A satyr Against Wine :: :: University of Virginia Library

A satyr Against Wine

With a poem In praise of Small Beer. Written by a Gentleman in a Fever, occasion'd by Hard Drinking [by Edward Ward]

Ward, Edward (1667-1731)

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A SATYR Against WINE, &c.

Bacchus be Damn'd, and all his Drunken Brood,
His pois'nous Juices viciate the Blood,
And since the Revolution, ne'er were good.

Wine, with Abhorence I pronouce thy Name,
Th'Infernal Spirits does my Heart inflame,
Like Hell you punish, and from Hell you came.

The Devil sure first taught Mankind the Use
Of this bewitching and destructive Juice,
And by its Means, did Adam first seduce.

Satan sure drank to Eve, and when she found
The pleasing Bumper had her Senses drown'd,
She drank to Adam, so the Cup went round:

'Till the strong Fumes had both their Brains possest;
Then Eve, with Head on Adam's loving Breast,
Both Kind and Tipsie, lull'd themselves to Rest.

But Eve first waking, when the Morn appear'd,
Her aching Head from Adam's Bosom rear'd,
And to the Heav'nly Fruit, her Course she steer'd;

With scorching Stomach, and a parboil'd Mouth,
She pull'd an Apple to asswage her Drouth,
Cool her parch'd Throat, and please her Liquorish Tooth.

When the kind Dame the sweet Refreshment found,
She then consider'd, (as in Duty bound,)
Both must be Dry, since both alike were Drown'd:

And in her Hand convey'd a cooling Tast
To Drouthy Adam, who with eager hast
Swallow'd the Bait, forgetful 'till 'twas past:

For had not Wine their Senses first betray'd,
They'd never for an Apple disobey'd,
And for a Trifle, lost their Heav'nly Shade.

Thus Wine originally prov'd a Curse;
Old Nick first gave it an Infernal Force;
But Modern Vintners make it ten time worse.

When the vile Juice o'er Reason does prevail,
Against the Laws of Heaven we rebel,
And headlong steer a vicious Course t'wards Hell;

Where the first Grapes maliciously were bruis'd
And evil Spirits in their Juice infus'd,
That Man might wicked grow where e'er 'twas us'd.

Wine heats the Blood, and raises loose Desires;
Improves the Object, and the Heart inspires,
Not with Loves gentle, but with raging Fires.

Each Lustful Thought with treble Force revives,
Such as consumes our Healths, torments our Lives,
And Works the Downfal of our Neighbours Wives.

In short, 'tis the Original of Lust,
No Maudlin Maid or Wife, tho' ne'er so Just,
Can their own Vertue or Discretion trust.

Wine Captivates our Senses by Surprize,
And makes us, when we're Drunk, tho' ne'er so Wise,
Open our Hearts, and the Fair Sex their Thighs.

With vain Conceit it fills the empty Skull;
It turns the Wit into an Apish Fooll,
And makes him e'ery Wise Man's Ridicule.

It injures Health, and swallows up our Hours;
It spends our Coin, and magnifies our Scores,
And makes us Cullies to designing Whores.

When once our Noddles are inflam'd with Wine,
Its wicked Spirits do our Hearts incline
To e'ery Lude and Scandalous Design.

It makes us sometimes Merry, somtimes Mad,
Excessive Angry, or extreamly Glad;
Good Humour'd to a Fault, or Dev'lish Bad.

It breeds Disputes, and Friendship oft destroys;
It makes us Ranting, Wrangling, Roaring Boys,
And turns all Conversation into Noise.

It raises Discord in a Marry'd Life;
Turns Love, thro' Misconstructions, into Strife,
And makes the waspish Drunkard beat his Wife.

It spurs on Time, and hastens our Decay;
It causes us to Business oft delay,
And makes us turn the Night into the Day.

Flux'd with Excess of Wine, we Spawl and Spit;
Stagger and Vomit in the publick Street,
And Jostle e'ery stubborn Post we meet:

Yet in our own Conceits, we're wond'rous Wise,
And Damn the Sober Coxcomb that denies
To be a Partner in our Drunken Joys;

Confound those Guides, who labour to remove
The Beastly Vice we Toaping Sots approve,
And Laugh to hear them rail at what we Love.

It dims the Sight, and weakens Nature's Springs;
Whole Families it oft to Beg'ry brings,
Yet makes us in our Thoughts as Great as Kings.

It fires the Body, and distracts the Head;
It brought the Stroutest Hero to his Bed,
And struck the Macedonian Conqu'ror Dead.

It caus'd the Persian King his Bow to bend,
And in a Rage his Cruelty extend
To the lov'd Son of his peculiar Friend.

Inflam'd with Wine, the frantick Tyrant made
The Youth advance his Hand above his Head,
Then aiming at his Heart, he Shot him Dead.

Excess of Wine degenerates the Soul;
Ripens our Passions, but does Reason dull,
And makes us neither fit to serve nor rule.

Wine makes the Master in Extreams appear,
Either too lenetive or too severe,
Too cruel there, or too forgiving here.

It causes Slaves and Servants to betray;
To contradict, rebel, and disobey,
And turn their Working Seasons into Play.

It makes them sausy, proud, incontinent,
Vicious, unfaithful, cross, and negligent,
And with their Fellow-servants, turbulent.

It makes the Vinter quarrel with his Guest;
It taps the Secrets of the closest Breast,
And turns the nicest Beau into a Beast.

It makes Small Fools talk rudely of the Great:
It addles e'ery busy Coxcomb's Pate,
And makes rebellious Sots arraign the State.

It makes each diff'rent Party vent their Spight,
And take wrong Methods to dispute the Right
Of things beyond their shallow Reason's Sight.

It makes the angry Whig his Venom Spew,
And brand the Chruch and State with things untrue,
Denying God and Cæsar both their Due.

The Quaker o'er the Product of the Vine,
Believes his inward Light does brighter shine,
When 'tis alass the Devil and the Wine.

Visions of Angels round his Bed he sees,
Who speak strange things, then vanish by degrees,
As Sleep removes the frensical Disease.

But would the Pious Saint his Dreams declare,
Rais'd by the drouthy Dregs of Wine, I fear
The World would find they were about Small-Beer.

When warm'd with Wine, it is the Zealot's Pride
To think themselves to Heav'n near ally'd,
And when most Drunk, to seem most Sanctify'd:

Religion talk, whilst they her Precepts break,
Praise God in Taverns, till so Drunk and Weak,
They scarce can Stand, and labour hard to Speak:

Yet rail at all Excesses, like a Priest;
Condemn the Drunkard for a Shameful Beast,
Yet drink themselves like Misers at a Feast.

So the Kind Sex, to keep their Tongues in Play,
Will oft against the willing Dame inveigh,
Yet practise what they rail at e'ery Day.

Wine makes the Atheist spend his flashy Wit
In jesting with the Truths that Heaven has writ,
And branding all Religion for a Cheat.

And when the Fumes into his Cranium dance,
They do the Athiestick Principle advance,
That all was but the Wond'rous Work of Chance.

Sure e'ery reigning Vice, and damning Sin,
O'er the curs'd Bottle, did at first begin,
And we had ne'er been wicked, but for Wine:

For when we're Drunk, we by Experience find,
By the Vile Juice, we strongly are inclin'd
To run astray, and please the vicious Mind.

Some in their Cups do their Revenge pursue;
Some Game, and some their Love to Women shew;
We all when Drunk, have further Sins in view.

Other so passionate and noisie are,
They Rave, Talk Lewdly, Hector, Roar, and Swear,
And scare are fit Companious for a Bear.

The shifting Bully does in Tavern Rant,
With his Crown gain'd by vent'ring a Lavant,
And the next Morrow must a Dinner want.

Each Coxcomb flush'd with Money, must have Wine,
At Pontack's, Locket's, or the Blue-posts Dine,
Spend all one Day, and then the next repine.

The very Jilt, if you her Favours want,
Thinks it strange Impudence the Bliss to grant,
'Till Wine has made her ripe for a Gallant;

And then whatever Ills she does or says,
Upon the wicked Wine the Fault she lays,
And still dare speak in her own Vertue's praise.

The modest Maid that struggles with Love's Dart,
And is asham'd her Passion to impart,
Give her but Wine, you have at once her Heart.

Wine charms the Senses, and does Reason drown;
Oft by its Hellish Force, those Ills we've done,
To which, when Sober, we were never prone.

The Devil's Agents, that our Hearts incline
To Sin, and draw us off from things Divine,
Sure never enter Man, but with his Wine.

The Imps, for certain, love a Vintner's Cell,
Mix with their Wines, and in their Hogsheads dwell
And as we drink, they tempt us on t'wards Hell.

For should our Minds, when Sober, but recall
Into what wicked Freaks we sometimes fall,
We needs must think we drank the Dev'l and all.

Go Hellish Juice with thy Infernal Charms;
In thee Adult'rous Spirits flow in Swarms,
And make us hug Destruction in our Arms.

'Tis when thy curs'd, bewitching Fumes aspire,
That robb'd of Reason, we to Stews retire,
And scorch our Bodies with venereal Fire.

Hence forward I'll abhor thy poys'nous Taste;
No more large Sums will I profusely waste,
To be an idle Spendthrift Tavern-Guest.

No more will I my precious Minutes spend,
To that vain prodigal expensive End,
Of only being thought thy Drunken Friend.

Where e'er thou'rt drawn, those Mansion's I'll decline,
And deal no more with those that deal in Wine,
Who value not the Spendthrift, but his Coin.

Farewel, from thy Enchantments I am free,
Sober and Chast I'll live, that Friends may see
No Mortal without Wine can wicked be.

A POEM In PRAISE of Small Beer, &c.

Debauch'd o'er Night with base Adult'rous Wine,
From Apples squeez'd, and Tinctur'd with the Vine,
Mix'd by damn'd Coopers, and by Art made fine:

Next Morning I awake with aching Head,
And drouthy Intrails parboil'd in my Bed,
By that Fooll's-bane, sophisticated Red.

Inflam'd and Sick, as if my End drew near,
I Curse the Poyson that I bought so dear,
And call aloud for Heav'nly Small Beer.

Then the Jug's brought, that holds at least a Quart;
The soothing Dose delights my flaming Heart,
And cools my Inside by a Belch or Fart.

It quenches and expels those fiery Seeds
Which Wine fomenting with our Choler breeds,
And qualifies those Fumes that heat our Heads.

When drouthy made by Costive Wine's Excess,
What Orator or Poet can express
With how much Peasure I the Jug embrace?

Rais'd in my Bed, I hug the Darling close,
Kiss his cool Brims, and whelm him o'er my Nose,
And bless the hissing Draught as down it goes.

Poyson'd with Wine o'er Night, as I next Day
Scorching and raving in a Fever lay,
A Grave Physician did his Visit pay.

Doctor, Avaunt, bring me a Tun, said I,
Of good Small Beer; I am not Sick but Dry,
And whilst that lasts, I'm sure I cannot Die.

He felt my nimble Pulse, then shook his Head;
You're dang'rous Ill, said he, and must be Bled:
Give me Small Beer, said I, or I am Dead.

Then Nosing of his Cane, he paus'd a while;
Small Beer, cry'd he, Come, come, it cannot Kill;
Nurse, bring a Jug-full, let him drink his Fill.

Bless me, thought I, what Comfort do I hear,
Who can the ill Effects of Clarret fear,
That in a Fever is allow'd Small Beer.

One hearty Guzzel did my Body heal,
In e'ery Gulp I did such Pleasures feel;
I drank a Gallon, slept, and so grew Well.

Dear sober Liquor, I adore thy Name;
Wine makes me Mad, but thou can'st keep me Tame,
And art the Drink of e'ery Vertuous Dame.

The ingrateful Sots that so applaud the Vine,
And damn thee, do the Bottle oft resign,
To drink thee with more Pleasure than their Wine.

You make us neither act nor speak amiss,
But your Admirers you preserve in Peace,
And keep Men temp'rate, and their Minds at Ease.

Wine's always dear, altho' excessive naught;
But good Small Beer at small Expence is bought;
A Brewer's Gallon does not cost a Groat.

Had not Small Beer been drank in Times of Yore,
And Temperance preserv'd the Miser's Store,
We'd had no Alms-House for the starving Poor.

Had not Old Ask thought tipling Wine a Guilt,
And savingly drank Tiff upon the Tilt,
His Hogsdon-Hospital had ne'er been Built.

Spendthirfts and Rakes may to the Tavern steer,
And drown two Annual Incomes in one Year;
But they that would be Rich, must drink Small Beer.

The drouthy Hero, that was tir'd with Slaughter,
Who drank his Helmet full of Frogs-spawn Water,
And did so highly praise the Puddle a'ter;

Could he but then have fill'd his War-like Beaker
With fresh Small Beer, he'd quench'd his Drouth much quicker,
And must have prais'd the Gods for such good Liquor.

Diog'nes, who with Roots supply'd his Hunger,
Had he had Mault, would have drank Stream no longer,
But good Small Beer, which is but little stronger.

Nor had Anacreon been his own Undoing,
By swallowing a Grape-stone without Chewing,
Had he but understood the Art of Brewing:

And from destructive Pagan Wine dessented,
To've been but with good Table Beer contented,
The sad Mischance had surely been prevented.

Had Seneca, whose Temp'rance we admire,
But known the sober Vertues of Small Beer,
He'd ne'er have drank cold Water all the Year.

The Rural Swain, whose Labours make him Dry,
Does to his Scithe the Leather Bottle ty,
And cannot Work, unless Small Beer be by.

The Country Maid, who looks so fresh and gay,
Can conquer Love, and Marriage long delay,
By drinking such cool Liquor every Day.

It does no head-strong, foollish Passions breed;
Neither provokes the Tail, or heats the Head;
Sobri'ty is from all such Evils freed.

It long preserves our Senses, and our Sight;
It keeps our Bodies and our Minds upright,
And is each drouthy Mortal's chief Delight.

In wicked Times, when Pop'ry did prevail,
Her Brawny Priests drank new unwholsome Ale,
For want of Hops to keep their Liquor stale.

Which fragrant Flow'r to England scarce was known,
Their foggy Drink was Brew'd of Malt alone,
Till Hall reform'd the Church, and Bess the Throne.

Thus when the Papal Pow'r began to sink,
Then Hops came in, as Learned Authors think;
And by their Vertues, much reform'd our Drink.

Now Stout, Old Nog, and Pharaoh, came in play,
Whose Dregs in Drunken Stomachs broiling lay,
And brought Small Beer in high Esteem next Day.

Which kept the Sound in Health, gave Sick Men Ease,
And gain'd such Approbation by degrees,
That its pert Taste did e'ery Pallate please.

By sober Men, at all times 'tis approv'd;
By drouthy Sots i'th' Morning, 'tis belov'd,
And at our Meals, round e'ery Table shov'd.

Women admire it, 'cause it breeds no Fray;
But lets our Wits, our Tongues, and Passions sway,
And does no Love-Intrigues, like Wine, betray.

It's highly priz'd by all that are precise,
Because (as 'tis well noted by the Wise)
It did at first with Reformation rise.

Wise Men approve it, 'cause it makes them keep
Their active Tongues from any idle Slip;
And pinch-gut Misers doat on't, 'cause it's cheap.

The Poor with Pleasure gaze on't when it smiles,
And in laborious Sweats, at leisure whiles,
Palliate by cool refreshing Draughts, their Toils.

To Generation, 'tis a Friend; for where
Do Children in such num'rous Broods appear,
As in mean Families, that drink Small Beer?

Whilst those that feed on Dainties that are fine,
And much impair their nat'ral Strength with Wine,
Do very oft for want of Heirs, repine.

It cools our Veins, and gives our Spirits Rest,
Preserves from Love the forward Virgin's Breast,
And keeps the charming Lass with slender Wast.

Whilst merry Dames, that are to Drinking prone,
And daily to the Strong Beer Barrel run,
Get blubber Cheeks, and Bellies like a Tun.

The Beaus prefer it to the Juice of Grapes,
Because by drinking Tiff, the pale-fac'd Apes
Keep their Complexions, and preserve their Shapes.

Whilst Brawny Sots, that to the Tavern steer,
With fiery Faces, almost scinge their Hair,
And like squab Elephants in Bulk appear.

It's also highly priz'd on Board of Ship,
Nor does it only cool the drouthy Lip,
But by the Help of Brandy, makes rare Flip.

Tho' home-bred Sots miscal it nasty Flegm,
In all hot Countries, 'tis in great Esteem,
And valu'd in the Indies like a Gem.

In our West Islands, where no Winter's known,
Which broiling lye within the Torrid Zone,
There due Respect to English Beer is shown.

Of Strong Medera Wine, 't'as got the Start,
Because it cools the Liver and the Heart,
And is advanc'd to Fifteen Pence a Quart.

Could they but there such wholsome Liquor Brew,
Declining Transports might their Healths renew,
And not expire so fast as now they do.

But with Small Beer, alas, they're never blest,
Except we send them now and then a Taste;
And when they want, they're scorch'd alive at best.

With Water warm'd by th'Sun, they rince their Guts,
Fetch'd from afar in Caravans and Boats,
Whilst we have cool Small Beer to bless our Throats.

Besides, it much improves our Forreign Trade;
Is for the Use of distant Regions made,
And by our Shipping, o'er the World convey'd.

Where e'er it's wafted, 'tis approv'd by all,
Does the rich Planters in Barbadoes cool,
And brings back Spanish Plate to Liverpool.

Since the good Liquor is abroad desir'd,
And wheresoever carry'd, much admir'd,
'Tis strange we should at home be with it tir'd.

In England sure 'tis a notorious Fault,
That we French Wine above good Beer exalt,
Since France would gladly barter Grapes for Malt.

Let hot-brain'd Fools th'expensive Tavern use,
Lavish their Money, and their Healths abuse,
Delights more sober I resolve to chuse.

The Pleasures of a studious Life I'll try;
When tir'd with Books, some lonely Walk enjoy,
And only drink Small Beer when I am Dry.

For no Delights that do the Crowd ensnare,
Deriv'd from Bacchus, or the charming Fair,
Can with a thoughtful sober Life compare.

FINIS.