University of Virginia Library

BACCHANALIA:

Or a Description of a Drunken Club, 1683.

I.

It was my hap Spectator once to be,
As I unseen in secret Angle sate,
Of that unmanly Croud,
Who, with Wits low, and Voices loud,
Were met to celebrate,
In Evening late,
The Bacchanalian Solemnity.
If what I then,
Or heard, or saw, I here relate agen;

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269

Accuse me not of Incivility,
In blabbing Privacy;
Since all Men know, that in those Mysteries,
(Quite different from other Deities)
No Man obliged is to Secresy.
Yea, if I should conceal,
'Twould be in vain:
That pervious Tribe would their own Acts reveal,
Since Wine (transparent thing!) no Secret can retain.

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270

IV.

But see: the Battel comes,
Sound Trumpets now, and Drums!
Two Armies rank'd, and facing, I espy'd;
Whom nothing but one long Plain did divide,
The Table call'd. Well chosen Ground for both,
So plain, and smooth,
It gave no vantage unto either Side.
Signal once giv'n, the Bullets fly
From side to side, so furiously,
That, in short time, none scap'd without a Wound,
Yea bloody Wound; only, 'twixt this
And common Wounds some difference is,
That those do let Blood out, but these infund.
One thing indeed I mus'd to see,
Each Soldier to his own Mouth lift his Paw,
Before he aim'd at Face of Enemy.
What? sure, quoth I, these do their Bullets chaw,
Before they fight. Or, is it Dutch-man's Law,

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271

Who, e'er his Valour in Sea Fight appear,
First takes a Dose of his own Gunpowder?
And now the Battle's hot. Each Champion grows
(Like chafed Lion) more enrag'd by Blows.
For Wounds do Valour but augment,
Wounds broach their Fury, and give Rage a vent.
Nothing will now their keen Revenge content,
Until they see their Foes
Lie prostrate at their Feet, senseless and dead,
And hence their Blows
Are level'd all against the Soul's chief Seat, the Head.

VI.

And now a new Scene comes, The Censor's gone,
All things in medley and confusion run.
Words now, like Thieves in Interregnums, break
Their Prisons. All Men hear, and all Men speak:
Yet none another understands, nor yet
Himself a whit.

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272

And, could some nimble-handed Scribe have writ
All that was said, Babel had been retriev'd,
And all her Tongues reviv'd.
Yea more confus'd these Tongues, than Babel's were:
They talkt of Towers on Earth, but these in Air.

VIII.

Some talk of Bajazet's great Battel;
'Twas more a Tumult, than a Fight,
I would more Execution with one
Well-marshal'd, resolute Troop, have done,
Than Tamerlain's long drove of Motley Cattel.
And Cannæ Field (to speak the right)
Was merely lost for want
Of Courage both, and Management.
O, how I would have knockt, had I been there,
And kickt, and cuff'd that Punick Cur,
As long as he could stir!
I would have giv'n him Beef to his Vineger.
The stripling Macedonian,
What was he to a Man,

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273

Altho his Legends make a mighty pother!
And those two Roman Boys,
Who in Pharsalian Fray did make such noise
(As Lucan prates) they did but spit at one another.

X.

Another, he is all State-Policy;
Esteeming then himself most wise
In Mysteries
Of Government, when he
Has lost the Hegemonick Faculty.

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274

As if his Wine-soakt Brains
Like Rivers were,
Which ever deepest are,
In times of greatest Floods, and Rains.
Or, as a watry Brook,
In Moon-shine Night, we look,
And see the Stars, how in their Orbs they move.
So, while with Wine
His liquid Brains do shine,
He sees the Motions of the Powers above:
Europe, quoth he,
Is merely lost I see,
For lack of good Intelligence,
And understanding of Intrigues,
The Crafts of Treaties and of Leagues,
This spoils all States, and ruins Governments.
But, were I once in Secretary's Place,
I'd quickly bring things to a better pass.
Alas! Colbert's an Ass,
I'd fox him with his own French Wine;
Then gage his Brains, and so the bottom find,
Extent and Compass of the French Design.
The Jesuits themselves I'd undermine;
Out-do th'Ignatian Criples in their Play,
I'd halt e're I was lame, as well, and better far than they.

XI.

Are these the Pope's Grand Tools?
Worshipful Noddies! who but blundring Fools,
Would ever have forgot
To burn those Letters that reveal'd their Plot?
Or in an Ale-house told, that Godfrey's dead,
Three days before he was discovered;
Leaving the silly World to call to mind
That common Logick, They that hide can find?
But see their Master Policy
On Primrose-Hill!
Where their Grand Enemy,

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275

Like Saul upon Mount Gilboa, doth lie
Faln on his Sword, as he himself did kill.
But O the Infelicity!
That Blood was fresh, and gusht out of the Wound,
This so congealed that not one spot was found,
No, not upon his Sword; as if it wou'd
Tell us, 'twas guiltless of its Master's Blood.
Some Carcases, by bleeding, do declare;
This by not bleeding, shew'd the Murderer.
But, to his broken Neck, I pray,
What can our Politicians say?
He hang'd, then stab'd himself, for a sure way:
Or first he stab'd himself, then wrung about
His Head, for madness, that advis'd him to't.
Well, Primrose, may our Godfrey's Name on thee
(Like Hyacinth) inscribed be,
On thee his Memory flourish still,
(Sweet as thy Flower, and lasting as thy Hill)
Whilst blushing Somerset, to her
Eternal shame, shall this Inscription wear:
The Devil's an Ass; for Jesuits, on the spot,
Broke both the Neck of Godfrey, and their Plot.
Thus spake this Sage: whilst I from thence,
Infer'd, amidst heaps of Impertinence,
Fools sometimes chop on Truth, and Drunkards stumble upon Sense.

XII.

Another's all Art, and Philosophy.
Encyclopædia, with its mighty sound,
What is't, quoth he, but when the Brain turns round?
Of which versatile Ingeny
No Man, I'm sure, is Master more than I.
Tongues are my Element. I declare,
I'll talk with any Man on Earth,
And yet a Dearth
Of Words will never fear,
The fertile Cups best Dictionaries are.

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276

And as for Rhetorick, that two-handed Art,
Which plays both Plaintiff's, and Defendant's Part;
To me 'tis Natural: for, ev'n now, whate'er
Me-thinks I look on, double doth appear.
Logick's a Toy. Alas!
I'll prove by Syllogisms, a Man's an Ass;
Yet never stir out of this Room,
(Most Reverend Friends) to find a Medium.
Arithmetick, and Algebraick Arts,
What are they to a Man of Parts?
A Member, he
Unworthy sure must be
Of such a Learned Club as this,
Who understands not what a Reckoning is.
Astronomy's a Science which I know
So thorowly, that my Head ev'n now,
I feel, is in the Clouds: and with each Star
I'm so familiar
Without a Jacob's Staff, I know not how to go.

XIII.

Philosophy both new and old I know;
The seven wise Men, of whom the Grecians tell us,
Were but a Club of honest Fellows,
That sat, and drank, and talkt, as we do now;
Until the Reckning was come,
Then every Man threw in his Symbolum.
Yea Sects of old had their Origination
But from the Liquor's various Operation.
Some, when inspir'd by the Barrel,
Grew sceptical, or apt to quarrel:
Others, inclin'd to the Dogmatick way,
Are wondrous positive in all they say.
'Twas the same Sherry,
That made Democritus so merry,
And weeping Heraclite so sorry:
For he (as most suppose)
Was Maudlin, when he snivel'd so at Nose.

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277

Some would be so dead drunk, that, pinch them ne'er
So hard, they never felt: these Stoicks were.
Others were sensible a little,
And this was call'd the Peripatetick Whittle.
Others, of Epicurus mad-cap strain,
No Pleasure knew like drunk, and drunk again:
Yea ev'n grave Plato's Academick Tribe
No scruple made to bib,
Until Idea's crawled in their Brain.
As for mechanick Virtuoso's Skill,
That found all Knowledg in Experiments,
(Altho indeed I know what 'tis, full well,
To make Man's Reason truckle to his Sense)
Yet I have found a more compendious way;
For whilst, in quest of Nature, they
By tedious searches clear the Object, I
Do all, by strengthening the Faculty;
With brisk Falernum, clear the dim-ey'd Soul;
This was I'm sure the old Philosophy,
That ever sought for Truth i'th' bottom of the Bowl.

XIV.

But the most frequent Humor's still behind;
Which is, to talk of Grave Divinity.
Of which the proper Reason to assign,
I find it not an easy Task to be,
Whether from that near Consanguinity,
And natural Love
'Twixt Bacchus and great Jove;
Whose Son he was, and hatch'd up in his Thigh,
In place we commonly do call Popes-Eye;
An Omen that in time he'd prove
A great Dictator in Theology:
Or, that the Grape so sweet,
That Nectar of the Gods, does Men inspire
With sacred Fire,
And raise their Thoughts to more than humane height:

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278

Or that the Intellect doth gasping lie,
And thence to utter doth desire
Some few grave Sentences, before she die.

XV.

To give you an Account of my Belief,
Quoth one deep Sage, who thought himself a Chief,
I'm no Mahometan,
But utterly defy the Alcoran,
Whose cursed Laws forbid the Use of Wine.
Nor shall the Jews Religion be mine,
Which so abhors that harmless Beast, the Swine.
The Pope I do pronounce to be
Stark Antichristian,
Which prove by forty Arguments I can.
But only, name this one I shall,
So strong, it well may serve for all;
He takes the Cup from th'honest Laity.
Base dirty Clown!
I wonder in what Town,
Unless it were Hogs-Norton, he was bred;
To drink to Men,
And presently forbid,
On pain of Death they must not pledg agen.
Were he un-erring, as he does pretend,
His Wit would him have better Manners taught:
But Wit and Manners both I see, are naught.
And shall I then believe
What such a slovenly Religion saith,
And pin my Faith
Upon a snotty Sleeve?
No, no; if e'er my Reason I resign,
It shall be only to a Glass of VVine.
Thus did the Hero vent
'Gainst triple Crown his Discontent;
Throughout which whole Discourse, thought I,
An Argument close coucht doth lie
'Gainst Rome's Infallibility,

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279

Stronger than what has yet expressed been:
For Standers by are apt to think,
That Popes sometimes may be in Drink,
And then as rambling talk as other Men.

XVI.

But he proceed. I could rehearse ye
The State, quoth he, of Modern Controversy:
What Weapons keen are us'd in that sharp Sport,
Betwixt Arminius and Dort:
How those twit these, with turning Men
To Stocks, and how agen
The Absolute Divine
Whips Cink with Thirty nine;
Not much unlike the Jewish scourging Discipline,
I could the Gordian Knot unty
Of Ecclesiastick Polity;
And tell the Street, and Sign,
Where that Great Lady dwells, call'd Jus Divine,
Who courted long by all has been,
But still so coy, she's scarcely to be seen.
I could discourse of Ceremonial Jar,
(That least yet greatest War)
Whose hot Spurs, on each side, engage so far
Beyond their slow-pac'd Squadrons, that oft they
By mere pursuing lose the Day.
Some would confine Religion's Dress
To the coarse Freeze of mere Necessity:
Others attire her all in Lace,
Preferring still the greatest Bravery.
Some make her all Embroidery, and Seaming:
Some let her ravel out, for lack of Hemming.
Some are resolv'd to scruple, whatsoe'er
Is by Authority injoyn'd:
Whilst some again, to cross the others Mind,
Wish all things were enjoyn'd, that scrupled are.
But how much better would it be,
Would but you Bigots of each side, quoth he,

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280

Come hither to observe our prudent Fashion,
And imitate our signal Moderation!
For we, in these
Solemnities,
Do neither scruple, nor press Modes upon ye;
Drink either with, or without Ceremony.
Each Man enjoys his Liberty, provided
He takes his Cup,
And drinks all up,
All other Doubts and Circumstances are decided.

XVIII.

Some down into their Seats do shrink,
As Snuffs in Sockets sink;
Some throw themselves upon the Bed,
Some at Feet, and some at Head,
Some Cross, some Slope-wise, as they can;
Like Hogs in straw, or Herrings in a pan.

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281

Some on the Floor do make their humble Bed,
(Proper effect of Wine!)
So overladen Vine,
Prop failing, bows its bunchy Head,
To kiss the Ground, from whence 'twas nourished.
One, stouter than the rest, maintain'd the Field,
And scorn'd to yield.
A Roman Emperor, standing, vow'd to die,
And so quoth he, will I;
Till nodding, as he stood, the Churlish Wall
Repuls'd his Head, and made him reeling fall;
So with a jot,
Embrac'd the common lot,
The last, but yet the greatest, Trophy of them all.

XIX.

So slept they sound; but whilst they slept,
Nature, which all this while had kept
Her last reserve of Strength,
In Stomach's Mouth, where, Helmont saith,
The Soul its chiefest Mansion hath,
Began at length
To kick, and frisk, and stoutly strove
To throw the liquid Rider off.
For now her Case like Mariners was grown,
In leaky Ship, she must or pump or drown.
Or whether that the Wine, which, till this time,
Was wont to dwell in Cellar's cooler Clime,
Now put in Stomach's boiling-pot,
Found its new Habitation too hot.
Whate'er it was, the Floods gusht out
From ev'ry spout,
With such a Force, they made a fulsom Fray.
One who athwart his Neighbour lay,
Did right into his Pocket disembogue;
For which the other would have call'd him Rogue,
But that his forestall'd Mouth (Brawls to prevent)
Replenisht was with the same Element.

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282

I'th' next Man's Face another spues,
Who doth, with nimble Repartee, retort
His own, and his Assailant's Juice,
And so returns him double for't.
One with a Horizontal Mouth,
Discharges up into the Air,
Which falls again in perpendicular:
Much like those Clouds in Sea, that's South,
Which in a Lump descend, and quite
O'er-whelm the Ship on which they chance to light.
The Floor with such a Deluge was o'erflown,
As would infallibly have ran
Quite thro, and to its native Cellar gone,
As Rivers circulate to th'Ocean;
Had it not been incrassate with a Scum,
Which did, for company, from Stomach come.
Nor was this all. The surly Element,
With Oral Channels not content,
Reverberates, and downward finds a Vent:
Which my nice Muse to tell forbears,
And begs, for what is past, the pardon of your Ears.

XX.

At length the Storm blows o'er; the Sky grows clear,
Clouds are dispel'd, and Fogs, and Fumes,
And Madam Dianoia now resumes
Her Throne; when nimble Drawer mounts the stair,
And guessing, by this time, these Heroes were
In Reckning-case; produceth, sans delay,
A Bill more swel'd, and more inflam'd than they.
Gigantick Items! yet evicted
Nothing could be, nor contradicted
By any of the Company;
Because 'twas all beyond Man's Memory.
Since then Objection was fruitless,
Solution must be the Business.
All Pockets (but ev'n now well lin'd) were swept,
Not one Cross for a Nest-egg kept.

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283

Tokens, and single Pence, must go,
Jacobusses, and Medals too;
And all too little to discharge the Score,
But forc'd to sign a Bill for as much more.
And thus the Poets Fiction came to pass,
That Bacchus conquered the Golden India's.

EPILOGUE.

Think of that abused Wealth
Due to your Families, or the Poor:

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284

Think how you swallow, in each drunken Health,
The Widows Tears, and starved Orphans Goar.