THE Bacchanalian Sessions; OR THE Contention of Liquors: WITH A Farewell to Wine. By the Author of the Search after Claret, etc. To which is added, A Satirical Poem on one who had injured his Memory. By a Friend.  
LONDON, Printed for E. Hawkins. 1693.   

To the Memory of Mr. Richard Ames: Being a satire on a BOOKSELLER, Who injured him after his Death.  

THOUGH nothing else these lines can recommend,  
They'll show I'm not ashamed to own my Friend:  
Who e'er upon his Ashes rudely tread,  
Living I loved, and will revenge him dead;  
Accept these grateful Exequieses, dear Shade!  
Those Rites to thy much injured Manes paid:  
Thus dies the Wretch who dared blaspheme thy Name,  
Thus o'er thy Tomb I sacrifice his Fame.   

Base than— or that Traitorous Crew,  
Who would the Work of Heaven itself undo;  
Say, Monster! what foul Lust of gain possessed,  
What Fury seized thy Sacrilegious breast?  
That no less Wickedness could thee content,  
Than madly tearing up a Monument?  
What Wolf begat thee? Manhood ne'er pretend!  
Not any Beast beside: the Dead would rend.  
No Bookseller but H— e'er cantrived,  
To plague an Author longer than he lived.   

This thy Indictment is, the Proofs are clear,  
And now thy Sentence, Wretch, prepare to hear.   

In the same Road of Dullness still troth on,  
Till to the end of those Vast Realms thou'st gone.  
Print ten times weaker, sillier Stuff than he,  
That mauls us with the City Mercury.  
Fleckno and Bu●ian call from Lethe Lake,  
More Ballads and more Godly Books to make.  
Nothing but these ere print, or what's as well,  
If a good Copy; may it never sell.  
Such weighty Proof as K— or N— indite,  
Such humble Rhymes as I or G—n write;  
Or some dull Treason for the Jacobite.  
Th' Impression seized, ere thou of one dispose,  
And when 'tis burnt just underneath thy Nose,  
May'st thou seven Years the crowded Street survey,  
Thro Wooden-Ring-enchanted, twice a day.  
This Pennace past, if this thou shouldst outlive,  
Perhaps on Due contrition, I'll forgive.    

EPITAPH.  
HEre lies one who lived free from ill Nature and Pride,  
He lived but too fast, and too quickly he died.  
He lashed all the Vintners, whom he knew but too well,  
And the Ghost of Tom Saffold rejoiced when he fell.  
Light lie the soft dust, untrod let it be,  
As far from constraint, and as easy as he.   

THE Bacchanalian Sessions: OR THE CONTENTION OF LIQUORS.  

SInce to drive away cares, or the plague of Dull Thinking,  
All men more or less give themselves to good Drinking,  
To refresh their tired Senses, and chase away Sorrow,  
Grief, Pain, and the troublesome thoughts of to morrow:  
Yet in the choice of the Liquors Disputes have arisen,  
What to one Palates grateful, to others is Poison;  
For one man shall swoon at the sight of good Claret,  
While another, though racked with the Gout, can't forbear it.  
At the sight of a Punch Bowl will some Men look pale,  
Yet lay all their Senses a soaking in Ale.  
Six Men in a Tavern dispored to be merry,  
Shall drink six sorts of Wine; the first he drinks Sherry;  
The second to Clares, makes only pretention,  
And the third treats his Palace with White Wine and Gentian;  
And pale Rhenish the fourth before all other Wine chooses,  
And the fifth thinks Good Tent is the best of all Juices;  
While the sixth Men from all their Opinions does vary,  
Pleased only with mixture of Hock and Canary.   

To the Ears of God Bacchus, that Heathen old Toper,  
The Patron of Drunkards, and Foe to the Sober,  
The News soon arrived, as his Godship was making  
A Jol●s full Bo●l or some gr●●● Undertaking.  
So throwing by Sugar, Toast, Nutmeg and Lemons;  
Called a Council, and presently ordered a Summons,  
Commanding all Liquors, small, strong, mild and stale,  
From the Juice of the Grape, up to Adam's plain Ale,  
To repair to the Hal● of the Vintners ●errestrial,  
Where his Godship bestriding a Hogshead celestial,  
Would sit Umpire, and judge in the mighty Convention,  
And hear every Liquors Complaint and Pretention.   

The Summons received, each and every Liquor,  
Strove who in Obedience should be the quicker.  
When straight from Vaults, Stare-houses, Cellars and Arches,  
Each Liquid in haste to the grand Meeting marches,  
In overgrown Tuns, Pipes, 〈◊〉, Hogsheads and Barrels,  
Puncheons, Kilderkins, Firkins, Gallons, Quarts, or what e'er else  
Does good moisture contain, rolling through Streets and Allies  
With a motion like Ships between Dover and Calais.  
Till they came to the Court of the Vintner's Hall stately,  
Where all in good order to hear the Debate lie.   

By a double Huzzah from the Court of Assistants,  
(Which as Authors relate, was heard Twenty Miles distance)  
Timely Notice was given, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo,  
And some other brisk Gods who their Footsteps did follow,  
Were descended in Shape of some mortal Virorum,  
To hear the Disputes which were ready before 'em.   

But 'fore Trial began, as our Histories tell us,  
God Bacchus and all his Celestial Fellows,  
Took a gentle Carouse at the Head of the But,  
Their Judgements to clear when the Case should be put.   

Proclamation for Silence first made by the Crier,  
Who by birth was a Germane, or Fame is a Liar,  
The God (with a Rosy Wreath circling his Forehead)  
In a short pithy Speech but sententious and florid:  
Told 'em he for his part, was most heartily sorry,  
That Mortals so strangely 'bout Liquors should vary,  
And that his sole Errand, as boldly he would say,  
Was only to judge of what every one could say;  
And by weighing what Arguments each one pretended,  
Give his Sentence that so all Disputes might be ended.   

Upon this a loud Uproar was heard in the Hall,  
And each for Pre-eminence loudly did bawl,  
With such Clamours the Noise you might hear it a Mile hence,  
But Orders were instantly given for Silence:  
When from 〈…〉 old Fellow,  
With a hoarse broken Voice 〈…〉 for to tell how,  
That above all the rest he was Heir to the Crown,  
As being the Liquor to th' World first was known.  
For I am, Mighty Sir, without mincing the Matter,  
The Primitive Liquor the Learned called Water,  
Which the Patriarches 〈◊〉 and then 'twas not wondered,  
That some Men attained to the Age of Nine Hundred;  
Whereas now by made Liquors of humane contriving,  
Men at Forty or Fifty go out from the Living;  
Or else— Hold your prating (says Bacchus in Fury)  
I myself in this Case will be hath Judge and Jury;  
And amazed as I am at thy fancy Presumption,  
With thy Looks pan and man like a generous is Consumption,  
To contend for the Palm with these generous Juices,  
What Man in his Wits e'er for Pleasure thee chooses?  
To thy Cistern return, and I charge by strict Rules,  
That none ever drink thee but Madmen and Fools.   

The Court all approved what his Godship had uttered,  
And Element vanished, though he frowned stamped and muttered;  
When Canary starts up, and in florid Oration,  
Gave himself very ample and large Commendation:  
How he cherished the Blood and enlivened the Spirits,  
No other Wines having the half of his Merits;  
Nay more, that of all the rich Wines in the Hall,  
His was the most Catholic Grape of them all  
But Bacchus not pleased with this hussing Bravado▪  
With a Frown quickly silenced this Rhotomantado,   

Tent and Muskadine next 'gan to open their Throats,  
And each loudly bawled for Major'ty of Votes  
Nor was Alicant wanting to join in the Chorus,  
And of his great Virtues told many odd Stories,  
But Bacchus well knowing 'twas not very fit,  
That a Meal should be made of a Relishing Bit,  
Quickly told 'em that he in his Judgement did think,  
Cordials ne'er were intended for Man's Common Drink.   

The next that stood up with a Countenance merry,  
Was a pert sort of Wine which the Moderns call Sherry.  
Who told all the Gods that their Votes he not doubted,  
Since of late so beloved scarce a Tavern without it.  
Ha, says Bacchus, as sure as Discharge of a Pistol,  
This Dapper young Spark is but knew come from Bristol:  
And told him his Juice, though the most Vintners did buy,  
It was never esteemed as a Liquor to sit by;  
But assured him when e'er he to Bristol came down,  
He'd take care to create him the Mayor of the Town.   

Skipping over the heads of Tuns, Hogsheads, and Barrels,  
(On which there had like to have happened some Quarrels)  
A Red Wine appears, and in Language most pretty,  
Told Bacchus, and all the Assembled Committee,  
His Virtues (says Bacchus) but pray Sir what are you,  
I am, Mighty Sirs, a new Wine called Red Sherry,  
Redsherry? quoth Bacchus, and pray Master Sheehead  
Where live you?— Why, Sir, at the Shepherd in Cheapside.  
After which the God took off a large brimming Taster,  
And bid him commend his kind Love to his Master,  
But told him such precedents never had knowledge,  
That a Freshman was ere choose the head of his College.  
The Red Wines were next to have spoken in order,  
But by bawling and yelping they made such Disorder,   

That 'twas presently told by the Great God of Wine,  
They all should give place to the Grape of the Rhine;  
Upon which, in clean Vessel, not tattered and shagrag,  
Appears Rhenish, Hock, Old and Young, Moselle, and Backrag;  
But knowing their Interest-grew weaker and weaker,  
They the great Tun at Heidelburg chose for their Speaker.  
Being chosen (says he) Mighty Sir, to say truly,  
Some Palates judicious have owned or they do lie,  
No Wines do the Stomach so highly replenish,  
As a Brimmer of Hock, or a Bumper of Rhenish.  
If your Godships can then but approve of the Rhine Tiff,  
Your Verdict we hope you'll give in for the Plaintiff.  
Brother Guts, than quoth Bacchus, methinks you're too quick Sir,  
To bespeak our good word for your Germane Elixir:  
I'll tell you before the Cause come to an end on't,  
If we've Ears for the Plaintiff, we've for the Defendant;  
Besides I must tell you, ye Sons of the Rhine,  
You're at best but a kind of Hermophradite Wine;  
For those who of late have caroused a good Drench,  
Do say your part German, part Dutch, and part French.  
Till then, by the force of Arms powerful and strong,  
I shall be known to what Prince all your Vineyards belong;  
To your several Quarters you all may return,  
And so for this time the Debate we adjourn.   

The White Wines were next to the Bar closely pressing,  
And Trusty Langoon to God Bacchus addressing,  
Told his Godship what mighty and great Reputation,  
His Liquor had gained in the English Nation.  
That of him every morning each thirsty poor Sinner,  
Took a Pint for a Whet, to prepare him for Dinner;  
And therefore it must be a truth very lasting,  
The Wine must be best which the Mortals drink fasting.  
In vain then, quoth Bacchus, we make drinking Laws,  
When you are the Wine which still ruins our Cause.  
The Whets you pretend I can never think well of,  
You Whet, but pray what? Don't you whet all the Steel of  
The Stomach, and then a Man's ready for drinking,  
As much as a Man in a Storm is for thinking;  
For he in my Books is the only good Fellow,  
In the Morning who's sober, in the Evening who's mellow.  
Therefore Mr. Langoon pray desist from your prating,  
And talk no more Nonsense in praise of your Whetting:  
For Ten Morning's Draught Men, and Whetting young Blades,  
Have for one Evenings Toper gone down to the Shades.   

The Red Wines together march decently all,  
Like a Call of New Sergeants which go by Whitehall  
In Coats particoloured, so these by Extraction,  
Were half of them Spanish, and half the French Faction.  
But in this they agreed all, that since the Word Claret,  
Was so dangerous that Vintners to name scarcely dare it,  
To be freely content to have Names full as many,  
As sharping young Bullies, or City Punks any,  
Made use to bilk an old Lodging or manage  
A Raw Country Cully as yet in his Nonage.   

Ha, says Bacchus, these look like true Lads of brisk Mettle,  
But from whence pray you came all this drove of Red Cattle;  
Down the Gulf, cross the Alps, or the Mediterranean;  
For every one looks like a jolly Companion?  
We are Mighty Sir, (the replied they) poor Strangers,  
Who passing through infinite Hazards and Dangers  
Of Pirates by Sea, and of Robbers by Land,  
Came to wait on your Highness, and hear your Command;  
We are called Syracuse, Barcelona, Navarre,  
And what other hard Names our new Masters prepare,  
But let's be of any kind, species, or sort,  
We would all be thought Claret, but named the Red Port.  
Ah, says Bacchus, how e'er you pretend all to flatter,  
I doubt there's some Roguery, at th' bottom o'th' matter;  
Had you been what you're not, I protest by this Barrel,  
To you, and you only, I'd given the Laurel:  
For Gods all above, well as Mortals below,  
Th' Effects of good Claret too sensibly know.  
For there once was a time, but alas the time's fled,  
When a Punch Bowl gave place to a Bottle of Red;  
When no other Name ran throw Jove's Olympic great Hall,  
But for Claret did Gods and their Goddesses call;  
But since Civil Wars have in Europe arose,  
What's become of the Rich Burdeau● Claret who knows?  
To our hands came a Letter from mortals judicious,  
Humbly showing that Claret was now grown so vicious,  
So counterfeit, poor, palled, dull, flat, and insipid,  
That scarcely 'tis fitting for Man to lay Lip at,  
Unless by strong faith between sleeping and waking,  
They would drink a damned Wine of the Vintners own making;  
For I'll hear you no more, till it happen that one Day,  
The Hogshead I stride in filled with Burgundy.  
If such a kind present your Master can raise,  
'Tis forty to one I present you the Bays.   

The Red Wines went mumbling, and grumbling away,  
And a jolly full Punch Bowl came next into play,  
When a hollow voice spoke from the bottom o'th' Bowl,  
Mighty God of strong Liquors, which cherish the Soul,  
Since that Wines are so bad as Old Mortals complain,  
Make me King of good Company once more again,  
Renew my old Charter and settle my Reign.  
Yes, my merry Old Friend, said the God, 'tmust be owned,  
That thou of all Liquors deserv'st to be Crowned,  
But the Mortals for thee who their Reason would Barter,  
Must now be contented to quit their Old Charter.  
They who once on thy Liquors did greedily fall on,  
Must now pine, since good Nants is twelve shillings the Gallon.  
An Argument which all our Reasons convinces,  
thou'rt a Juice only fit now for Gods and for Princes,  
And Mortals for want of thee must be contented,  
Till Brandy is Cheaper, or else the Wars ended.   

The Punch Bowl no sooner retired or did vanish,  
But with grave sober pace and a look Aldermanish,  
Having first made a reverence, to Bar there does come,  
From Brunswick, a fat swinging Barrel of Mum,  
And in stile grave and modest to audience in part does,  
Relate his good Qualifications and Virtues:  
But Bacchus considering that that kind of Liquor  
Made twenty Heads dull, for one head it made Quicker;  
And when Men with that Liquor began to be bowzy,  
They always inclined to be sleepy and drowsy,  
Refused him his praises, and what ever might hap,  
Thought the Laurel looked scurvily over a Nightcap.   

The Mum-cask thus silenced, the next that pretended,  
Were Cider called Redstreak with Perry attended.  
Ha! hah! hah! quoth God Bacchus what fellows are these?  
We are, answered they, if your Godship it please,  
The Old Britain's Liquors called Cider and Perry,  
Which cheers up the Spirits, and makes the Heart merry;  
And we once in our Lustre and Glory did shine,  
Till our Credit was ruined by Foreigners Wine.  
Those villainous Juices— hold, hold, ye Slaves hold,  
With the Blood of the Grape ere you make but too bold.  
Cried Bacchus in passion, how dare you compare  
Your balderdash, crabbed, adulterate ware  
With the Generous Grape, who has Virtues such odds,  
It can equalise Mortals almost with the Gods?  
U●●●●●y passion no further, but hence get ye skipping,  
Ye squeezings of Pears and the Juices of Pippin.   

No sooner had these slily sneaked out of Court,  
But Mead and Metheglin straight made their Report.  
But Bacchus to make all his Fellow God's merry,  
Made 'em perfectly dumb just like Cider and Perry.   

Not Bawds drunk at a Christening, Fishwives a scolding,  
Or Rabble the Tricks of a Juggler beholding,  
Could make half such a Clamour or louder could bawl,  
Than the Noise which was suddenly heard in the Hall;  
Occasioned by crowding, and heaving, and thrusting,  
Of a hundred Brewed Liquors with anger half bursting.  
About the first Place and Precedence, Priority,  
Each of them pretending an equal Authority,  
Having first given large Testimonials of Praise  
To deprive all the rest of the Honour of Bays.   

God Bacchus red-hot now with anger was grown,  
To hear such a Clamour so near to his Throne.  
By the Stars which adorn my Great Fathers high way,  
What mean you? whence come you? what are you I say?  
At which they all open, and each did not fail  
To cry out, we are Beer, we are Beer, we are Ale.  
This Clamour his Godship incensed more and more,  
And by Styx and by Cerberus loudly he swore;  
That if each of them did not leave off these disorders,  
For Pluto's black warrant he'd quickly send orders,  
Then as mute as dumb Fishes, they all ceased their bawling,  
And each in submission low, prostrate and falling,  
For offending his Godship their sorrow expressed,  
And the tumult now over in Bacchus his breast,  
He then ordered that two should declare for the rest.   

Then Beer'gan to speak. May't with Reverence be spoke,  
Myself and my brethren most humbly invoke,  
Your own, and your Fellow Gods kind approbation  
Of us the best Liquors i' th' English Nation.  
A Drink much applauded, and thought very good,  
Not by English alone, but by Nations abroad;  
For 'tis plain that the French and the Dutch do prefer,  
Before their Rich Wines, the Bon Beer d' Angleterre;  
And both Monsieur and Hans will leave Bourdeaux and Rhenish,  
That their Gates with good Beer they may fully replenish.  
'Tis the Staff of the Aged, and Life of the Young;  
Make Weak men grow vigorous, and Lusty more strong.  
'Tis— hold, hold, says Bacchus, no more of your talking,  
For 'tis— nay it shall be the thing of your making.  
It shall be what you please, like a Juggler's paper,  
First a Horse, than a Fish, than a Boar, than a Taper:  
But since Ale and yourself in the Cause are concerned,  
'Twere but fit that both Plead were rightly discerned;  
Therefore speak to the Ale there, your twin Brother muddy,  
That himself he recover from out his brown study.  
With a Countenance foggy, Dull Ale does appear,  
And bowing his Dropsical Corpse to the Bar;  
Says I, come mighty Sir, in the name of the rest,  
Of my fellow Collegiates to stand to the Test,  
By what Names or Titles so ever we're known by,  
Or else by what age or complexion we're shown by;  
Whether York, Hull, or Lincoln, as Parents we own,  
Or else brewed in Derby, and Nottingham ●own:  
Whether Scurvygrass, Daucus, Gill, Butler, or Broom,  
Or from London, or Southwark, or Lambeth we come;  
We humbly implore since the Wine in the Nation,  
Has of late so much lost its once great Reputation;  
That such Liquor as ours which is genuine and true,  
And which all our Masters so carefully brew,  
Which all men approve of, though ' many drink Wine,  
Yet the good Oly of Barley there's none will decline:  
That we as a body called corp'rate may stand,  
And a Patent procure from your Seal and your Hand,  
That none without Licence, called Special, shall fail,  
To drink any thing else, but Strong Nappy Brown Ale.   

At this started Beer, and soon made some Objections,  
To's Brother, not wanting some saucy Reflections.  
But Bacchus by order soon parted the fray,  
And asked 'em if any thing else they could say;  
They replied that at present they'd utter no more,  
But humbly his Favour and Grace did implore.   

Then ye Sons of thin Element, Barley and Dry Hops.  
How happened your Thoughts thus to mount on the high ropes?  
(Says Bacchus) to fancy I e'er should ever afford.  
You my Favour, who scarcely deserve a good Word;  
Ye dull, foggy, muddy, flat, spiritless Liquors,  
Fit only for Plowmen, or dull Country Vicars.  
Get you gone to your Cellars, to Vaults hence away,  
If a Crown 'tis you want, 't shall be one made of Day.  
For did ever a Poet in writing excel,  
Who with dull Beer and Ale made his heavy Panch swell?  
What Fancy, what Muse, did you ever inspite,  
You are Sons of the Earth, not the Offspring of Fire.  
When Statesmen have held a Committee, or Council,  
Durst either of you but tread over the Groundsel  
Good Wine has been suffreed bear the Debate;  
Which without it had been unactive and flat.  
But why on such vermin my breath do I spend,  
Who dare with the Juice of the Grape to contend▪  
When Carmen and Porters are Judges of sense,  
Perhaps I may bear you, till when get you hence▪   

At command, the last Liquors in Droves went away,  
And none but Cock Ale did behind the rest stay:  
The Court at his impudence gun for to scoff,  
And asked why he stayed, when the rest were trooped off?  
The I am not so vain to pretend to the Bans,  
(Answered he) yet I will not be robbed of my praise.  
For 'tis but a truth, which is very well known,  
How much I'm beloved by the Sparks of the Town,  
And their Mistresses too, who 'fore Wine me prefer,  
When they meet at a Hoarse very near Temple ban  
What precious intre●gues could 〈◊〉 Pimpship discover,  
Between a Town Jilt, and a 〈◊〉 young Lover.  
But mum— you may call me a saucy young Prig,  
If I can't have the Bays, I'll at least have a Sprig,  
Then Bacchus considering 'twould be very ●ard,  
If Boldness like his should not meet with reward  
Fearing impudence would 〈◊〉 last bring hi● to th' Gallows,  
Made him Page of the Back Stairs to his drunken Palace.   

Small Beer whilst the others so loudly did bawl,  
Went sneaking and santring all over the Hall;  
And to speak for his goodness was very unwilling,  
Since the clothes on his back were but all worth Six Shilling.  
Tho he took it in dudgeon, and thought it was hard,  
To be pinched and abused by th' Yeomen o' th' Guard.  
Which so often was done that a Quarrel arose,  
And Bacchus himself did i' th' fray interpose.  
But how angry he was when his Godship did hear,  
That the Quarrel was only 'bout paltry Small Beer,  
So before for himself he could make his report,  
He was threatened a Pumping, and kicked out of Court.   

Then the Coffee-house Liquors began for to swarm,  
And came up to Bar, some cold, and some warm.  
Says Bacchus, how happened it that in these doors,  
Came this Crew of half sober, half drunk Sons of Whores?  
But since they are here let 'em make their report,  
For perhaps it may give some diversion to th' Court.   

Then touching his Turban by way of Respect,  
Stood up Coffee, and spoke to this kind of effect;  
That when men overheated by Wine and Debauches  
Had gotten their Loads, and were drunker than Roaches,  
By his power they their sense would recover again,  
And no longer be Brutes, but approve themselves Men.  
Why then Mr. Coffee, in true sober sadness,  
Says Bacchus, you think that all drinking is madness;  
But I know and am sure, when men part with their Reason,  
Tho Nonsense they talk, yet they never think Treason;  
But in drinking of thee, Men too oft frame a Plot,  
Which costs them their Necks— so be silent you Sot.   

The next that attempted to put in his Plea,  
Was a Drink much admired by the Ladies, called Tea.  
But the Court plainly saw how he trifled and fooled,  
So without much debate was his Plea overruled.   

Then up to the Bar with a Countenance bold,  
Came another Ten Liquor by Moderns called Cold,  
But Bacchus soon found by acquaintance with Spirits,  
He lately had lost very much of his merits.  
For a Man would soon find should he walk the Town round,  
Good Brandy, like Honesty, hard to be found.   

Then the Ladies and Sparks admired Drink Chocolate,  
In words very modish began a short prate.  
How he cherished the Spirits, and tickled the Blood,  
And to make the Back strong was undoubtedly good.  
Ha! says Bacchus, what Pimp of a Liquor is this?  
With the Cherish and Tickle you may if you please,  
Be to Streets of St. Alban, and Bridget be jogging,  
For if longer you stay have a care of a flogging.  
He is only my Favourite, and true Bully Rock,  
When he hugs a Half Flask, cries a Fig for the Smock,   

Rosa Solis spoke next, but he quickly gave o'er,  
By Bacchus struck dumb for a Son of a Whore.  
All Liquors by accident pimp and persuade,  
But he and some others were Pimps by their Trade.   

Whue by Chreesht my Dear Joy, by Shaint Patrick my Shoul,  
Usqueb●●gh then set up with an Irish Howl.  
Pridee Bacchush, if that be thy own Chreeshen Name,  
For thou hast a Swheet fauce, and I poor Teague came  
To make a Petishion upon thy sweet Grash,  
That amongst other Liquors I may ha' a Plaush:  
This silly Expression made all the Court smile,  
Thou hast it (says Bacchus) and this is thy Style:  
thou'rt the Aetna of Juices, a Damned Liquid fire,  
Hence, Teaguelander, hence, now thou hast thy desire.   

The Court now began to appear very thin,  
And nothing like Liquor about it was seen,  
But two or three Vessels who speechless did crawl,  
And at last, like cast Clients, crept out of the Hall.   

Now all things were silent, The God started up,  
And taking of Nectar Celestial a Cup,  
To his Fellow Gods drank, and concluded the Session,  
With this pithy short Speech, and ingenuous Confession.   

You see Brother Deities, what a Contention,  
There is amongst Liquors of humane Invention;  
That 'tis vain should I strive for to end the Contest,  
Or nicely determine which Liquor is best.  
Let each Mortal his skinful most soberly drink  
Of the Liquor he likes, or what best he does think;  
But yet let him always 〈…〉  
To fill what he drinks, and to drink what he fill●.   

The Deities all, by a treble Haz●●●,  
Approved of the verdict that Bacchus did say,  
And in Chariot of Clouds they th●n vanished away.    

A FAREWEL TO WINE.  By a Quondam Friend to the Bottle. 

I.  
TEmpt me no more, I swear I will not go:  
As soon you may in Winter's deepest Snow,  
Persuade me Tenariff to climb,  
Or into Aetna's scorching flame,  
My Mortal Carcase throw,  
As to a Tavern go— I hate the Name.  
There was indeed my Friend, there was a time,  
When to avoid the hurry, noise, and strife,  
With the tumultuous Cares of Life,  
We in an Evening o'er a Bottle met,  
And while the tempting flowing Glass,  
Did round about in order pass,  
Conferred we Notes of Pleasure, Love and Wit,  
The Wine then was— would a dull Muse inspire,  
Make Blockheads witty, Cowards bold;  
And in the bloodless, withered, old  
Men of Threescore blow up a youthful 〈◊〉   

II.  
But no●— with what regret the 〈◊〉 name,  
The Wine we drink is now no more the ●●me,  
In former happy days it was,  
Than can a Man of Ninety Nine be said,  
With Withered Limbs and hoary Head,  
To be the selfsame Creature as,  
He was at Fourteen Years of Age.  
No, no, the vigorous Heat, the Spirit's gone:  
The Wine with which we now engage,  
Has not that body; 〈◊〉 or age,  
It had before the War beg●n,  
It either chills the blood— or puts it in a flame.   

III.  
What arts my friend you have? What tricks you use?  
My easy Temper to seduce.  
Methinks a Tavern Door I enter in,  
With such unwillingness as when a Maid,  
By Oaths and Promises betrayed,  
Does venture on the Pleasing Sin.  
But here most solemnly I vow,  
Not to exceed a Glass or two:  
No Bumpers shall your Friendship fill me,  
One Glass, if Aqua fortis, would not kill me.   

IV.  
Some Claret Boy— Indeed Sir we have none.  
Claret Sir— Lord there's not a Drop in Town;  
But we've the best Red Port— What's that you call  
Red Port?— a Wine Sir comes from Portugal,  
I'll fetch a Pint Sir,— Do make haste you Slave,  
In things of sense what mighty faith some have,  
To give their healths up to a Vintner's Boy,  
Who with one Dash perhaps can it destroy;  
And when the threatening Gout. or Fever comes,  
To Quack in Velvet Coat,  
Who all his Learning has by rote,  
To purchase Health again give liberal Sums.   

V.  
Pray taste your Wine Sir,— Sir, by your good favour,  
I'll view it first, and nose its flavour;  
Is this the Wine you so commend?  
Pray look upon't my dearest Friend,  
It looks almost as brown and yellow,  
As is the face of warlike Fellow,  
Who has for seven Campaigns in Flanders lain,  
Observe, observe it once again;  
See how Ten Thousand Atoms dance about the Glass,  
Of Eggs, and Lime, and Iseinglass:  
Mark how it smells, methinks a real pain,  
Is by its odor thrown upon my brain.  
I've tasted it— 'tis spiritless and flat,  
And has as many different tastes,  
As can be found in compound pastes,  
In Lumber Pie, or soporisrous Mithridate.   

VI  
Sir, If you please, I'll a fresh Hog shed pierce.  
Pierce your own head you Dog— which now contains,  
Maggots and Lies, instead of Brains.  
What other Wines you brewing Ass,  
Have you; you would for Clarets pass?  
Speak quickly come their names rehearse.  
Sir, We defy all London to compare,  
A Glass of Wine with our Navarre,  
And then for Barcelona, Syracuse,  
Or Carcavella now so much in use,  
With rich Gallicia Wine a mighty Store,  
Florence and— hold you prating Whelp, no more,  
But fetch us up a Pint of any sort,  
Navarre, Galicia, any thing but Port.  
Yes Sir— These nimble Rogues of Flippant Talk,  
How merrily their Tongues can walk.  
As sure as Moral Certainty,  
The Vintners have some needy Spark in Fee,  
T' invent hard names for all their Wines, that so,  
They off more quick, and currently may go.   

VII.  
Come Boy the Wine— I hope 'twill please you Sir,  
No question on't— Come of all Saints to th' Mother,  
A Health— Pox take it, this is worse than the other:  
From this Floors Centre may I never stir,  
If 'tis not sweet, and sour, and hot, and smells  
Of Brimstone, or of something else.  
Wine do you call this poisonous Drink,  
They're quite besides their wits I think;  
'Tis Florence, Port, Navarre, and all together,  
For Bacchus' Boys, is not this lovely weather?  
Here, take your Money for your (Stuff called) Wine,  
Which from this time I utterly decline.   

VIII.  
You see my Friend, these Rogues by their pretences,  
How they impose 〈◊〉 our very Senses:  
And we a Price extravagant allow,  
For that Damned 〈◊〉 which in their Vaults they brew,  
Which Mystery 〈…〉 throughly knew,  
Sooner we'd leap into 〈◊〉 Thames or Severn,  
Than Venture on the 〈◊〉 in any Tavern.   
FINIS.   

These following 〈◊〉 were written by the Author of this Poem.  
1. THE Folly of Love. A new satire on Women, price 6d.  
2. The Plea●●●● of Love and Marriage; a Poem in praise of the fair Sex, in requital for 〈…〉 Satyrs on Women. 6d.  
3. The Jacobite Conventicle a Satirical Poem, 6d.  
4. A. Dialogue between 〈…〉 a Poem, considered in an accidental Conversation between two 〈…〉  
5. The Female Fireships, a satire against Whoring, in a Letter to a Friend just come to Town, 6d.  
6. 〈…〉 a Poem, 6d.  
7. The Siege 〈…〉 of Mons, a Tragicomedy, exposing the Villainy of the Priests, and the Intrigues of the French in that affair, 6d.  
8. Islington Wells, or the 〈…〉 a satire on the Water-Drinkers, 6d.  
9 The Search af●er Claret, or a Visitation of the Vintners, a Poem in 3 Parts, 〈…〉. 4d.