A SATYR against Brandy.
Written by Jo. Hains, as he saith himself, 1683.
Farewel damn'd Stygian Juice, who dost bewitch
From the Court Baud, down to the Country Bitch:
Thou liquid Flame, by whom each fiery Face
Lives without Meat, and blushes without Grace:
Sink to your native Hell, and mend the Fire,
Or, if you rather chuse to settle nigher,
Return to the dull Clime from whence you came,
Where Wit and Courage may require your Flame,
Where they carouze in your Vesuvian Bowls,
To crust the Quagmire of their spungy Souls.
Had Dives for thy scorching Moisture cry'd,
Abr'am in Mercy had his suit deny'd:
Or Bonner known thy Force; the Martyr's Blood
Had siss'd in thee and sav'd the Nation's Wood.
Essence of Embers, Scum of melting Flint,
With all the Native Sparkles floating in't.
Sure the black Chymist with the Cloven Foot,
All Ætna's Simples in his Limbeck put,
And double still'd, nay quintessenc'd thy Juice,
To charcoal Mortals for his future use.
Fire-ship to Nature, who dost doubly wound,
For those that grapple thee, are burnt and drown'd.
As when Heav'n press'd th'Auxiliaries of Hell,
A flaming Storm on cursed Sodom fell;
And when its single Plagues could not prevail,
Egypt was scal'd with kindled Rain and Hail:
So Nature's Feuds are reconcil'd in Thee,
Thou two great Judgments in Epitomy:
God's past and future Anger breathes in you,
A Deluge and a Conflagration too.
View yonder Sot (I don't mean Sheriff Sh---te)
Grilly'd all o'er by thee from Head to Foot:
His drousy Eyelids shoar'd above their pitch,
His Cheeks with Carbuncles and Rubies rich;
His Scull instead of Brains supply'd with Cinder,
His Nose turns all his Handkerchiefs to Tinder:
He breathes like a Smith's Forge, and wets the Fire,
Not to allay the Flame, but raise it higher:
His trembling Hands scarce heave the Liquor in,
His Nerves all crackle in his Parchment Skin;
His Stomach don't concoct, but bake his Food;
His Liver even vitrifies his Blood;
His Guts from Nature's Drudgery are freed,
And in his Bowels Salamanders breed.
He's grown too hot to think, too dull to laugh,
And steps as if he walk'd with Pindar's Staff.
The moving Glass-house lightens with his Eyes,
Singes his Clothes, and all his Marrow fries;
Glows for a while, and then in Ashes dies.
Thus like a sham Prometheus, we find
Thou steal'st a Fire from Hell to kill Mankind.
But hold—lest we the Saints dire Anger merit,
By stinting their Auxiliary Spirit:
We hear of late, whate'er the wicked think,
Thou art reform'd and turn'd a Godly Drink:
And doubtless thou'rt con-natural to them,
For both thy Spirit and theirs abound in Phlegm;
'Ere since the Publick Faith for Plate did wimble,
And sanctify'd thy Gill with Hannah's Thimble:
Thou left'st thy old bad Company of Vermin,
The drunken Porters, and the swearing Carmen,
And the leud Drivers of the Hackny Coaches,
And now tak'st up with sage discreet Debauches:
Thou freely drop'st upon Gold Chains and Fur,
And Sots of Quality thy Minions are.
No more shalt thou foment an Ale-house Brawl,
But the more sober Riots at Guild-hall,
Where, by thy Spirit's fallible Direction,
The Reprobates stood polling for Election.
If this Trade holds, what will the Wicked do?
The Saints sequester e'en their Vices too:
For since the Art of Whoring's grown precise,
And Perjury hath got demurer Eyes;
'Tis time, high time to circumcise the Gill,
And not let Drinking be Philistian still.
Go then, thou Emblem of their torrid Zeal,
Add Flame to Flame, and their stiff Tempers neal,
Till they grow ductile to the Publick Weal.
And since the Godly have espous'd thy Cause,
Don't fill their Heads with Liberties and Laws,
Religion, Privilege, and lawless Charters,
Mind them of Falstaff's Heir apparent Garters,
And keep their outward Man from Ketches Quarters.
One Caution more (now we are out of hearing)
Many have died of Drinking, some of Swearing;
If these two Pests should in Conjunction meet,
The Grass wou'd quickly grow in every Street:
Save thou the Nation from that double Blow,
And keep thy Fire from Salamanca TO.
