All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet Being Sixty and three in Number. Collected into one Volume by the Author [i.e. John Taylor]: With sundry new Additions, corrected, reuised, and newly Imprinted |
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A Drunkard.
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 | All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet |  |
5
A Drunkard.
The Argvment.
A madnesse dearely bought with losse of fame,Of credit and of manly reputation:
A cursed purchase of disease and shame,
Of death, and a great hazard of Damnation:
Jn all that's bad, the diuel's onely Ape,
Worse then a beast, in the best manly shape.
This fellow with the dropsie growne as big,
And much more beastly then a Sow with pig,
His cheekes like Boreas swolne, he blow'd and puft,
His paunch like to a woolpack cram'd and stuft:
And by the meanes of what he swil'd and gul'd,
Hee look'd like one that was three quarters mul'd.
His breath compounded of strong English Beere,
And th'Indian drug would suffer none come neere.
From side to side he staggered as he went,
As if he reeling did the way indent.
One skirt of's cloake scarce reacht vnto his waste,
The other dragging in the dirt he trac'd.
His very braines within his head were stew'd,
And look'd so crimson colour'd scarlet hew'd,
As 'twere an Jgnis fatuus, or a comet.
His garments stunke most sweetly of his vomit.
Fac'd with the tap-lash of strong Ale and Wine,
Which from his slau'ring chaps doth oft decline,
In truth he look'd as red as any coale,
And bellied like vnto a mare with foale:
With hollow eyes, and with the palsie shaking,
And gouty legs with too much liquor taking.
This valiant pot-leach, that vpon his knees
Has drunke a thousand pottles vp se freese,
Such pickled phrases he had got in store,
As were vnknowne vnto the times of yore:
As when he drinkes out all the totall summe,
Gaue it the stile of supernagullum,
And when he quaffing doth his entrailes wash,
Tis call'd a bunch, a thrust, a whiffe, a flash:
And when carousing makes his wits to faile,
They say he hath a rattle at his taile,
And when his wits are in the wetting shrunke,
You may not say hee's drunke though he be drunke,
For though he be as drunke as any Rat,
He hath but catcht a Foxe, or whipt the Car.
Or some say hee's bewitcht, or scratcht, or blinde,
(Which are the fittest tearmes that I can finde.
Or seene the Lyons, or his nose is dirty,
Or hee's pot-shaken, or out, two and thirty.
And then strange languages comes in his head,
When he wants English how to goe to bed:
And though t'were fit the swine should in his ftye be,
He spewes out latine with prohibitibi.
Which is, prouide for Tiburne (as I take it)
Or if it be not, he may chance to make it.
Then Irish Shachatwhorum from him flees,
And halfe a dozen welch me Uatawhees:
Vntill hee falls asleepe he skinks and drinkes,
And then like to a Bore he winkes, and stinkes.
This Cormorant in one day swallowes more,
Then my poore Esacus doth in a score.
For mine but once a day doth take his fill,
The drunkard, night and day doth quaffe and swill,
Drinke was ordain'd to length mans fainting breath,
And from that liquor, Drunkards draw their death:
Displeasing God, the diuell he onely pleases,
And drinkes with others healths, his owne diseases.
And in the end, contempt and shame's his share,
The whil'st a Tapster is his onely Heire.
Thus drinke's a wrastler that giues many a fall,
To death, to beggery and slauish thrall.
And drunkennesse a wilfull madnesse is,
That throwes men to Hels bottomlesse abisse.
For why, where Drunkennesse is mistris there,
Sobriety can hardly maistry beare:
And 'tis no question but the Land hath drown'd,
More men with drinke, then Seas did e're confound.
Wine is Earth's bloud, which from her breast doth spring,
And (well vs'd) is a comfortable thing,
But if abused from it then beginnes,
Most horrible notorious crying sinnes.
As Murther, Lechery, Ebrietie,
Gods wrath, damnation in varietie:
For hee that is a Drunkard, is the summe,
And abstract of all mischiefes that can come.
It wasts him soule and body, life and limb.
My Cormorant's a sober beast to him.
He that perswades a man to steale or lye,
To sweare, or to commit adultery,
To stab or murther any man that liues,
Can it be said that hee good counsell giues?
And hee that tempts and forces men to drinke,
Perswades a man to damne himselfe, I thinke,
For drunken men haue into dangers run,
Which (being sober) they would ne're haue done.
I take them for no friends that giue me Wine,
To turne me from a man vnto a swine,
To make me void of manners, sense, or reason,
To abuse God, blaspheming odious treason,
To hurt my soule and body, fame and purse,
To get the diuell, and gaine Gods heauy curse.
Though many take such for their friends to bee,
I wish them hang'd that are such Friends to mee:
For greater enemies there cannot dwell
In the whole world, nor in the bounds of hell.
Good friendly drinking I account not euill,
But much carousing, which makes man a diuell,
Wanting the priuiledge that hath a horse,
And to be vrg'd and forc'd to drinke perforce.
For why a horse this gouernment hath still,
Drinkes what he will, and not against his will.
And he that that good rule doth ouer-passe,
Hath lesse discretion then a Horse or Asse,
And any man that doth this temp rance want,
Is a worse glutton then my Cormorant.
And much more beastly then a Sow with pig,
His cheekes like Boreas swolne, he blow'd and puft,
His paunch like to a woolpack cram'd and stuft:
And by the meanes of what he swil'd and gul'd,
Hee look'd like one that was three quarters mul'd.
His breath compounded of strong English Beere,
And th'Indian drug would suffer none come neere.
From side to side he staggered as he went,
As if he reeling did the way indent.
One skirt of's cloake scarce reacht vnto his waste,
The other dragging in the dirt he trac'd.
His very braines within his head were stew'd,
And look'd so crimson colour'd scarlet hew'd,
As 'twere an Jgnis fatuus, or a comet.
His garments stunke most sweetly of his vomit.
Fac'd with the tap-lash of strong Ale and Wine,
Which from his slau'ring chaps doth oft decline,
In truth he look'd as red as any coale,
And bellied like vnto a mare with foale:
With hollow eyes, and with the palsie shaking,
And gouty legs with too much liquor taking.
This valiant pot-leach, that vpon his knees
Has drunke a thousand pottles vp se freese,
Such pickled phrases he had got in store,
As were vnknowne vnto the times of yore:
As when he drinkes out all the totall summe,
Gaue it the stile of supernagullum,
And when he quaffing doth his entrailes wash,
Tis call'd a bunch, a thrust, a whiffe, a flash:
And when carousing makes his wits to faile,
They say he hath a rattle at his taile,
And when his wits are in the wetting shrunke,
You may not say hee's drunke though he be drunke,
For though he be as drunke as any Rat,
He hath but catcht a Foxe, or whipt the Car.
Or some say hee's bewitcht, or scratcht, or blinde,
(Which are the fittest tearmes that I can finde.
Or seene the Lyons, or his nose is dirty,
Or hee's pot-shaken, or out, two and thirty.
And then strange languages comes in his head,
When he wants English how to goe to bed:
And though t'were fit the swine should in his ftye be,
He spewes out latine with prohibitibi.
Which is, prouide for Tiburne (as I take it)
Or if it be not, he may chance to make it.
Then Irish Shachatwhorum from him flees,
And halfe a dozen welch me Uatawhees:
Vntill hee falls asleepe he skinks and drinkes,
And then like to a Bore he winkes, and stinkes.
This Cormorant in one day swallowes more,
Then my poore Esacus doth in a score.
For mine but once a day doth take his fill,
The drunkard, night and day doth quaffe and swill,
Drinke was ordain'd to length mans fainting breath,
And from that liquor, Drunkards draw their death:
Displeasing God, the diuell he onely pleases,
And drinkes with others healths, his owne diseases.
And in the end, contempt and shame's his share,
The whil'st a Tapster is his onely Heire.
Thus drinke's a wrastler that giues many a fall,
To death, to beggery and slauish thrall.
And drunkennesse a wilfull madnesse is,
That throwes men to Hels bottomlesse abisse.
For why, where Drunkennesse is mistris there,
Sobriety can hardly maistry beare:
And 'tis no question but the Land hath drown'd,
More men with drinke, then Seas did e're confound.
Wine is Earth's bloud, which from her breast doth spring,
And (well vs'd) is a comfortable thing,
But if abused from it then beginnes,
Most horrible notorious crying sinnes.
As Murther, Lechery, Ebrietie,
Gods wrath, damnation in varietie:
For hee that is a Drunkard, is the summe,
And abstract of all mischiefes that can come.
It wasts him soule and body, life and limb.
My Cormorant's a sober beast to him.
He that perswades a man to steale or lye,
To sweare, or to commit adultery,
To stab or murther any man that liues,
Can it be said that hee good counsell giues?
And hee that tempts and forces men to drinke,
Perswades a man to damne himselfe, I thinke,
For drunken men haue into dangers run,
Which (being sober) they would ne're haue done.
I take them for no friends that giue me Wine,
To turne me from a man vnto a swine,
To make me void of manners, sense, or reason,
To abuse God, blaspheming odious treason,
To hurt my soule and body, fame and purse,
To get the diuell, and gaine Gods heauy curse.
Though many take such for their friends to bee,
I wish them hang'd that are such Friends to mee:
For greater enemies there cannot dwell
In the whole world, nor in the bounds of hell.
Good friendly drinking I account not euill,
But much carousing, which makes man a diuell,
Wanting the priuiledge that hath a horse,
And to be vrg'd and forc'd to drinke perforce.
6
Drinkes what he will, and not against his will.
And he that that good rule doth ouer-passe,
Hath lesse discretion then a Horse or Asse,
And any man that doth this temp rance want,
Is a worse glutton then my Cormorant.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |