A Preparative to Study:
Or, the Virtue of Sack.
Written in the Year 1641.
Fetch me Ben Johnson's Skull, and fill't with Sack,
Rich as the same he drank, when all the pack
Of jolly Sisters pledg'd, and did agree,
It was no Sin to be as drunk as he;
If there be any Weakness in the Wine,
There's Virtue in the Cup to make't Divine.
This muddy Drench of Ale does taste too much
Of Earth, the Malt retains a scurvy touch
Of the dull Hind that sow'd it, and I fear
There's Heresy in Hops; give Calvin Beer,
And his precise Disciples, such as think
There's Powder-Treason in all Spanish Drink,
Call Sack an Idol: we will kiss the Cup,
For fear their Conventicle be blown up
With Superstition: away with Brew-house Alms,
Whose best Mirth is Six-shilling Beer and Psalms.
Let me rejoice in sprightly Sack, that can
Create a Brain ev'n in an empty Pan.
Canary! it is thou that dost inspire
And actuate the Soul with Heavenly Fire.
Thou that sublim'st the Genius, mak'st the Wit
Scorn Earth, and such as love or live by it;
Thou mak'st us Lords of Regions large and fair,
While our pleas'd Thoughts build Castles in the Air.
Since Fire, Earth, Air, thus thy Inferiors be,
Henceforth I'll know no Elements but thee.
Welcome thou Juice Divine! Mankind's Delight;
By thee my gladsom Muse begins her Flight:
I would not leave thee, Sack, to be with Jove,
His Nectar is but feign'd, but I, blest I, do prove
Thy more essential Worth. I am methinks
In the Exchequer now, hark how it chinks:
I now esteem my venerable Self
As brave a Fellow as if all that Pelf
Were sure mine own, and I have thought a way
Already how to spend it; I would pay
No Debts, but fairly empty every Trunk;
And change the Gold for Sack to keep me drunk,
To keep me drunk, until Spain's gen'rous Wine
So seiz'd my Crown, that th'Indies too were mine.
And when my Brains are once afloat (Heav'n bless us)
I think my self a better Man than Crœsus.
I fancy now my self to be a Judg,
And coughing, laugh, to see the Clients trudg
After my Lordship's Coach unto the Hall
For Justice, and am full of Law withal,
And do become the Bench as well as he
That fled of late for want of Honesty.
But I'll be Judg no longer, tho in jest,
For fear I shou'd be talk'd with like the rest.
When I am sober, who can chuse but think
Me wise, that am so wary in my Drink?
O admirable Sack! here's dainty Sport,
I am come back from Westminster to Court,
And am grown young again, my Ptysick now
Hath left me, and my Judges graver Brow
Is smooth'd, and I turn'd amorous as May,
When she invites young Lovers forth to play
Upon her flowry Bosom; I cou'd win
A Vestal now, or tempt a Saint to sin.
O, for a score of Queens! you'd laugh to see
How they wou'd strive, which first shou'd ravish me.
Three Goddesses were nothing: Sack has tipt
My Tongue with Charms like those which Paris sipt
From Venus, when she taught him how to kiss
Fair Helen, and invite a farther Bliss.
Mine is Canary-Rhetorick, that alone
Would turn Diana to a burning Stone,
Stone with Amazement burning with Love's Fire,
Hard to the Touch, but short in her Desire.
Inestimable Sack! thou mak'st us rich,
Wise, amorous, any thing; I have an itch
To t'other Cup, and that perchance will make
Me valiant too, and quarrel for thy sake.
If I be once inflam'd against thy Foes,
That would preach down thy Worth in Small-beer Prose,
I shall do Miracles, as bad or worse,
Than he that gave the King a hundred Horse:
I'm in the North already; Lesley's dead,
He that wou'd rise, carry the King his Head,
And tell him (if he ask, who kill'd the Scot)
I knock'd his Brains out with a pottel Pot.
Out ye rebellious Vipers, I'm come back
From thence again, because there's no good Sack:
T'other odd Cup, and I shall be prepar'd
To snatch at Stars, and pluck down a Reward
With my own Hands from Jove upon their Back,
That are, or Charles's Foes, or Foes to Sack.
Let it be full, and if I chance to spill,
Over my Standish by the way, I will,
Dipping in this Diviner Ink my Pen,
Write my self sober, and fall to't again.
