Fatal Friendship; OR, THE Drunkard's Misery: BEING A satire AGAINST Hard Drinking.  
— Cum Vini vis penetravit,  
Consequitur gravitas Membrorum, praepediuntur  
Crura vacillanti, tardescit Lingua, madet Mens,  
Nant Oculi, Clamour, Singultus, Jurgia glascant.  Lucret. Lib. 3. 
By the AUTHOR of The Search after Claret.  

Imprimatur,  
Octob. 18th. 1692. Edmund Bohun.   
London, Printed for, and Sold by Randal Taylor, near Stationers-Hall, 1693.   

TO ALL Gentlemen, and Others; More particularly, To the Sworn Friends of the BOTTLE.  
Gentlemen, etc.  
I Am very sensible, that my Company will be as acceptable to you, as good Advice to a Young Heir, borrowing Money upon his Estate before he comes to Age; or a Drawer's Impertinence, who (unsent for) tells you, 'Tis past Three in the Morning; whereas you scorn to wait upon Time; No, let the Bald-pated Gentleman wait upon you. However, a satire is a kind of a rugged Fellow, and stands not much upon Preface, or Ceremony; who makes bold to present you with some of your Pictures, drawn as near the Life, as a rough Pencil could make them; tho', you will say, 'Twas 〈◊〉 what Saucy, to do your Pictures, without your Consert 〈◊〉 Perhaps, 'twas a little Presumptions; but what dares 〈◊〉 a satire do? 'Tis a very strange thing, that a Man should do that overnight, which he must ask Pardon of his Constitution for next Morning. How Penitent, and Cropsick, have I seen a Spark, after a Debauch? His Body Feverish, his Head out of order; then Small-Beer, and Coffee, are his Beloved Liquors, and he abhors Wine for some time, equal with a Mussel-man; till Nature throws it off, and then the Bottle must be plied pretty warmly, to redeem the time lost in Sobriety.  
But, as for those Hard-Drinkers, whose Bodies and Consciences are equally Case-hardned, whom no Wine can ever Intoxicate, and who boast of their Knocking down (as 'tis called) so many of an Evening; taking a Pride to Murder their Dearest Friends, under the Disguise of a Civil Entertainment (for a Stab in the Mouth is oftentimes more dangerous, than a Thrust through the Body:) As for these Men, my satire has nothing to say to them, since neither St. Paul, nor Aristotle, can ever convince them, that Drinking to Excess is a Sin, or, to use their own Modish Phrase, a Vice: No, my satire would only instruct the Young Practitioners in Drinking, who are not gone so far, as to dare to venture upon the Second or Third Bottle; I wish, they may stop, before the Fever, Gout, or Consumption, convinces them of their Folly, and their Experience be not bought so Dear, that they will never make their Money of it again; for, till I can find, what Good either to Soul, Body, Reputation or Estate, HARD DRINKING ever did to any Man, the satire will stand Good in Law; and when he is convinced to the contrary, he will readily cry, Peccavi.   

An ERRATA.  
PAge 2. line ult. for Masters, read Master, p. 9 l. 9 f. Just, r. Cursed. ibid., l. 16. f. so well, r. to sell, p. 10. l. 8. f. tells, r. tell, p. 13. l. 10. f. Rutilio, r. But, ibid., l. 14. f. Paint, r. Pain p. 14. l. 12. f. Year, r. Years, p. 15. l. 7. f. Jilt, r. Jill. p. 16. l. 2. f. of his, r. which this, p 25. l. 17. f. he, r. they. With several other Faults, which the Reader is desired to Correct.   

THE Fatal Friendship, etc.  

I.  
ENough, Enough; urge me no more my Friend,  
(For so you are, or so at least pretend;)  
I've drank enough to quench my thirst; nay, more,  
I've took a Glass, or two, on pleasures Score;  
And sure, you cannot think it fit,  
I drink beyond my Quantum sufficit?  
Why will you tempt me thus?— And with a Glass,  
Fit by the Race of Giants, to be quaffed:  
Think you a Pint can be a Friendly Draught?  
For double Aqua Fortis has  
As many Charms as in that Bumper are;  
Therefore, my dearest Friend, forbear,  
And show the Fatal Glass no more;  
Which not to Drink, I to myself have sworn.   

II.  
But yet I would not have you think,  
'Tis Humour makes me thus forbear to drink;  
Or that some sullen Maggot of the Brain,  
Makes me large Brimmers thus refrain.  
I ever loved my Friend, and Scorn to be  
The Spoiler of good Company;  
Yet I was ne'er so Complaisant,  
To pour down Drink to that Degree,  
Till I could neither speak, nor stand, nor go,  
Because my Company were so;  
I hope, that piece of Breeding I shall ever want.  
Some Irksome things one would for Friendship do,  
Yet a Man's Health must be regarded too.   

III.  
I see your Friends are all uneasy grown;  
And you yourself must wish me gone,  
Since now I can no longer be,  
What by mistake is called Good Company:  
Pardon my Rudeness, and believe,  
'Tis with Regret I take my Leave;  
For I am very proud to be  
The Masters of my Health and Liberty;  
Yet, I confess, I shall one Pleasure lose,  
Which is, the benefit of your Discourse;  
Instead of which, I'll walk the Groves and Fields,  
And crop the sweets, the lovely Garden yields;  
Since various Men do various Pleasures choose,  
If you'll not envy mine, I ne'er will envy yours.   

IV.  
Thus at a pleasant Seat of Country-Knight,  
Adorned with every thing that can delight,  
One day a mighty Company were met,  
I, amongst the rest, to share a noble Treat.  
Our Dinner done, appears another Scene,  
Bottles, like Locusts, to the Room swarm in,  
Of several sorts of Wine; nor must they need,  
That Shoeing-horn, to Drink the Indian Weed:  
Bottles and Pipes the Challenge give,  
Which every one does there receive;  
Healths are begun, of which 'bout Three or Four  
I drank, and then resolved to drink no more;  
But took my leave, since I could plainly find,  
Hard-Drinking was by all designed;  
I know, that — Squeamish Fool, and sober Sot,  
Were Names, which in my absence were my Lot;  
But that no trouble was to me,  
Since now in Air my Thoughts were free:  
In a thick Grove of Beech I walked alone,  
And thinking where I lately was,  
And what was certain to be done,  
When the concluding Punch-Bowl was in play;  
Reflecting (as I, amongst the Trees, did pass)  
Upon the Vice of Drinking, there was brought  
A Thousand Notions to my Labouring Thought,  
Which, clothed in Words, thus to myself did say.   

V.  
How in the name of Wonder happened first  
That Vice, above all other Vices cursed,  
Called, Drunkenness, such vast esteem to find,  
Amongst the Race of Human kind.  
The Patriarches, who lived before the Flood,  
No Drink, but that of Water understood;  
Till Noah planted an unlucky Vine,  
And was the first Example of the force of Wine;  
But too too soon the Vice familiar grew,  
And when the Cups went briskly round,  
The little World, called Man, again was drowned,  
They laughed at all the Sober Few,  
Who would refuse to wash their Souls with Wine,  
Or not with them in Lewd Excesses join;  
This truth, Old Pious Lot too plainly knew,  
When from the Drunken Sodomitish Crew,  
With's Wife and Daughters he withdrew,  
But in a Cave the Girls contrived a Plot,  
By pushing on the well-filled Bowl,  
To warm their Father's aged Soul:  
And when the now no longer Pious Lot,  
His Doses had plentifully got,  
His Wife of Salt, and Sodom's Flames, were both forgot:  
The Heat of Wine, the Heat of Lust inspires,  
And the old Man now burns with youthful Fires;  
Incest he thinks no Crime, and now no more  
Rememb'ring what his Neighbours suffered for;  
Forgetting what is Lawful, Good and Just,  
Adds Sin to Sin, and his two Daughters must  
By turns inflame, by turns allay his Lust.   

VI  
Parent of Vices, Drinking, sure thou art,  
Under thy Wing they all ptotection find;  
For he that is to Drunkenness inclined,  
Will in no Sin refuse to bear a part,  
Must there a House be fired, or tender Maid  
Be to the Arms of Ravishers betrayed;  
A Person to be robbed, nay, Murdered too,  
All this a Drunkard is prepared to do;  
His Reason, in a Sea of Liquor, drowned,  
To guide his Thoughts, no Pilot can be found,  
But to and fro his Passions Fluctuate,  
Ready for Villainy at any Rate:  
But oft a sad Repentance is his Lot,  
And the Lewd Frolicks of a Drunken Sot,  
End with a Halter, and a Psalm,  
If drunk you kill, you must be hanged when Calm;  
But Newgate's Annals, Tyburn's Chronicle,  
Of this sad Truth can various Stories tell.   

VII.  
Oft to a Tavern have I known go in,  
A knot of Friends to drink a Glass of Wine,  
In Love and Unity they all sit down,  
Now doubly welcome to each other grown;  
To each Man's Health the Glass goes briskly round,  
And nought but Mirth and Jollity is found;  
But when one Bottle ushers in another,  
And this Half Flask brings in his younger Brother:  
A Scene quite different appears,  
For now with Wine inflamed each petty Jar,  
Will amongst these Friends create a Civil War;  
Wine spilt by accident, an Health forgot,  
Or a Glass filled too full upon the Spot,  
Can set 'em altogether by the Ears;  
Rascal, and Rogue, are words they use by turns,  
And each with Wine and Fury doubly burns;  
Which, if too high wound up, perhaps proceeds,  
To throwing Bottles at each others Heads;  
Then Swords from Scabbards are lugged out.  
And now begins the dismal Rout.  
All Friendship is forgot, and each one would  
Be glad to bathe his Sword in tother's Blood.  
Thus in the Fury of this Brutal Wrath,  
Murder ensues on One, or Both;  
And they, who were such Friends before,  
By Wines most powerful Operation,  
Cancel the Friendship which they bore;  
And he who does in such a Quarrel fall,  
With highest Justice we may call,  
A Sacrifice to Wine, and sudden Passion.   

VIII.  
Late from the Tavern, Reeling drunk,  
A Gentleman (well bred, and nobly born,  
Who sober, would such Actions scorn)  
Perhaps shall seize upon a stroling Punk;  
She likes her Prize, for well those Vermin know,  
What with a Drunken Man to do:  
But while, as by her side he walks,  
And of his Love in broken English talks,  
A Man more drunk he meets,  
Who has resolved to scour the Streets;  
He asks no leave, but boldly on does fall,  
And quarrels with him both for Punk and Wall:  
This he a great affront does think,  
(For Men are Valiant in their Drink)  
Both draw, and aukard bushes make;  
And though they both may know the Art,  
They thrust not now in Teirce or Cart;  
But blindly fight in the Dark,  
By a chance Pass falls one, or t'other Spark,  
Unless the Watch, or some bystanders may  
Be near, to part the sudden Fray.  
Thus Quarrels too too oft arise,  
And precious Life is laid at stake,  
For the good Favours of a taudry Crack,  
And doubly cursed is he that wins the Prize.   

IX.  
But without any hindrance, now suppose,  
He with his Phillis to some Tavern goes;  
For Taverns now, 'tis known, are doubly just,  
First, they inflame, and then they wink at Lust;  
Here from warm touches, and such wanton Toys,  
Which she permits as fine Decoys,  
To draw him on, to taste her further Joys,  
He ventures, and by Money thrown in Lapet,  
Gives solid Earnest for a swinging Clap.  
For now the Jilts, so well their Flesh are known,  
As Butchers do their Meat by Pound or Stone:  
But though the Whore with open Hand receives,  
What he for Fatal Pleasures gives,  
Not satisfied, she to his Pocket dives.  
From whence, by slight of Hand, with Fingers steady,  
By nimble Art, she picks out all his Ready;  
And if Tobacco-Box, or Watch be nigh,  
They shall not fail to keep it Company:  
Then she troops of, and leaves him with the Curse  
Of a burnt Tail, and quite exhausted Purse;  
Homeward 'tis time, that now he reels,  
Insensible as yet, but who can tell's  
The Pangs his serious Thoughts next Morning feels,  
When he considers what th' effects may be  
Of his last Night's Vain, Sinful Jollity.   

X.  
Blessed Effects of Drinking to Excess;  
But this does ancient Proverb cross,  
That Drunken Men ne'er come to harm or loss;  
No, Heaven o'er them has a peculiar care,  
Not minding how the Sober fare;  
From Horse they never fall, nor by Mistake,  
Ride into Ponds, a liquid Exit make;  
All Stairs to them, like Terra firma, seem,  
From whence, by falling, none e'er broke a Limb;  
They never meet with Quarrel, Blow, nor Wound,  
Nor Dead i'th' Street, o'ercome with Liquor found.  
No, no,— This Truth they jointly all confess,  
Or Day, or Night, when they from Drinking come,  
Tho' they want Legs and Eyes, they get securely home.   

XI.  
Like wretched losing Gamesters thus,  
Rather than they the Game will lose,  
Heaven shall be called, the sinking Cause t'efpouse:  
But can we be so impious, as to think,  
That Providence o'er Men in Drink,  
With greater care looks down, than on  
Those who are always sober known.  
This were to set up Vice, and put fair Virtue down.  
" But you will tell us, that the sober may  
" Be killed, or wounded in a Fray,  
" May break their Necks, be Drowned, or lie  
" Wracked with the Gout, or in a Fever die;  
" How then with Justice can you ere pretend,  
That Heaven is theirs, more than the Drunkard's Friend.  
'Tis true, these Mischiefs on the good may fall,  
But yet to them they are no ills at all;  
The forest of them Providence ne'er sent  
In Anger, as a Punishment:  
Th'Appearance, even of ill they all eschew,  
Not seek the Causes as the Drunkards do:  
No wonder then, so oft they Dangers meet,  
When they will Court 'em in the Road or Street;  
Leaving their Arguments, as vain and false,  
Since now another way my Fancy calls:  
Of Melancholory Scenes now take a View,  
And tell me then if Drink can Mischief do.   

XII.  
See here a moving Tun of Drink,  
Whose Paunch in State before him walks,  
While his Two Gouty Legs come Limping after,  
A Sight, will move our pity, and our Laughter,  
With pace uncertain, how he Stalks;  
Salts Rheums in's Eyes, with Face as Scarlet Red,  
Tho' parched his Lips, as ne'er with Moisture fed.  
This Sea of Liquor yet will never shrink,  
But freely takes his Brimmers off,  
And with the latest stoutly quaff:  
Nay, for his Drinking he has this pretence,  
Sobriety would be the Death,  
'Tis Claret: that preserves his Breath;  
So drink he must, even in his own Defence:  
Rutilio whether do these Courses tend,  
Nature at last beneath the Load must bend;  
Excessive heats put out her kinder Fires,  
And so wrapped up in Drink, the Wretch expires.   

XIII.  
Another with the Gout such Paint does feel,  
As almost equals those upon the Wheel;  
Oils, Ointments, Plasters still are used in vain,  
Nor can the Velvet Cushion ease the Pain;  
Either like strict Carthusian now he lives,  
And meanest Foods, and smallest Drink receives;  
(A dismal Penance for a past Life, spent  
In Frolicks, and high Drinking, Merriment)  
Or else he hugs the cause of all his Pains,  
And Wine alone his Palate entertains;  
And when in Toe the wracking twitch comes on,  
To ease the pain, he throws a Brimmer down:  
All Doctor's Slops he hates, and cannot think  
There can be any Opiate like Drink;  
And that good Claret, or some other Wine,  
Sooner and better does to rest incline,  
Then Laudanum, or other Anodyne:  
Thus, thus, he lives— and tedious year spins out,  
(For Death is seldom hastened by the Gout;)  
And frequent in his Mouth this Maxims known,  
Drink Wine, and have the Gout; and when that's done,  
Your Gout will pain you, tho'you should drink none.   

XIV.  
Now a Consumptive walking Ghost appears,  
Stooping to Earth before th'appointed Years;  
Who, when of Phlegm, he would his Stomach ease,  
Does of himself each time spit up a piece:  
A Hectic Fever does his Strength consume,  
And he's a perfect Skeleton become;  
So Pale and Wan, that every one almost  
Would swear he did not seem, but was a Ghost.  
Yet to the Tavern, for a sober Jilt,  
Or a half Pint at most, he ventures still;  
So willing is the Wretch to live, altho'  
He cannot one of Life's Contentments know:  
He sees the Men of Health the Bottles troul,  
And drink large Bumpers from the Deep mouthed Bowl;  
While he, with little Knipperkin, by's side,  
Observes the Ebbs and Flows of th' Bottles Tide,  
With such Delight, as old Men when they view,  
What Amorous Thyrsis and Dorinda do,  
When on a Rosy Bank, at Dawn of Day,  
They sit and kiss, and play the time away:  
Yet the pined Creature, Drinking now forbid,  
(Not able to perform what once he did)  
Yet pleads, that little Wine he sipped up now,  
To's wasted Lungs, does as a Cordial go;  
And who would that Assistance disallow?   

XV.  
These are some few of that most mighty Train,  
Of his hard Drinking, brings on wretched Man;  
Yet in the Case it is but plain and Clear,  
The Body is the smallest Sufferer:  
Too often the Estate the Damage feels,  
And a House totters while its Master reels;  
Hang lousy Manors, what are Musty Farms,  
In Balance put with Wines Diviner Charms:  
Thus Timon-like, our Spark treats on, and Drinks,  
But how's Estate declines, he never thinks,  
Till Duns on every side attack him so,  
He must for safety to Alsatia go;  
Where, while his Money lasts he shall not want,  
Companions who will with him Drink and Rant;  
But that once gone, his Person they refuse,  
As Rats by Instinkt leave a falling House;  
Pensive he walks, and knows not what to do,  
Since Poverty has made the World his Foe;  
And he who once esteemed no Wines too dear,  
Now wets his Throat with Penitent small Beer;  
Though 'tis a Change, few Men can ere endure,  
To be a Stoic from an Epicure;  
No Character does such a Man deserve,  
(By his Excesses almost doomed to starve)  
But this,— A good Estate to's Lot did fall,  
Which folilshly he pissed against the Wall.   

XVI.  
But, what does most of all our wonder raise,  
And with Astonishment our Reason strike,  
Is, that this Vice they will as Virtue praise,  
And that no Friendship ever can be like  
To that, which o'er a Bottle can be made:  
So strong a Cement's Wine, it will engage,  
Men shall continue Friends an Age.  
Tho the Acquaintance first they had,  
At a lewd Drinking Match, where each one vowed,  
That he would Spend his dearest Blood;  
Go for his Friend, through Water, Fire, all  
The Dangers can on Mankind fall;  
Tho of all this a Word's not understood,  
Yet they will hug and flabber one another;  
The Old they Father call, the Young their Brother.  
Their Friendship, thus by Wine begun,  
Must by the same be carried on;  
And if by accident, one meets  
His Brother Red-Nose in the Streets;  
They, with dry Lips, no more can part,  
Than can a Parent from his Son in Cart,  
Refrain from Tears.— Old Customs they'll not break,  
Each in a Glass must dip his Beak;  
With modest Pints, they first begin,  
And that the Tall-boy ushers in;  
Then, in large Brimmers, all their Cares they drown,  
And useless Reason tumbles down:  
Yet they are Friends, most mighty Friends, indeed,  
And for each other, both their Purses bleed;  
So long, till one does a Consumption find,  
And when that's gone,— Where will you find the Friend?   

XVII.  
But, which is worst of all, our Gentry now,  
Make Drinking— Friendship, and their Glory, too;  
And him the bravest Man they reckon, who  
Can his large Bumpers stiffly quaff,  
And carry half a Score of Bottles off;  
And him unfit for Conversation think,  
Who boggles with the Glass, and will not drink:  
If I, quite weary of the nauseous Town,  
To see an honest Country Friend, go down;  
I am received with all the kind Address,  
That un-disguised Friendship can express;  
With wonder, I behold his plenteous Board,  
With what even Luxury could wish-for stored;  
And when, with choicest Foods, I have  
Given Nature the Refreshment she did crave;  
Taking my Glass, in order, as it came,  
Gently to stir the Vital Flame,  
I thought, that then some respite was allowed,  
To sit a while, and talk, or chew the Cudd.  
But, ah! no sooner was the Voider gone,  
But Bottles came in Clusters on.  
Now I've a doubtful Task to choose,  
Either to Drink, or else refuse:  
If I through easiness comply,  
(And Men sometimes want power for to deny)  
I must resolve with Reason to shake Hands,  
And represent the Brute, in shape of Man,  
While precious Health, in doubtful posture, stands;  
For who can tell, how much I may oppress  
The Vital Heat, by such a Grand Excess;  
And the firm strength, which now I'm sure is mine;  
This (Friendly kind) Debauch may undermine,  
And shorten Life t'an Inch, which Nature made a Span?  
If I refuse, and no Persuasions can  
Tempt me to stay, and drink like them,  
Me, as an ill bred Fool, they then condemn;  
But Heaven be praised, these Scandals wound not deep;  
Let them rail on, while Life's chief Blessing, Health I keep.   

XVIII.  
And this, d'ye Friendship call, as well you may,  
Call an Italian Friend, who can convey  
A secret Poison to your Heart,  
Prepared with so much curious Art,  
Which shall most certainly, or soon, or late,  
Close up your Eyes, and Seal your Fate:  
But our bold Sons of Bacchus, here,  
Do in their practice openly appear;  
Who, on you, when they force the Glass, or Cup,  
Pale Poison, in Disguise of Wine you sup;  
Yet think not Poison from the Grape they press;  
No, Wine's a Cordial, till by lewd Excess,  
It does its kind refreshing Nature lose,  
And Death lies lurking in the noble Juice:  
And can that Man be then my Friend,  
Who, because, Mithridates-like,  
He Poisons can digest (for Wine's no less,  
When swallowed to a vast Excess)  
Will unto me the fatal Draught commend.  
Nay, force it too:— If this be Friendship then,  
Its Sail let Sense and Breeding strike  
To Savages, and Indians, who  
European Vices never knew,  
For, if not Christians, yet 'tis owned they're Men.   

XIX.  
Alas! What Pleasure can there be  
In an half Flustered - Company:  
One while, like Dover-Court, 't appears,  
All Men have Tongues, but none have Ears;  
Another time they will be Sitting,  
As mute, as Quaker's silent Meeting;  
Till one more, Witty than the rest,  
Tells 'em a sad insipid Jest;  
And then they laugh at such a rate,  
Yet scarcely one can tell for what:  
Here one, with Secret, hard in Labour,  
Delivers it in Ear of Neighbour;  
Which, from his Breast, had never broke,  
Had not Wine slily picked the Lock.  
Another tells, what Punks of late,  
And sort of Oaths are out of date;  
And what new Faces daily meet,  
At Famous House of Chacolett:  
One, in the Story of's Mishaps,  
Forgets not to relate his Claps;  
At which, his Neighbour laughs, and tells him,  
Such Ills far oftener have befell him,  
One to the Chimney-corner creeps,  
And there, in quiet, fairly sleeps;  
Another does, by's Spewing, tell us,  
Something in's Stomach's grown Rebellious:  
One Sings; at which another Bawls,  
And vows he only Catterwawls:  
Thus, in a Scene of Noise and Strife,  
They waste the precious Hours of Life;  
Till Death shall let the Curtain drop,  
And then their Game of Folly's up.   

XX.  
Though Heaven ordained, that Man should be  
A Creature, sitted for Society;  
Yet he must be Apollo, that can find  
What Benefit to Body, or to Mind,  
Can e'er accrue from a wild Friendship, where  
No other Entertainments found,  
But still to see the Bottle keeps its round;  
All sober-thinking they abhor,  
And Learned Talking is kicked out of Doors:  
But if of Dogs and Horses—   

XXI.  
— And here the Chain of Thought  
In Meditation, to an end was brought:  
Occasioned by a mighty Noise, which came.  
From the same House, from whence I lately went,  
The Penance of Hard-Drinking to prevent;  
Thither I hastened, and was struck to see  
Their pleasant Sense of Mirth and Jollity,  
Now turned to Blood, and Wounds, and Tragedy.  
The Foolish Fray was hardly over,  
When in the Room I did myself discover;  
For a full Bottle brushed against my Arm,  
Then flew through th' Window, without further harm;  
(Yet, in that number, there were only Two,  
Who me again distinctly knew;)  
The Noble Knight, strove by all means he could,  
To hinder spilling Christian Blood;  
For Wine, and Passion, put 'em in a flame,  
Not quickly to be Quenched,— but yet, at last,  
Each quietly sat down, as no such thing had past.   

XXII.  
Then of the sob'rest in the Room,  
(Tho' every Man was purely overcome,)  
I asked th' occasion, how this Quarrel rose?  
Who told me, That a Spark would needs impose  
A Health on's Friend, which he point blank refused;  
At which, in's Face, a Glass of Wine he threw;  
And after that, his Tilter drew,  
And swore, that he that would not pledge that Health,  
Were Sons of Whores, and loved a Commonwealth:  
At which, the Company divided stood,  
And Swords were ready drawn for Blood;  
But after some few angry Passes made,  
One pricked i'th' Arm, and to then cut on the Head.  
'Slight Wounds:— But, after much Persuasions used,  
As fresh they to their Drinking fall,  
As if they had not drank at all;  
To see the upshot on't, I would not stay,  
But thus reflected in my homeward way;  
That though to choose our Fortunes, Heaven will not  
Allow; yet were this double Choice my lot,  
I'd rather be an Hermit, than a Sot.   
FINIS