University of Virginia Library



Vpon excellent strong Beere which he dranke at the Towne of Wich in Worcester shire where Salt is made.

Thou ever youthfull god of wine,
Whose burnisht cheekes with rubies shine;
And browes with ivye chaplets crown'd,
Wee dare thee here to pledge a round.
Thy wanton grapes we doe detest:
Here's richer juyce from barly prest.
Let not the Muses vainly tell
What vertue's in the horse-hoofe well,
That scarce one drop of good blood breeds,
But with me ere inspiration feeds:
Oh let them come and tast this Beere,
And water hence-forth they'le forsweare.
If that the Paracelsian crew
The vertues of this liquor knew,
Their endlesse toyles they would give o're,
And never use extractions more.
'Tis Medicine; meate for young and old;
Elixir; bloud of tortur'd gold.
It is sublim'd; it's calcinate;
'Tis rectified; precipitate:
It is Androgena Sols wife;
It is the Mercury of life.
It is the quintescence of Malt;
And they that drinke it want no Salt.
It heales; it hurts; it cures; it kills:
Mens heads with proclamations fils.
It makes some dumbe, and others speake;
Strong vessels hold, and crack't ones leake.
It makes some rich, and others poore.
It makes, and yet marres many a score: