THE CHARACTER OF A Coffeehouse.  
WHEREIN Is contained a Description of the Persons usually frequenting it, with their Discourse and Humours, AS ALSO The Admirable Virtues of COFFEE.  
By an Eye and Ear Witness.  
When Coffee once was vended here,  
The Alc'ron shortly did appear:  
For (our Reformers were such Widgeons,)  
New Liquors brought in new Religions.  
Printed in the Year, 1665.   

THE CHARACTER OF A Coffeehouse.  
A Coffee-house, 
The derivation of a Coffee-house.  the learned hold  
It is a place where Coffee's sold;  
This derivation cannot fail us,  
For where Ale's vended, that's an Alehouse.  
This being granted to be true,  
'Tis meet that next the Signs we show  
Both where and how to find this house  
Where men such cordial broth carouse.  
And if Culpepper won some glory  
In turning the Dispensatory  
From Latin into English; then,  
Why should not all good English men  
Give him much thanks who shows a cure  
For all diseases men endure?  
As you along the streets do trudge, 
Signs how to find it out.   
To take the pains you must not grudge,  
To view the Posts or Broomsticks where  
The Signs of Liquors hanged are.  
And if you see the great Morat  
With Shash on's head instead of hat,  
Or any Sultan in his dress,  
Or picture of a Sultaness,  
Or John's admired curled pate,  
Or th' great Mogul in's Chair of State,  
Or Constantine the Grecian,  
Who fourteen years was th' only man  
That made Coffee for th' great Bashaw,  
Although the man he never saw:  
Or if you see a Coffee-cup  
Filled from a Turkish pot, hung up  
Within the clouds, and round it Pipes,  
Wax Candles, Stoppers, these are types  
And certain signs (with many more  
Would be too long to write them o'er,)  
Which plainly do Spectators tell  
That in that house they Coffee sell.  
Some wiser than the rest (no doubt,)  
Say they can by the smell find 't out;  
In at a door (say they,) but thrust  
Your Nose, and if you scent burnt Crust,  
Be sure there's Coffee sold that's good,  
For so by most 'tis understood.  
Now being entered, there's no needing  
Of compliments or gentile breeding,  
For you may seat you any where,  
There's no respect of persons there;  
Then comes the Coffee-man to greet you,  
With welcome Sir, let me entreat you,  
To tell me what you'll please to have,  
For I'm your humble humble slave;  
But if you ask, what good does Coffee?  
He'll answer, Sir, don't think I scoff ye,  
If I affirm there's no disease  
Men have that drink it but find ease. 
The virtues of Coffee.   
Look, there's a man who takes the steem  
In at his Nose, has an extreme  
Worm in his pate, and giddiness,  
Ask him and he will say no less.  
There sitteth one whose Droptick belly  
Was hard as flint, now's soft as jelly.  
There stands another holds his head  
O'er th' Coffee-pot, was almost dead  
Even now with Rheum; ask him he'll say  
That all his Rhum's now past away.  
See, there's a man sits now demure  
And sober, was within this hour  
Quite drunk, and comes here frequently,  
For 'tis his daily Malady.  
More, it has such reviving power  
'Twill keep a man awake an hour,  
Nay, make his eyes wide open stare  
Both Sermon time and all the prayer.  
Sir, should I tell you all the rest  
O' th' cures 't has done, two hours at least  
In numb'ring them I needs must spend,  
Scarce able then to make an end.  
Besides these virtue's thats therein,  
For any kind of Medicine,  
The Commonwealth— Kingdom I'd say,  
Has mighty reason for to pray  
That still Arabia may produce  
Enough of Berry for its use:  
For 't has such strange magnetic force,  
That it draws after 't great concourse  
Of all degrees of persons, even  
From high to low, from morn till even;  
Especially the sober Party,  
And News-mongers do drink 't most hearty.  
Here you ' r not thrust into a Box,  
As Taverns do to catch the Fox,  
But as from th' top of Paul's high steeple,  
Th' whole City's viewed, even so all people  
May here be seen; no secrets are  
At th' Court for Peace, or th' Camp for War,  
But strait they're here disclosed and known;  
Men in this Age so wise are grown.  
Now (Sir) what profit may accrue  
By this, to all good men, judge you.  
With that he's loudly called upon  
For Coffee, and then whip he's gone.  
Here at a Table sits (perplexed)  
A griping Usurer, 
The company.  and next  
To him a gallant Furioso,  
Then nigh to him a Virtuoso;  
A Player then (full fine,) sits down,  
And close to him a Country Clown.  
O' th' other side sits some Pragmatic,  
And next to him some sly Fanatic.  
The gallant he for Tea doth call,  
The Usurer for nought at all. 
The several liquors   
Pragmatic he doth entreat  
That they will fill him some Beau cheat,  
The Virtuoso he cries hand me  
Some Coffee mixed with Sugar candy.  
Phanaticus (at last) says come,  
Bring me some Aromaticum.  
The Player bawls for Chocolate,  
All which the Bumpkin wondering at,  
Cries, ho, my Masters, what d'ye speak,  
D' ye call for drink in Heathen Greek?  
Give me some good old Ale or Beer,  
Or else I will not drink, I swear.  
Then having charged their Pipes around,  
They silence break; First the profound  
And sage Phanatique, Sirs, what news? 
Their discourse.   
Troth says the Us'rer I ne'er use  
To tip my tongue with such discourse,  
'Twere news to know how to disburse  
A sum of money (makes me sad)  
To get aught by 't, times are so bad.  
The other answers, truly Sir  
You speak but truth, for I'll aver  
They ne'er were worse; did you not hear  
What prodigies did late appear  
At Norwich, Ipswich, Grantham, Gotam?  
And though profane ones do not not 'em,  
Yet we— Here th' Virtuoso stops  
The current of his speech, with hopes  
Quoth he, you will not taken 't amiss,  
I say all's lies that's news like this,  
For I have Factors all about  
The Realm, so that no Stars peep out  
That are unusual, much less these  
Strange and unheard-of Prodigies  
You would relate, but they are tossed  
To me in letters by first Post.  
At which the Furioso swears  
Such chat as this offends his ears,  
It rather doth become this Age  
To talk of bloodshed, fury, rage,  
And t' drink stout healths in brim-filled Nogans,  
To th' Downfall of the Hogan Mogans.  
With that the Player doffs his Bonnet,  
And tunes his voice as if a Sonnet  
Were to be sung; then gently says,  
O what delight there is in Plays!  
Sure if we were but all in Peace,  
This noise of Wars and News would cease;  
All sorts of people than would club  
Their pence to see a Play that's good.  
You'll wonder all this while (perhaps)  
The Curioso holds his chaps,  
But he doth in his thoughts devise,  
How to the rest he may seem wise;  
Yet able longer not to hold,  
His tedious tale too must be told,  
And thus begins, Sirs unto me  
It reason seems that liberty  
Of speech and words should be allowed  
Where men of differing judgements crowd,  
And that's a Coffee-house, for where  
Should men discourse so free as there?  
Coffee and Commonwealth begin  
Both with one letter, both came in  
Together for a Reformation,  
To makes a free and sober Nation.  
But now— With that Phanaticus  
Gives him a nod, and speaks him thus,  
Hold brother, I know your intent,  
That's no dispute convenient  
For this same place, truths seldom find  
Acceptance here, they're more confined  
To Taverns and to Alehouse liquor,  
Where men do vent their minds more quicker,  
If that may for a truth but pass  
what's said, In vino veritas.  
With that up starts the Country Clown,  
And stairs about with threatening frown,  
As if he would even eat them all up,  
Then bids the boy run quick and call up  
A Constable, for he has reason  
To fear their Latin may be treason.  
But strait they all call what's to pay,  
Lay 't down, and march each several way.  
At th' other table sits a Knight, 
The company.   
And here a grave old man o'er right  
Against his worship, than perhaps  
That by and by a Drawer claps  
His bum close by them, there down squats  
A dealer in old shoes and hats;  
And here withouten any panic  
Fear, dread or care a bold Mechanic. 
Their discourse.   
The Knight (because he's so) he prates  
Of matters far beyond their pates.  
The grave old man he makes a bustle,  
And his wise sentence in must justle.  
Up starts th' Apprentice boy and he  
Says boldly so and so 't must be.  
The dealer in old shoes to utter  
His saying too makes no small sputter.  
Then comes the pert mechanic blade,  
And contradicts what all have said.  
The end of all their Chat is this,  
Each for the Dutch have rods in piss.  
There by the fier-side doth sit,  
One freezing in an Ague fit.  
Another poking in ' t with th' tongs,  
Still ready to cough up his lungs.  
Here fitteth one that's melancolick,  
And there one singing in a frolic.  
Each one hath such a pretty gesture,  
At Smithfield fair would yield a tester.  
Boy reach a pipe cries he that shakes,  
The songster no Tobacco takes,  
Says he who coughs, nor do I smoak,  
Then Monsieur Mopus turns his cloak  
Off from his face, and with a grave  
Majestic beck his pipe doth crave.  
They load their guns and fall a smoking,  
Whilst he who coughs sits by a choking,  
Till he no longer can abide,  
And so removes from th' fire side.  
Now all this while none calls to drink,  
Which makes the Coffee boy to think  
Much they his pots should so enclose,  
He cannot pass but tread on toes.  
With that as he the Nectar fills  
From pot to pot, some on 't he spills  
Upon the Songster, Oh cries he,  
Pox, what dost do? thou ' saint burned my knee▪  
No says the boy, (to make a bald  
And blind excuse,) Sir 'twill not scald.  
With that the man lends him a cuff  
O' th' ear, and whips away in snuff.  
The other two, their pipes being out,  
Sesse Monsieur Mopus I much doubt  
My friend I wait for will not come,  
But if he do, say I'm gone home.  
Then says the Aguish man I must come  
According to my wont custom,  
To give ye ye a visit, although now  
I dare not drink, and so adieu.  
The boy replies, O Sir, however  
You ' r very welcome, we do never  
Our Candles, Pipes or Fire grudge  
To daily customers and such,  
They ' r Company (without expense,)  
For that's sufficient recompense.  
Here at a table all alone,  
Sits (studying) a spruce youngster one,  
Who doth conceit himself full witty,  
And's ' counted one o' th' wits o' th' City,)  
Till by him (with a stately grace,)  
A Spanish Don himself doth place.  
Then (cap in hand) a brisk Monsieur  
He takes his seat, and crowds as near  
As possibly that he can come.  
Then next a Dutchman takes his room.  
The Wits glib tongue begins to chatter,  
Though 't utters more of noise than matter,  
Yet 'cause they seem to mind his words,  
His lungs more tattle still affords.  
At last says he to Don, I trow  
You understand me? Sennor no  
Says th' other. Here the Wit doth pause  
A little while, then opes his jaws,  
And says to Monsieur, you enjoy  
Our tongue I hope? Non par ma foy,  
Replies the Frenchman: nor you, Sir?  
Says he to th' Dutchman, Neen mynheer:  
With that he's gone, and cries, why should  
He stay where wit's not understood?  
There in a place of his own choosing  
(Alone) some lover sits a musing,  
With arms across, and's eyes up lift,  
As if he were of sense bereft,  
Till sometimes to himself he's speaking,  
Then sighs as if his heart were breaking.  
Here in a corner sits a Frantic,  
And there stands by a frisking Antic.  
Of all sorts some and all conditions,  
Even Vintners, Surgeons and Physicians.  
The blind, the deaf, and aged cripple  
Do here resort and Coffee tipple.  
Now here (perhaps) you may expect  
My Muse some trophies should erect  
In high flown verse, for to set forth  
The noble praises of its worth.  
Truth is, old Poets beat their brains  
To find out high and lofty strains  
To praise the (now too frequent) use  
Of the bewitching grapes strong juice.  
Some have strained hard for to exalt  
The liquor of our English Malt,  
Nay Don has almost cracked his noddle  
Enough t' applaud his Caaco Caudle.  
The Germane Mum, Teag's Usquebagh,  
(Made him so well defend Tredagh,)  
Metheglin, which the Britain's tope,  
Hot Brandy wine, the Hogans hope.  
Stout Mead which makes the Russ to laugh,  
Spiced Punch (in bowls,) the Indians quaff.  
All these have had their pens to raise  
Them Monuments of lasting praise,  
Only poor Coffee seems to me  
No subject fit for Poetry.  
At lest 'tis one that none of mine is,  
So I do wav 't, and here write—  
FINIS.