University of Virginia Library

The Delights of the Bottle:

OR, The Compleat Vintner, &c.

[CANTO I.]

O Bacchus , with thy Noble Juice,
Inspire my long neglected Muse,
And raise her, by thy gen'rous Pow'r,
As high as human Wit can tow'r;
That she may loudly sing the Fame
Of all that celebrate thy Name,
And make their Merits far outshine
Their Ruby Cheeks when o'er their Wine;
That the ungrateful World may know,
How much we grov'ling Mortals owe
To thy adopted Sons and Thee,
Those Parents of Felicity,
From whose full Cellars we derive
That Warmth which keeps the World alive;
For should not Bacchus bless the Earth,
All would be Labour, without Mirth,
And nothing giv'n us, but a Wife,
To recompence the Toils of Life,
With Children and domestick Strife.
When tir'd with intricate Affairs,
Or punish'd with inviduous Cares;
When Disappointment gives us trouble,
In South-Sea, or some other Bubble;
When Duns, by their impatient canting,
Perplex us, 'cause the Money's wanting;
When teas'd at Home by Nuptial Dowdy,
Too Fond, too Noisy, or too Moody;
Whither can Man repair to find
Relief, when thus disturb'd in Mind,
But to those Mansions where the best
Of Cordial Wines delight the Tast,
And comfort the uneasy Breast.
Thither Physicians fly to save
Themselves from the devouring Grave,
And, to preserve their Health, imbibe
Much safer Draughts than they prescribe.
What Doctors or Dispensers care
To take the Physick they prepare;
Or when themselves are out of order,
Will run the hazard of Self-murder?
When ailing, they're too wise to sport
With Nature, by the Rules of Art;
They've no recourse to damn'd Emeticks,
Catharticks, Opiates, Diarroheticks,
They'll turn not up their Bums to Clysters,
Nor flea their Backs with Spanish Blisters,
Or will themselves depend upon
This Course, or that Catholicon:
But their declining Health repair,
With cordial Wines and wholsome Air.
Not but Physicians are of use
To those that do their Health abuse;
Pills, Powders, Balsams, and the like,
May comfort Patients when they're sick,
And costly Juleps may be good
To cleanse the Purse, if not the Blood:
But when the Doctor finds the least
Indisposition touch his Breast,
He wisely passes by the Shop
Where all his Slops are hustl'd up,
And, thoughtless of his Drops or Pills,
To the next Tavern slily steals,
Submiting, there, the healing Pow'r
Of Art, to some more skilful Draw'r,
Consulting him, without a Fee,
What his next Cordial-draught shall be.
And thus, at once, removes the Qualm
With potent Mountain, or with Palm.
Our Teachers too, who would dethrone
The God of Wine and pull him down,
And, by their Doctrine, make us think,
'Tis almost Popery to drink;
In Pulpit at the Bottle rail,
And damn the Drunkard, Tooth and Nail,
As if they fear'd the crowd of Laymen,
Who work like Slaves to drink like Draymen,
Should swallow all the best, and leave
No Priest-Wine for the Pudding-sleeve;
Therefore, since Laicks take the freedom
To drink like Fish, if not exceed 'em,
I see no reason but each Guide
Should liquor their Canonick Pride,
And drink as well as those they ride.
Besides, who loves the Bottle better,
Than he that rails against the Creature?
As Maidens seemingly despise
The only darling of their Eyes.
For Wine, tho' very bad for some
That gorge it super naculum
Till Reason, which we Mortals boast,
Is in their drunken Hickups lost:
Yet always, for the Cloth, take notice,
Tis good, in verbum Sacerdotis,
Because, as well becomes their Station,
They kiss the Cup with moderation;
Except, by chance, when Holy Men
With Holy Brethren meet, and then
Each other's Failings they connive at,
And sip, as Ladies do, in private:
But Vertue, that submits to one
Small Sin, may into greater run.
The Lawyers too, whose crabbed Studies,
In time, raise Students to be Judges,
By help of Wines, our Vintners draw,
Slide thro' the Mazes of the Law,
And conquer knotty Tasks with ease
Such as would pose a Hercules;
For, of all Labours, none transcend
The Works that on the Brain depend:
Nor could we finish Great Designs,
Without the Pow'r of Gen'rous Wines:
For, as substantial hearty Food
Is for the grosser Body good,
So all the brighter Parts of Nature,
Refin'd from more Etherial Matter,
Require the most celestial Juices,
To rend'r 'em fit for nobler Uses.
Well may the Poet's Fancy halt,
That's doom'd to Rhime o'er muddy Malt;
A Theme so naked and jejune,
It puts all Fancy out of Tune,
And makes Apollo's thoughtful Son
As dull as what he writes upon.
Change but his Liquor into Wine,
And Wit must flash in e'ery Line;
For all we write, do, say, or think,
Are but the Sportings of our Drink.
When a low Purse (the Lord defend us)
Does to the Alehouse humbly send us,
We fuddle, just like Grooms and Coachmen,
Belch, wrangle, fart, and talk like Dutchmen,
And not one merry Word, that's bright,
Shall pass the Board from Noon to Night.
But when we to the Tavern steer,
With Pocket full and Temper clear,
My Landlord's Bacchanalian Face,
The charming Bottle and the Glass,
The tinkling of the Bell at Bar,
The grateful News of, Coming Sir,
Madam's sweet Voice, which, like a Law,
Keeps all the list'ning Draw'rs in awe,
Yield such a harmony of Sounds,
As the kind Bottle goes its rounds,
That Wit and Wine fill e'ery Brain,
And make us rather Gods than Men.
Thus, Bacchus, 'tis alone to thee,
We Mortals owe our Jollity,
Without thy Aid, Apollo soon
Must abdicate his Sapient Throne,
And, wanting Nectar to support him,
Untune his Lyre that makes us court him.
For neither Heathen Gods above,
Nor Mortals that beneath 'em move,
Can, without Bacchus, Live or Love.
What Orator at Bar can plead,
Till he has rins'd his thoughtful Head,
Or, with a chearful Morning's Draught,
Refresh'd the Glandules of his Throat,
And wash'd from his awaking Mind,
The Dregs that Sleep had left behind.
The Tongue is like a Water-Mill,
Which, wanting Liquor, must stand still,
But when with Wine 'tis well supply'd,
As the Bridge Engine with the Tide,
It grinds and polishes our Wit,
And makes our stubborn Language fit
To sooth and qualify the Fury
Of angry Judge or partial Jury.
What Man can, by the force of Nature,
Be truly bright without the Creature?
Or rouze the Wit which Heav'n has giv'n him,
Unless a Bottle to enliven him?
No Lover sure can die for Beauty,
Or pine for Joys above the Shoe-tye;
No Hero hack or hew his Way
Thro' bloody Storms, for little Pay,
Nor any mortal Soul incline
To Love, or Brav'ry, but by Wine;
Without it, we should ne'er have heard
Of this wise Lord, that wond'rous Bard,
Or known the Names of Politician,
Priest, Poet, Lawyer, or Physician;
For, when we read of mighty Things
Perform'd by Heroes or by Kings,
Believe they quaff'd off briming Goblets,
Before they lac'd their Iron Doublets,
And, Dutchman like, would never fight
A stroke, until their Hearts were light;
So that, in short, those valiant Deeds
That fill our Hist'ries and our Heads,
Were, to the honour of the Vine,
Not done by Warriors, but by Wine.
Great Alexander, to inflame
His Soul, that thirsted after Fame,
As some Historians do report,
Tip'd off five Gallons and a Quart,
And then, into a Rapture hurl'd,
He arm'd, and conquer'd all the World:
Hence modern Songs most justly say,
That Wine does Wonders ev'ry Day.
The sober Sot is all Mens loathing,
A worthless Muckworm, good for nothing,
A Spy upon his Neighbour's Vices,
A Wretch that ev'ry one despises,
A saving Rogue, whose pinch-gut Pence
Will damn him, for that dire Offence,
To Torments endless and severe,
Deserv'd by starving Misers here.
These are the Sneakers that decline,
For Wealth, the charming Pow'r of Wine,
And seek to please no other Itch,
But that of growing basely Rich.
These are the sordid Slaves that muse
O'er Coffee, Tea, and lying News,
Abjurors of the noble Tun
That Bacchus sits enthron'd upon,
Who never at one meeting spend
Above Three-half-pence with a Friend;
None durst exclaim against the use
Of Wine, or blame the heav'nly Juice,
But sober Miscreants, such as these are,
Fit to hatch Plots or stab a Cæsar;
For Wine's of such a loyal nature,
That 'twill unlock the close-mouth'd Traytor,
And make him, in his Cups, betray
The impious Game he means to play;
'Tis, therefore, Men of ill design
Avoid good Fellows and good Wine,
As Jolly Mortals should those Asses,
That hug their Gold and slight their Glasses.
What Am'rous Youth, to Love inclin'd,
Can press dear Phillis to be kind,
In Words that will at once inspire
The blushing Nymph with like desire,
Till noble Wine has wash'd away
Those Fears that do their Joys delay,
And banish'd from their trembling Youth,
The native bashfulness of both;
Then, mutually inclin'd to bless
Each other with a soft Embrace,
Their struggling Souls with vigour meet,
And kindly taste the short and sweet.
Thus Love can only with his Darts
Perplex and terrify our Hearts,
But Gen'rous Bacchus pity takes,
And heals the Wounds that Cupid makes.
What Priest can join two Lovers Hands,
But Wine must seal the Marriage Bonds;
From Church to Tavern they repair,
To crown their solemn Nuptials there:
As if celestial Wine was thought
Essential to the sacred Knot,
And that each Bridegroom and his Bride
Believ'd they were not firmly ty'd
Till Bacchus, with his bleeding Tun,
Had finish'd what the Priest begun;
No Love, no Contract, no Handfasting,
No Bonds of Friendship can be lasting;
No Bargain made, or Quarrel ended,
No Int'rest mov'd, or Cause defended,
No Mirth advanc'd, no Musick sweet,
No humane Happiness compleat,
Or joyful Day, unless its crown'd
With Claret, and the Glass goes round
Since all the frothy Joys of Life,
Musick, a Mistress, or a Wife,
Except we do the same imbellish
With noble Wine, quite lose their Relish.
Who can be happy, tho' in Health,
With Beauty, Grandure, Wit, or Wealth?
Unless kind Bacchus crowns the Blessing,
And makes it worthy our possessing.
Thus mighty Wealth to Misers giv'n
Is nothing but the Mock of Heaven,
That tempts the humble Fool to wave
His Bonnet to the Golden Knave,
And makes the Muckworm falsly think,
He's Great and Happy in his Chink,
When none are bless'd but those that drink.
Give me the gen'rous Soul that dares
To drown in Wine all worldly Cares,
The Jolly Heart who freely spends
His Surplus with his Bottle Friends,
And envies not those South-Sea Noddies
That loll in Coaches with their Dowdies,
Nor all the glitt'ring Pomp that waits
On Powers, Titles, and Estates,
But one that does for Pleasure choose
Some Tavern where Good-Fellows use,
And ne'er seems backward, when he's there
Of spending what he well can spare,
But hugs the Flask, and frankly bends
To all the Motions of his Friends,
Those Bosom Ministers of Ease,
So hard to find and hard to please.
Let stingy Mortals rail at Wine,
And angry Wives reproach the Vine,
Let all the sober Saints decry
The Bottle and its Charms defy,
Let Misers damn the Cordial Creature,
Because they love their Money better,
And ne'er get fill'd, or elevated,
But when at publick Feasts they're treated.
I'll laugh at the penurious Knave,
And honour Bacchus to my Grave;
No more enslave my self by Thinking,
But make my self a King by drinking.
Yet first, my Muse shall let you see
What Vintners are, or ought to be,
Those Demy Gods, from whose rich Cellars
Arise, Popes, Addisons, and Knellers,
And ev'ry Worthy that can claim
A place in the Records of Fame;
For all that's excellent or fine,
Derive their Origin from Wine,
And should each Vintner shut his Door,
Love, Wit, and Arts would be no more,
But all the Land become at once,
A dirty Hive of stupid Drones.

CANTO II. The Compleat Vintner.

In Ages past liv'd many Scores
Of Sages, call'd Philosophers,
Who wisely judg'd of this and that,
And taught their Foll'wers what was what;
Some fam'd for Patience in Affliction,
Some, for close Study and Restriction,
Some, for contempt of Pain and Pleasure,
Some, for despising worldly Treasure,
Some, for Abstaining, some for Quaffing,
Some, for much Weeping, some for Laughing,
Some, for their snarling at their Betters,
Others, for being Woman-haters,
Some, for the useful Books they've writ,
And others, for sarcastick Wit,
All aiming, in those Halcyon Days,
To please themselves, tho' diff'rent ways,
And to encrease their foll'wing Crowds,
That almost worship'd 'em as Gods.
But he that's an adopted Son
Of Bacchus, and attends the Tun,
Must be as wise, or wiser rather,
Than all these Sages put together;
They only pleas'd their own ill-nature,
But He has all the World to flatter,
The Proud, the Surly, and the Peevish,
The Rich, the Scoundrel, and the Knavish,
The Learn'd, the Wise, the Grave and Dull
The Wit, the Spendthrift Prodigal,
The pamper'd Fool, the spunging Sharper,
The odious Wrangler and the Carper,
The Rake, the Gamester and the Bully,
The Prig, the common Jilt, the Cully,
The saving Hunx, and ev'ry base
Ill Temper found in humane Race.
Jove, therefore, at the Intercession
Of Bacchus, gave to the Profession
Of Vintners, the mutative Pow'r
That Proteus had in Times of Yore,
By which they change their humane Shapes,
For Int'rest sake, from Men to Apes,
Or whatsoe'er will best agree
With this or that Fool's Company,
Nor is't their Fault to thus submit
Themselves, to others want of Wit,
The failing is in those proud Asses,
That Lord it too much o'er their Glasses,
And want the Vintner to behave
Himself more cringing than a Slave,
Teaze him the more, that they may see
His Patience and Humility.
When Jolly Mortals meet to fuddle,
And fillip Nature on the Noddle,
Men of good Manners and good Sense,
That neither give, nor take Offence,
But kindly use the same Respect
To others, as themselves exact,
The Vint'ner then throws off the poor
Disguise, that humour'd Fools before,
And, reassuming his own Nature,
Like Linco, is another Creature.
Then Manliness, deserving Praise,
Appears in all he does or says,
The best of Wines he sends or brings
And treats his noble Friends like Kings,
Enters the Room with comely Grace,
And puts on such a Cherub's Face,
So plump, so smiling, and as pleasant,
As that the God of Wine was present;
And if, when ask'd, domestick Care
Will suff'r'im to assume a Chair,
Such Guests will in his Carriage see
The utmost Affability.
When Youngsters, govern'd by no Rules,
Just rescu'd from their Country Schools,
By doating Mothers fed with Coin,
Which they too early spend in Wine,
Or lose in Gaming, which is worse,
And more destructive to the Purse;
I say, when these young callow Blades,
Hugg'd by their Mothers and their Maids,
At Tavern meet, to sing and roar,
The Song of black-ey'd Susan o'er
Or join their Tongues to please their Ears
With Lev'ridge's Philosophers.
Who ow'd their Wisdom to the Bottle,
From Thalis, down to Aristotle;
For these unbridl'd pamper'd Heirs,
As wild as Colts and rude as Bears,
The Vint'ner has a Face and Mien
Peculiar, which are seldom seen,
But when such Boys their Money spend,
As love to make their Elders bend.
Next these, a sort of Sots there are,
Who crave more Wine than they can bear,
Yet hate, when drunk, to pay or spend
Their equal Club, or Dividend,
But wrangle, when the Bill is brought,
And think they're cheated, when they're not,
Insult the Master, damn the Bar,
Abuse the Wine, belye the Draw'r,
And make more Mischief at one Meeting,
Than twenty Bullies at a sitting;
The Vint'ner, when he's thus perplex'd,
Must form a Temper, tho' he's vex'd,
And, by the Pow'r of Transformation,
Divest himself of Gall and Passion,
Then, by some Hocus Pocus slight,
Convince 'em that the Reck'ning's right,
Amuse 'em with an odd Deportment,
Shew 'em Apes Tricks of diff'rent sortment,
Turn all his Words to healing Plasters,
And so, Your humble Servant Masters.
Wise Apollonius, in his Travels,
Determin'd many Feuds and Cavils,
Oft reconcil'd contending Nations,
By Postures and Gesticulations,
And, as Philastratus reports,
Appear'd at many Princes Courts,
There heal'd Divisions and Distractions,
Not by the Pow'r of Words, but Actions;
Sometimes he'd Frown, and sometimes Smile,
Skip, Leap, but never Speak the while;
And, by these Methods that he took,
Did Wonders, worthy of Blunt's Book;
Therefore, since Learned Apollonius,
As 'tis in Greek most plainly shown us,
Could Kings instruct, by Madmens Freaks,
And Quarrels end, by Monkey Tricks,
I think the Vint'ner, in such Cases,
Where Men behave themselves like Asses,
The Apollonian Game may play,
And manage Fools the self-same way.
The next that do the Vint'ner teaze,
Are Fops, too difficult to please,
Young flutt'ring Rakes, who Scarlet wear
Before they do Commissions bear,
Well knowing 'tis the only Dye
That tempts the wanton Lady's Eye,
From whence 't'as been observ'd, that Women
Are caught like Maycril by our Seamen,
Bait but your Hook with Scarlet Cloth,
And you may eas'ly take 'em both.
When these, who think all Wisdom lies
In b'ing impertinently nice,
Are show'd into some spacious Room,
Where Fencing-Rakes are wont to come,
And when the Beaus, in great Decorum,
Are seated, with their Snuffs before 'em,
The Drawer's order'd, by some Fop,
To send his absent Master up,
Who nimbly trips, from Stair to Stair,
Puts on his best Mercurial Ayre,
Then bending double at the Door,
Till squees'd to half his hight, or low'r,
He bolts upon 'em, Sirs, d'ye call,
Then, starting up, grows twice as tall.
A Flask of French is now demanded,
The Vint'ner runs, the Wine is handed,
And tasted round, but is not lik'd,
One swears its Poor, another Prick'd,
The Vint'ner knows 'tis very good,
Yet dares not say so, for his Blood,
But forms a grave, judicious Face,
Then sips, and spurts away a Glass,
By silence seems to own the Fault,
And flies like Light'ning to his Vault,
To fetch a fuller Wine, the same,
But usher'd in another Name,
Yet that's not good, until he takes
Another turn to please the Rakes,
And then some spunging, fencing Bully,
That makes each silly Fop his Cully,
Approves the Claret, damns his Blood,
And swears 'tis right, by all that's Good,
The rest submit to Captain Bluff,
Their Back commends it, that's enough.
Now all the forward Sparks begin
To like their Usage and their Wine,
And praise the very same much more
Than they had cry'd it down before,
The merry Glass goes briskly round,
No Drawer kick'd, no Fault is found,
But e'ery thing, at present, seems
As peaceful as unruffl'd Streams,
Till Drinking, Thwarting, Singing, Roaring,
Much talk of Fencing, Dancing, Whoring,
Intoxicate their shallow Senses,
And then some warm Dispute commences,
Which, as it's rais'd by blust'ring Words
And Oaths, must end in drawing Swords;
But Bully Back, who truly knows
The Brav'ry of his Cully Beaus,
Tells them the danger of a Riot,
And with his Looks soon makes 'em quiet;
Then, like a skilful Judge and Jury,
Fines the worst Coward for his Fury,
Who gladly pays the cunning Knave
His Flask, to be accounted Brave.
Thus is the Vint'ner plagu'd all Night,
Till Morning dims the Candle-light,
Unwilling to enjoy his Bed,
For fear some Mischief should succeed,
That might intail an evil Fame
Upon his Conduct and his Name;
For none, tho' in a loftier Station,
Have more regard to Reputation,
Or manage what they're forc'd to bear,
With greater Art or greater Care.

CANTO III. The Description of a Tavern.

Without, there hangs a noble Sign,
Where golden Grapes in Image shine,
A lovely seeming Fruit, that no
Hisperian Garden e'er could show;
To crown the Bush, a little Punch-
Gut Bacchus dangling of a Bunch,
Sits loftily enthron'd upon
What's call'd (in Miniture) a Tun,
Tho' only render'd to our Eyes,
A Runlet of a Gallon size,
But we're to think, as when we go,
At Fairs, to see a Puppit-Show,
That all the Figures we behold,
Are Men and Women, young or old,
And tho' each seems a little Creature,
By fancy, we must make 'em greater.
Th'external Ornaments that grace
A Tavern, that delightful place,
Are Hieroglyphicks, meant (in fine)
To show, my Landlord sells good Wine,
Where ev'ry one that's low in Spirits,
May be reliev'd by Whites or Clarets,
Or other Wines that may supply
Their Wants that happen to be dry.
Thus Signs, when first they came in fashion,
Denoted each Man's Occupation,
That Passengers thereby might know,
On all Occasions where to go.
When Paracelsus Head you meet,
Or Galen's, hanging in the Street,
Walk in, if sick, and you'll be sure
Of Med'cines that may work a Cure.
Reader be patient, and excuse
This long digression of my Muse,
And now again I'll gladly meet you
At Tavern, where I mean to treat you,
With jingling Fare, tho' 'tis confest,
Verse is but starving Food at best,
Thin airy Diet, fit for none
But critick Wits to chew upon.
Around her, as she sits in State,
The nimble Drawers list'ning wait,
That her Commands may be obey'd,
And e'ery Guest be easy made,
Whilst the Mercurial Master plays
His part, and e'ery Room surveys,
That they who've taken up their sitting,
May be supply'd with all that's fitting.
Thus he that's wealthy, if he's wise,
Commands an earthly Paradise;
That happy Station, no where found,
But where the Glass goes freely round.
Then give us Wine to drown the Cares
Of Life, in our declining Years,
That we may gain, if Heav'n thinks fitting,
By drinking, what was lost by eating;
For tho' Mankind, for that Offence,
Were doom'd to Labour ever since,
Yet Mercy has the Grape impowr'd
To sweeten what the Apple sowr'd.

CANTO IV. The Tavern Tormentors.

The Stingy Wrangler is the next,
With whom the Vint'ner is perplex'd,
Who neither goes, nor cares to stay,
Delights to drink, but hates to pay,
Is always running whilst he's sitting,
Yet tarries with the least intreating,
In hopes, if you presume to ask him,
You'll, cost-free, Bottle him, or Flask him;
But when the Reck'ning's call'd, and brought,
And he's requir'd to pay his shot,
He grumbles, fumbles, frets and vexes,
Like Miser paying Parish-Taxes;
And thus for half an Hour contends
With Master, Drawer, and his Friends,
About Tobacco, Bread and Cheese,
Or some poor Trifles, such as these;
Then in a Fury flinging down
His Eighteen Pence for Half a Crown,
He sneaks away, confus'd in Mind,
Despis'd by those he leaves behind,
The Dinner-Spungers next succeed,
Who buy their Wine, but beg their Bread,
Old Batchelors, untam'd by Woman,
That keep no House, but live in common,
Feed at some Tavern ev'ry Day,
But nothing for their eating pay,
Yet guttle more, where e'er they Dine,
In Victuals, than they spend in Wine,
And swallow, if they like the Joint,
A Pound, before they drink a Pint;
Not but a Cow-Heel, fry'd with Onions,
Is exc'lent Fare, in their Opinions,
For Spungers seldom have a loathing
To any Food that costs them nothing,
But, Miser-like, commend that Feast
The most, at which they spend the least.
To these we add a Race of Sots,
Who deal in Jills, or Quartern Pots,
And think it an unchristian Crime
To've more before 'em at one time.
Old moody Knaves, that ne'er will spend
One handsome Sixpence with a Friend,
But loll beneath the Kitchen-Shelves,
And drink, like Hangmen, by themselves,
Till by repeated Jills they grow
Half Fuddl'd, then they Pay and go,
Not Home, but to some other Houses,
Where they compleat their several Doses,
And never stop their course, besure,
Till slily Drunk in minuture.
Thus Hypocrites delight to tipple,
But fain would hide it from the People,
And taking Pattern by the Godly,
Drink much, but do it very odly.
Next in the List appears a sett
Of hungry Blades, that love to Whet,
Altho' their Stomachs are indeed
So sharp, that they no Whetting need;
For if a cold Sirloin of Beef,
Or Buttock, lies within the Safe,
The Glass-Defence that stands before it,
Will prove no Bulwark to secure it;
For threat'ning Weapons soon appear,
Drawn out from Pocket or the Bar,
Then begging but a Bit, or so,
They slice one half before they go,
Each feasting at the slender Cost
Of Sixpence for his Wine, at most.
Rare Guests, as ever Fortune sent,
T'enrich the Taverns they frequent,
And raise our Vint'ners and their Spouses,
To Coaches and their Country-Houses.
Another sort of ill-bred Hogs
There are, that act like Cats and Dogs,
Who in some Kitchen-Box sit watching,
To gratify themselves by snatching;
If a fine Turkey's on the Spit,
By stealth they seize the choicest Bit,
Drink to the Cook, and whilst they give her
A Glass, one sneaks away the Liver;
The Wench she frets and fumes about it,
They swear a Spaniel Dog run out w'it:
The Master storms, the Cook is blam'd,
The Mistress raves, the Dog is damn'd.
The Guests resent the great abuse,
The Drawer forms some good excuse:
And thus the Mischief circles round,
Occasion'd by one greedy Hound,
If Sausages or Stakes are frying,
Or Fowls before the Fire lying,
A Frigacy of Rabbits dressing,
Or any Dainty worth their tasting,
Their Fish-hook Fingers will have share,
In spight of all the Cookmaid's Care.
Thus, Lady-like, they love what's nice,
But steal their Prey like Rats and Mice.
These are succeeded by a Clan,
Call'd, Yeomen of the Dripping-Pan,
Who beg their Bread, which first they bake,
Till harder than a Bisket-Cake,
Then in the Drippings of the Roast
They mollify the crusty Toast,
And often Breakfast, may be Dine,
For only one poor Jill of Wine,
Of three-pence Price, o'er which they swallow
At least, a Pound of Bread and Tallow,
And therefore at one Meal must grow
More fat, than others do at two,
That, would they gorge a Ball, or piece
Of Cotten-Wick among their Grease,
Their stinking Ends, both Night and Morning,
Would mould ye Candles fit for burning.
Others, who've neither Goods or Wives,
Prove fatal Foes to Plates and Knives,
Mercurial Blades, who cannot wait
One flying Moment for their Meat,
But some Experiment, tho' rude
And mischievous, must be renew'd,
One, Pewter turns on pointed Steel,
And makes a Horizontal Wheel,
Till by swift motion, and by weight,
He bores a Hole quite thro' the Plate.
Another takes a Knife and whittles
The Table edge as if 'twas Vict'als,
Else wanting thought of what to do,
He stabs the Linen thro' and thro,
And does more Damage in his Ayres,
Than all he spends at twice, repairs.
But above all, the narrow Souls,
That love their Bottles and their Bowls,
No stingy Knave, no sorry Creature,
Can fall below the Drawer-hiter,
Who likes Collecting, for the sake
Of keeping his own Reck'ning back:
Or if there's any small remains
For Tom, or Fenwick, in his hands,
He'll stay the last, designing Man,
To wrong the Draw'r, if he can,
Tossing him Six-pence, as a blind,
And keeps, perhaps, three more behind.
Thus makes himself more base and little,
Than a Church-ward'n that robs the Spittle,
Or a Trustee that does oppress
The Widow or the Fatherless.
The last are sorry Knaves indeed,
Who Pocket Spoons with which they feed,
And often cause unjust Reflexions
On Persons that abhor such Actions,
Make Servants liable to Blame,
Stain guiltless Honesty with Shame,
And are, in short, worse Rogues than they
That boldly rob in open Way,
But these are Miscreants by Nature,
Unworthy of the lowest Satyr,
Therefore, as Scoundrels we'll reject 'em,
And leave the Hangman to correct 'em.

CONCLUSION.

Since each kind Vint'ner, Minion-like, must bend
To teasing Fops and Hum'rists they attend,
The meanest Wretch with handsome Usage treat,
Bow low to Upstarts, and to Scrubs submit,
Let Men of Sense with Jolly Bacchus join,
T'expel each noisy Wrangler from the Vine,
And raise the ancient Dignity of Wine.

A South-Sea Ballad,

or, Merry Remarks upon Exchange-Alley Bubbles.