beyond what our Dispensatories show.
Others of Oxford may, or Cambridge boast,
Who had a Twelve-month's standing there at most,
Where what he learn'd at School he not improv'd, but lost,
Whose wand'ring Thoughts no Study could entice,
But is expell'd for Negligence or Vice.
And thus the Rake fall'n short of a Degree,
Chaplain or Curate he despairs to be,
At last Physician turns thro' meer Necessitie.
When thus resolv'd, he does to Holland go,
Where Quacks and Mountebanks like Mushromes grow,
Spring up as fast; a Recipe's their rise,
And thus they're made Physicians in a trice.
But he more learn'd in School-Boy Rules repairs
To Leyden, where he's taught to stand the Bears,
There spends Six Months, and at a small expence,
Does two or three Degrees at once Commence:
Then Home he comes, and does admittance gain,
Amongst the grave old Bards in Warwick-Lane;
Adorns his Copy'd Prescripts well as they,
With the learn'd Capitals, M.F.S.A.

A Pill made publick is his main support,
Which he takes care does neither good nor hurt,
Fam'd for som wond'rous Cure at som strang Prince's Court;
He's always hasty, trots a Coach-Horse pace,
And bears the Title (Doctor) with a Grace:
Furnish'd with Terms, he can the Patient pose,
And runs at all, tho' nothing truly knows;
Undertakes desp'rate Cures for weighty Summs,
Coz'ning the Patient wheresoe'er he comes;
Why may not we, to make up Med'cines bred,
The same Admin'ster, and as well succeed
As this unskilful interloping Crew,
Ign'rant of Physick, nay, and Med'cine too.
The Learn'd but make of both a common Jest,
A Leyden Quack, and Salamanca Priest:
Therefore—

The Judge returning, ended the Dispute,
And with his awful Presence struck 'em Mute;
As wrangling Mob, together by the Ears,
Grow silent when the Constable appears.
Down in great Pomp the grave Assembly sits,
The Lamps grew dim, the Cryer call'd fresh Lights.
Then Pluto's Orator his Papers spread,
And to the Court this short Oration made:
My Lord—
Within the Circle of a solar Year,
Such numbers of these Criminals appear
At this last Bar of Justice, that there needs
But short recital of their sinful Deeds;

A long Exordium therefore I'll forbear,
And just remind your Lordship what they are.

These were the Enemies to Humane Good,
Who did the languishing Diseas'd delude,
With gilded Poysons to abuse their Blood;
And did to the mistaking World pretend
Man's Life from Fate, pro Tempore; to defend.
Instead of which, to one their Art could save,
They hasten'd Legions headlong to the Grave;
And by their Pills, so speedy, safe, and sure,
Begot more Evils than their Art could Cure.
Some Fools and Tumblers, some Mechanicks bred,
Who quitted Needle, Last, or some such Trade,
To barb'rously encrease the numbers of the Dead.
When lustful Brutes were weary of their Wives,
And wanted younger Flesh to bless their Lives.
These were the Artists who by Med'cines force,
Gave, on good Terms, a Physical Divorce,
And often help'd, at reasonable Rates,
Impatient Heirs much sooner to Estates,
Well knowing whensoe'er they exert their Skill,
The rich old Dad, or homely Spouse to kill,
The Son or Husband ne'er disputes the Doctor's Bill.
If to a Patient call'd, to them unknown,
When first into the House or Room they're shown,
The mercenary Quack looks round to see
What signs of Want, or of Prosperity
Appear about the Chamber, and from thence
Does his Advice accordingly dispence:

If meanly Furnish'd, and course Sheets, they're Poor,
The Country Air must then perform the Cure;
But if the Patient's Rich, Lie still, dear Sir,
Nurse keep him close, 'tis present Death to stir,
I'll send a Drink shall rectifie his Blood,
Drenches and Drops can only do him good,
Pearl-Cordials, made of Crabs-Eyes, must be now his Food.
Thus is the Wretch with Physick stuff'd and cloy'd,
And what he begs for most, is most deny'd,
Till pin'd away at last to Skin and Bone,
Only for want of Food to live upon:
But when giv'n o'er, if Nature be but strong,
The Cook oft proves the Doctor in the wrong,
And does his Life with Kitchin Physick save,
Brought by base Emp'ricks once so near the Grave.

From hence, my Lord, it plainly does appear,
Such Doctors many Thousands in a Year,
Secundum Artem, kill, for want of good small Beer.
Thus is the noblest Science most abus'd,
And Patients by unskilful Quacks misus'd.
These Mercenary Methods they pursu'd,
Regarding nothing but their own Self-Good.
What Pains to these inhumane Crimes are due,
My Lord, I humbly must submit to you.

The Judge arose, his Countenance compos'd,
And to the Pris'ners thus his Mind disclos'd;
You who, pursuant to the God's Decree,
Are to receive your final Doom from me,

Your Crimes are great, which you your selves well know,
Expect no Mercy, for I none can show;
Since you with loathsome Slops have Crowds destroy'd,
Whilst you your selves good wholsome Food enjoy'd;
Kill'd on, without regard to dying Groans,
And fill'd Church-Yards with your own Skeletons,
To Pains I'll doom ye, yet to Hell unknown,
Proportion'd to the hainious Ills you've done:
Such pois'nous Drenches shall you always swill,
As more and more torment, but never kill:
Each odious Draught shall still encrease your Hate,
And gripe you worse than Asnick does a Rat.
As close as barrel'd Figs you shall be cram'd,
Without the hopes of being e'er undamn'd:
There Purge, Spue, Piss, Sweat, to the worst degree,
And stink together to Eternity.

The Doctors at their Sentence hawk'd and spit,
The Apothecaries puk'd with meer conceit,
And with sad sickly Looks did humbly pray
The Court, they might be damn'd the common way:
The Judge to their Request had no regard,
But sent 'em to receive their just Reward.

CANTO VI.

These were succeeded by a numerous Throng,
Who scan'd their Paces as they march'd along,
Some in their Hands had Songs, and some Lampoons,
Some Read, whilst others Sung White-Fryars Tunes.

Amongst 'em, here and there, a stanch'd old Wit,
Who long had stood the Censure of the Pit,
Emphatically mouthing to the rest,
Some Madman's Rant, or some Fools barren Jest:
Repeating all things like a Man Inspir'd,
Storming or Smiling as the Sence requir'd.
Some who had Lyrick'd o'er a lucky Strain,
Look'd as if lately Rig'd in Drury-Lane;
Whilst others, banter'd by their Jilting Muse,
Appear'd in Thread-bare Coats and rusty Shooes,
Yet all had Swords hung on strange aukward ways,
From Poet Ninny to the worthy Bays;
Not wore as Soldiers do their Arms, to fight,
But for distinction, as an Author's Right,
Who tho' he hurts sometimes, yet hates to kill,
And never Wounds but with a Goose's Quill.

The mungril Sriblers, who could stand no Test,
Bow'd low with Veneration to the rest,
Entreating some grave Seignior to peruse,
A Leathern Satyr against Wooden Shooes;
Or else a Poem, praising to the Skies,
The Cook that first projected Farthing-Pies,
Crying it was not heighten'd to his Power,
Because he loosely writ it in an Hour;
The anngry Bard with sundry Trifles teaz'd,
Made it much worse, and then the Fool was pleas'd.

Some about preference of Wit fell out,
And made a Riot in the Rhiming Rout,

Wounding each other with Poetick Darts,
And rail'd like Billingsgates to show their Parts;
Each envious Wasp stung t'other at no rate,
Expressing not his Judgment, but his Hate.
Thus did the Partial Criticks all run Mad,
And fiercely strugl'd for what neither had;
As Whores their Reputations oft defend,
And for a Good Name, which they want, contend;
Whilst ev'ry stander-by the Feud derides,
Takes neither part, but ridicules both sides.
When round the Bar Apollo's Sons were spread,
And Proclamation was for Silence made.
Hell's Advocate began his just Report,
Op'ning their Accusations to the Court.

May't please your Lordship—
—these the Taglines are,
Who softly Write, and very hardly Fare;
They tune their Words as Tubal did his Shells,
And Chime 'em as a Green-Bird does his Bells:
Their Muses leisure wait, and Rave by fits,
By some call'd Madmen, by themselves call'd Wits;
Who, to improve, and please a vicious Age,
Lampoon'd the Pulpit, and debauch'd the Stage;
And with convincing Arguments profest,
Wit was best relish'd in a Bawdy Jest;
Writ wanton Songs would fire a Virgin's Blood,
And make her covet what's against her good:
Laid such obscene Intrigues in ev'ry Play,
That sent warm Youth with lustful Thoughts away.

And when thus guilty, a defence could urge,
And justifie those Ills they ought to scourge.

These are the Flatt'rers, who with fulsome Lies
Made Knaves seem honest, and rich Fools seem wise;
Misplac'd the Epithets, Great, Good, and Just,
Us'd them as Masks to cover Pride and Lust:
Virtues to each vain gilded Fop they gave,
Made Niggards Generous and Cowards Brave;
Found Charms and Graces for each homely She,
And highly prais'd each Jilt of Quality;
Made her all Beauty, Innocence Divine,
And like a Goddess in their Poems shine,
Who whilst they sung her Praise, in Fact was lewd,
And lawless Pleasures ev'ry Hour pursu'd;
If lib'ral of her Gold they'd give her Charms,
Thus sold their Praise as Heralds do their Arms.

The World they cheated into base Mistakes,
And gull'd 'em with a thousand Rhiming Knacks;
With Fancies, witty Flirts, and musing Dreams,
Extravagantly heighten'd to Extreams.
If Praise they writ, then ev'ry partial Line,
Shou'd make the Bristol Stone like Diamond Shine;
Or vouch a Nosegay of some Lady's Farts,
More fragrant than a Rose, to show their Parts.
Their Works are all false Mirrors, where Men see
Not what they are, but what they cannot be:
Such lushious Flatt'ries flowing from each Pen,
As make their Patrons Gods, not Mortal Men.

Thus some affecting Grandeur, by a Cheat
Are often made so Popular and Great.
As the proud Sapho did, by Parrots praise,
Himself above all Humane Glory raise;
And by his subtle and amusing Fraud,
Procur'd the Veneration of a God.
So are the Prisoners at the Bar (my Lords)
A jingling Consort of deceitful Birds,

Who sung about the World, like common Fame,
Hyperboles of Praise to each great Name,
And made those Actions Glorious which deserv'd but Shame.

The lewd Great Man, that banter'd Holy Writ,
And ridicul'd Religion, was a Wit;
For all things render'd able, tho' for nothing fit.

Sublime his Notions, and refin'd his Thoughts,
Their Dedications wip'd away all Blots,
And made the wild young Fop an Angel without Fau'ts.

The Patron of his Gold profusely free,
To indulge himself in his Debauchery,
Was generously Great, to a laudable degree.

If too much love of Money was his Vice,
He did the Pleasures of the World despise,
And was with them no less than Provident and Wise.

Tho' ne'er so vile, if th' Muses Friends they were,
For every Vice a Virtue shou'd appear,
Poems and Dedications kept their Honours clear.

If they writ Satyr, 'twas their only Care
To represent things blacker than they were;
Nay, clap a Sable Vizard on the brightest Fair:

Make the best Creatures to their Lash submit,
Render each Virtuous She a Counterfeit,
And Stile the Pious Virgin but a Hipocrite.

The saving Man as Niggard they'll accuse,
The gen'rous Worthy they can call Profuse,
Thus all that's Good and Just, when e'er they please, abuse.

The sober Student is a Bookish Dunce,
The Wit that's free spends too much Brains at once,
And he that's Brave or Bold, is but a Flash or Bounce.

Religion, when they please, is but a Trick,
The Priests are Hounds that hunt a Bishoprick,
Who for the same Reward wou'd truly serve Old Nick.

Thus Cause or Person, whether bad or good,
That in their biass'd Path of Interest stood,
Were without Merit prais'd, or falsly render'd Lewd.

Thus, may it please your Lordship, have I run
Thro' the chief Ills their biass'd Pens have done,
And must conclude, 'tis now the Bench's part
To give the Rhiming Paupers their desert.

Their Accusations being all made plain,
The Judge himself austerely thus began.

You who by Nature had such Gifts allow'd,
As rais'd your Minds above the common Crowd.
When thus enrich'd, to condescend so low
As stoop to Railing, or to Flatt'ry bow,
Shame on your Cow'rdly Souls, to so abuse
That Genius giv'n you for a nobler use.
To've heighten'd Virtue should have been your Task,
And show'd the Strumpet Vice without her Mask.
To've giv'n the Wise Respect, taught Fools more Wit,
Reprov'd, and not have rais'd vain Self-Conceit;
By Flatt'ring some for Int'rest, who abhor
Those very Virtues you have prais'd 'em for,
Whilst the Great Soul who true desert contains,
Is render'd Odious by your envious Pens.
For these Offences, which your Charge makes plain,
Destructive to the common Peace of Man,
This Sentence I Decree—

To Hell's remotest Caves ye shall be sent,
In woful Verse you shall your Crimes recant,
And Criticising Devils shall your Souls Torment.

Nay, further, to encrease your wretched State,
Shall write in praise of Bailiffs, whom you hate,
And humbly, in your Poems, stile 'em Good and Great.

Brisk Clarret, and th' obliging Miss dispraise;
Thus shall you Scribble 'gainst your Wills both ways,
And ev'ry Imp shall make Bumfodder of your Lays.

CANTO VII.

This Scene being ended, and the Poets gone,
After some space a new Parrade came on;
A Throng of angry Ghosts that next drew near,
Large as a Persian Army did appear;
Each to the rest show'd Envy in his Looks,
Some Writings in their Hands, some printed Books.
The learn'd Contents of which they knew no more,
Than the Calves Skins their sundry Volumes wore,
Down from the bulky Folio to the Twenty-Four.
As they press'd on, confus'dly in a Crowd,
Piracy, Piracy, they cry'd aloud,
What made you print my Copy, Sir, says one,
You're a meer Knave, 'tis very basely done.
You did the like by such, you can't deny,
And therefore you're as great a Knave as I.
By their own Words I found alike they were,
The Dev'l a Barrel better Herring there.
Printers, their Slayes, b'ing mix'd amongst the rest,
Betwixt 'em both arose a great Contest:

Th' ungrateful Bibliopoles swoln big with Rage,
Did thus their servile Typographs engage:
You Letter-picking Juglers at the Case,
And you Illit'rate Slaves that work at Press,
How dare you thus unlawfully invade
Our Properties, and trespass on our Trade,
Print Copies for your selves, and fill the Town,
Instead of ours, with Pamphlets of your own;
Publish upon your own Accounts each Day,
And buy our Authors off with better Pay?
How can you justifie such Wrongs as these,
When both, by right, shou'd bow your Heads and Knees,
To Write and Print for us, and at what rates we please?

This Arrogance inflam'd the Printing Crew,
And from their Tongues these sharp reflections drew:
Ye paultry Tribe, we bow our Heads to you!
Pray when, or how, became this Homage due?
What has possess'd your Noddles with this Dream?
Our Trade's an Art soars high i'th' World's esteem:
'Tis we the Labours of the Learn'd disperse,
And diffuse Knowledge thro' the Universe,
We give new Light, Obscurities remove,
All Sciences preserve, the same improve;
Which were it not for us would quickly die,
And must in dark Oblivion bury'd lie.
Nay, I may boldly say, the Church and State
Are by our means supported and made great:
Yet Gratitude obliges us to give,
Preference to Authors, 'tis by them we live.

We did at first, and still alone can do
Their Bus'ness, and no Aid require of you,
Who were at first but Hawkers, and no more,
Imploy'd to range the Town and Country o'er;
Travel'd with Asses to convey your Books,
And kept no Shop but Panniers, Bags, and Pokes.
Thus trudg'd to Markets, strol'd to ev'ry Fair,
Open'd your Wallets on the Ground, and there,
Amongst Hogs, Pigs, and Geese expos'd your learned Ware.
Thus you at first were neither more nor less,
Than servile Pedlars to the fruitful Press;
No Copies cou'd ye buy, no Charter boast,
But now alas, those good old Times are lost.

Corners of Streets, and Gateways in the Town,
Were chosen Places where your Stocks were shown;
There sate like Women with their Curds and Whey,
Had none, or very little Rent to pay:
Sold Ballads, Peny-Books, poor Fools to please,
Tom Thumb's old Tales, or such like Whims as these.
At last, by Time and Chance more prosp'rous made,
Leap'd into Shops, and so advanc'd your Trade;
As you grew Rich, still proving greater Knaves,
Made Authors Hacknies, and the Press your Slaves:
Why should we thus your Impositions bear,
Who rais'd you first to be what now you are?
Both, to our Grief, have been too long your Tools,
They sell their Brains like Asses, we our Pains like Fools.

This made the Libel-Venders Wrath run high,
They shew their Teeth, began a warm Reply;
But that the Cryer call'd 'em to the Bar,
And the Court's awe supprest their rising War,
They knew their Guilt, and humble rev'rence paid,
Then all their Evils were before 'em laid.
Thus says Hell's Council, I begin their Charge,
Whose Crimes Stupendious are, their number large.

My Lord—
These Sheepish Forms, who look so pale and wan,
Corrupted by a strong desire of Gain,
Kingdoms inflam'd, disturb'd the Peace of Man.
These were the discontented Statesman's Tools,
Who spread his Malice and impos'd on Fools;
Princes abus'd, against their Thrones inveigh'd,
Affronting Pow'rs by them should be obey'd.
Base mercenary Scriblers did imploy,
And when the Troubles of a State run high,
Pour'd in their Pamphlets, did the World bewitch,
With Paper-Engines still enlarg'd the Breach,
Regarding not the Right of either side,
But made the Mob's mistaken Zeal their Guide,
Observ'd which way the People's Whimsies run,
And follow'd them with Books to drive 'em on.
Would Treasonable Lyes accumulate
And pelt 'em at a weak declining State,
Oft to a King's undoing, or a Nation's Fate.
Printed both Pro and Con no matter what,
Serv'd that Cause most, where most was to be got.

No publick Ill could reach the End desir'd,
But their assistance must be first requir'd:
Were Midwives to designs of restless Men,
Which ought to've dy'd Abortives in the Brain.
With hurtful Whims they kept the World in play,
And introduc'd new Mischiefs ev'ry Day;
Which the blind Crowd believing were misled,
And still were greater Fools the more they read.
When things accru'd they'd to their Scribe repair,
Hid in some lofty Turret Lord knows where:
Where for small Pay, his mercenary Quill,
Robs some of their good Names, gives others ill,
Just as the Pris'ners at the Bar requir'd,
To rail at any thing he wou'd be hir'd,
Who, fond of what he Writes, thinks ev'ry Line inspir'd.
These Mungril Scriblers they imploy'd in spight,
To abuse Wits, and teaze 'em on to Write,
That Press and Booksellers might both get Money by't.
Kept 'em to raise up Jealousies and Fears,
And set Mankind together by the Ears,
As wifling Curs make Mastiffs oft engage,
And keep a yelping to foment their Rage.
But at a distance stand behind some Skreen,
And, like true Cowards, shun the dang'rous Scene.

Next these, my Lord, my Breviate does include
The blackest of all Crimes, Ingratitude,
Distinguish'd by so vile, so foul a Stain,
Hateful to Beasts, nay Devils, well as Men.

This Sin was epidemically spread,
And by long use corrupted all the Trade,
T'wards Authors practis'd most, by whom they got their Bread.
Which aggravates the Evil, and does make
Their sullied Consciences appear more black.

When the unwary forward Youth begins,
To trust his private Thoughts in publick Lines,
Large Promises they'd make to draw him in,
But their Performance he shou'd find but thin.
If's Writings pleas'd, they gently fed his Wants,
And tho' things Sold, yet vex'd him with Complaints,
Instead of giving him that due Reward
His Pains deserv'd, and they might well afford,
They'd means contrive to build him up a Score,
And find a thousand ways to keep him Poor.
When this was done, they'd awe him with their Frowns,
And buy him as their Slave by lent Half-Crowns;
Arrest him, plague him, thus should he be teas'd,
Unless he drudg'd and scribl'd as they pleas'd:
In Print abuse him, scourge him round the Town,
And make his Reputation like their own.
Thus did they feed on Author's teeming Brains,
And kept 'em Starving to Reward their Pains,
Whose Faculties decline, as Age creeps on,
And when their sprightly Thoughts are fled and gone,
They leave the helpless Wretches mis'rably undone.
So th' Magget in a Nut that long has fed,
And by the Kernel fat and fair is made,
Disdains the empty Shell wherein he first was bred.

Next these, my Lord, themselves could not agree,
Or could they honest to each other be,
But one anothers Properties invade,
To th' scandal and the damage of their Trade.
He that to's own Fraternity is base,
Can ne'er be just, whilst Int'rest's in the Case;
But will for mercenary Ends pursue
The worst of Ills that's in his Power to do:
An Adage has declar'd, the Bird, at best,
Is but an ill one that befouls his Nest.
As such Ill Birds, my Lord, for such they are,
I represent the Pris'ners at the Bar,
To reward these their Crimes deserves your Lordship's Care.

Th' impartial Judge deliberation took,
And when determin'd, thus he gravely spoke.

You who before me do Convicted stand,
Of publick Mischiefs to your Native Land,
Besides Ingratitude, Fraud, Piracy,
Unreasonable Gain, and Calumny,
Souls blacken'd with such deep infernal Stains,
I'm bound to punish with the greatest Pains.
Beneath the Poets shall your Station be,
From their Invectives you shall ne'er be free:
With burning Satyrs they shall sting your Souls,
As Farmers do their Hogs, or Cooks their Fowls.
Pamphlets and Plays shall make your flaming Pile,
And Author's Dung shall baste you as you broil.

And there for ever to encrease your Woes,
Read O**d***'s dull Rhimes, or Sh***y's Prose.

A trembling Bookseller amidst the Crowd,
When Sentence was pronounc'd, cry'd out aloud,
Ah! Neighbours, Neighbours, wou'd we'd honest been,
Why what a sad Condition are we in!
Poets you know were such faint-hearted Wretches,
That when their Plays were damn'd they'd foul their Breeches.
Indeed I dread them most of all our Evils,
For now they're damn'd themselves they'll drip like Devils.

CANTO VIII.

Next came a jolly Troop of staggering Sots,
Arm'd, some with Glasses, some with Pewter Pots;
Who round their Hips had azure Ensigns ty'd,
Put on for use, but hanging low for Pride.
Some who were bound the bleeding Grape to thank,
Had Noses dy'd with Noble Juice they'd drank.
Others crept after, whose Consumptive Looks,
Were paler far than either Smiths or Cooks;
Who wanting strength of Nature for their Trade,
B' excess of Wine meer Skeletons were made.
Amongst the rest some bulky Forms appear'd,
Huge strenuous Souls to be admir'd and fear'd;
Each at his Middle had a sharp ground Adds,
Looking like Giants that oppos'd the Gods.

Some Nippers in their Hands, as if they meant
To catch the Devil's Nose, as did the Saint.
As they went on amongst the Tipling Train,
About Precedence some Disputes began;
The Hogshead Drummers, who to please the Mob,
Can make such Musick with an empty Tub,
Took some distaste, their friendly Union broke,
And thus in Anger to the Vintners spoke,
Have we taught you the Practical Deceits,
Of Cider, Stum, the Whites of Eggs, and Sweets,
How to Ferment, to Rack, to Mix and Fine,
And all your pretty Knacks and Tricks with Wine.
And shall you now in this presume to show
Such Skill as we, who taught you what we know,
Pretend Priority, take th' upper-hand,
And think us servile Tools at your Command;
No, you shall find that we have so much Wit,
To reserve some things never told you yet:
Such secret Tricks that with your selves we play,
Practis'd in Merchants Cellars ev'ry Day.
Since we in managing of Wines know most,
You ought to give us the precedent Post.

The Vintners to the Coopers thus reply'd,
Struting like Turkey-Cocks in all their Pride,
Can you, proud Slaves, of us precedence ask,
Whose bus'ness chiefly is to Hoop our Cask,
Our Vaults and Cellars in due order keep,
And watch our Pipes and Butts they do not sweep?

Tho' you're thus Prodigal, we'd have you know;
Our Station is above, and yours below;
We use no Arts to adulterate our Wine,
Or with pernicious Slip-Slops make it fine.
We only mix'd together Strong and Small,
And gave 'em Natures course to rise and fall.
The Coopers, what the Vintners urg'd, deny'd,
And in a mighty Passion swore they Ly'd.
Just as the swelling Feud thus high was grown,
And pointed Words were at each other thrown,
The Cryer call'd the Pris'ners to the Bar,
The Vintners answer'd, Coming, Coming, Sir.
When round the Court the Toping Crew were spread,
Their sinful Charge was thus exhibited.

May't please your Lordship—
The num'rous throng of Fuddle-Caps, that here
Promiscuously before the Bar appear,
On others ruine have themselves enrich'd,
And with their charming Juice the World bewitch'd.
Crowds of poor Mortals in a Year they slew,
With base adulterated Stuffs they drew;
Impos'd on Customers when Drunk and Mad,
And with good Words wou'd put off Wine that's bad.
If fault, altho' deservedly, was found,
They'd tell ye, if they search'd the Cellar round,
They have no better, but with all their Heart,
Will change it for a strong or smaller sort
May please you better, but with some new Name
Wou'd bring the cred'lous Bubble back the same,

And falsly swear his Pallat is amiss,
If he finds fault with such kind Wine as this,
For that to please his Taste he'd broach'd a fresher Piece.
Kept Cider in their Vaults with ill Design,
Yet vow they never mix but Wine with Wine;
Bought Eggs by Hundreds for their Cellars use,
The Yolks made Puddings, but the Whites for Juice.
For common Wine, unreasonably would ask
Six-Pence the more because 'twas in a Flask,
Bound with large Wickers, fill'd with heavy Port,
Sold for French Claret, wanting of a Quart.
And that their Crimes a deeper dye should take,
Ingratitude made all their Actions black;
For him wh' amongst 'em his Estate had spent,
When Poverty had brought him to repent
His Follies past, the Gainers in the end,
Would blame him most, and be the least his Friend.
Thus, says Hell's Pleader, I my Charge conclude,
And to your Lordship leave the Tipling Multitude.
The Judge sum'd up, in a short Speech, their Sins,
And then the Culprits Doom he thus begins.

For Evils done above, from whence you came,
Infernal Fevers shall your Souls inflame;
Eternal Drowth upon your Tongues shall dwell,
And all be fetter'd near an empty Well;
Fine Rivers at a distance shall you see,
Burnt Brandy shall your only Liquor be,
And in this State remain to all Eternity.

The End of the Second Part.