 | Divine Poems |  |
129
To the common Drunkard, falsely called a Good Fellow.
Cannot friends meet but they must drink t'excess?Must all your mirth conclude in drunkenness?
Accurst be he brought it in fashion first;
Before ye were content to quench your thirst,
And not exceed three or four cups at most;
Now you carouse till all your reasons lost,
And like to overheated Dutch men, yee
Drink till ye fight, and fall to snicker snee.
He that invites his friend t'a drunken feast,
Keeps out the man and entertains the beast:
A feast 'tis not, but a base Bacchanal,
Where the beast man a Sacrifice doth fall.
Worse then a beast he is, for no beast will
Be made to drink a drop more then his fill.
But man his belly makes a tun, his brain
A bog, and drinks till up it comes again.
Vile man, whom God next t' Angels did create,
Below a Bruit thus to degenerate!
For shame give o're this most unmanlike sin,
Which too long hath thy daily practise bin,
Redeem thine honour drown'd in Ale and Wine,
And thy soul settled on the Lees refine:
When thy debauched life thou shalt correct,
Thou happier daies in England maist expect.
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