A Cup of COFFEE: OR, Coffee in its Colours.  

FOr Men and Christians to turn Turks, and think  
T' excuse the Crime because 'tis in their drink,  
Is more than Magic, and does plainly tell  
Coffee's extraction has its heats from Hell.  
Pure English Apes! ye may, for aught I know,  
Would it but mode, learn to eat Spiders too.  
Should any of your Grandsire's Ghosts appear  
In your Wax-Candle-Circles, and but hear  
The name of Coffee so much called upon,  
Then see it drank like scalding Phlegeton;  
Would they not startle, think ye, all agreed,  
'Twas Conjuration both in Word and Deed;  
Or Catiline's Conspirators, as they stood  
Sealing their Oaths in Draughts of reeking Blood?  
The merriest Ghost of all your Sires would say,  
Your Wine's much worse since his last yesterday:  
He'd wonder how the Club had given a Hop  
O'er Tavern-Bars, into the Farrier's Shop;  
Where he'd suppose, both by the smoke and stench,  
Each Man a Horse, and each Horse at his Drench.   

That ye are no Poets, nor their Friends, I vow  
Without an Oath I'd credit: for should now  
Been Johnson's strenuous Spirit, or the rare  
Beaumond and Fletcher's in your Rounds appear,  
They would not find the Air perfumed with one  
Castalian Drop, nor Dew of Helicon;  
But fleeing, cry out, Sulphur, Liquid Fire,  
Fetched from Cocytus, and the Stygian Mire:  
When they but men, would speak as the Gods do;  
They drank pure Nectar as the Gods drink too,  
Sublimed with rich Canary; they would move  
Discourse i' th' Language spoke i' th' world above.  
But pray Sirreverence Sirs, what wonder drops  
Nuncle john's Kettle-house in the Coffee-shops?  
Your Servant, Sir, what News from Tripoli?  
Do the Weeks Pamphlets in their Works agree?  
Then Dame Diurnal goes to th' Pot; if you  
But say she scolds, she's ducked in Coffee too:  
Oft at your Sessions b'ing arraigned and cast  
For petty Thefts, pleading her Book, at last  
She's with Wax-Candle, or Tobacco-snuff,  
But burnt i' th' hand, and so served well enough.  
Hear, and admire, Oh Men! these are the new  
Admirabilia of the Coffee-Crew.   

Fie, Friends to the gross Turky-shore, shall then  
These less than Coffee's self, these Coffee-men,  
These sons of nothing, that can hardly make  
Their Broth, for laughing how the Jest does take;  
Yet grin, and give ye for the Vine's pure Blood,  
A loathsome Potion, not yet understood,  
Syrup of Soot, or Essence of old Shoes,  
Dashed with Diurnals, and the Books of News?  
Nay, for aught I know, (I'd not be absurd)  
A mere Decoction of the Devils— 
Assafoetida.   
If, as the fashion of your clothes, you change  
Your Drinks as often, to as new and strange,  
Let 'Pothecaries then your custom thank,  
And not these Monkeys of a Mountebank.  
Have by misfortune your cross-cap'ring Brains  
Got either Clap, or Running of the Reins?  
Guaicum's infusion take, and Turpentine,  
Which but compared with Coffee, drink like Wine.  
Are ye with Surfeits stomach-full? Take then  
Warm Treacle-water, sweat, and well again.  
Does Venus heat your Bloods too high? Alloy  
That fire with drops of Maiden Camphora.  
Drink whole Pharmacopeia over, know this,  
No Draught so loathsome as foul Coffee is,  
Of which this only is a taste, and those  
Would know its Virtue, may go looked in Prose,  
For 't cannot stand in Verse, (though 't lie in Print)  
Because there's neither Rhyme nor Reason in 't.  
Yet I have heard a grave Grand-Signior tell,  
Coffee does dull and yawning Sleeps expel.  
Why Frenzy, Fevers, or the Poor Man's Gout,  
Will do this feat as well, and that without  
A God-a-mercy; nay, 'twill make 'em do  
And talk as idly and as frantic too.   

Though in the power of this Turkish Spell  
I'm faithless as a Jew or Infidel,  
Yet I believe I easily might confess  
Coffee potential in such Cures as these.  
First, (for example) are there amongst ye some  
Have sound had the Morbum Gallicum?  
Let 'em drink Coffee, and from Whores abstain,  
I'll pawn my Pen they're Pocky well again.  
From Venus' Racks, let's fall to Bacchus' Stocks:  
Are ye dead drunk? ha ye caught a catching Fox?  
Take me then Coffee, drink it scalding hot,  
(For though it scalds, yet know, it burneth not)  
Sleep upon't sound; when you re-awake,  
Y'are a lives man again, I'll undertake.  
Is any of your sober Signiors ta'en  
With Maggot-Meagroms, or the Worm i'th' Brain?  
(For though such Worms in Ages heretofore  
Sought their forced fortunes at men's Postern Door;  
Yet as the Moon and humane Humours change,  
They alter too, and now through th' head do range.)  
If any be thus crazed, and by the Rimples  
About his Nose, you fear he'll fall i' th' Simples,  
Well worm him first, and take a special heed  
No spawn remain of the sly Serpent's seed;  
Then to the Mistress of the great Mogul  
Let him carouse a Coffee-Kettle full,  
And rise a wonder of the Turkey-shore,  
As wise and well as ere he was before.  
Such cures can Coffee work. I could afford  
Ye many more; but to the wise a word.   

And now Stewed Prewen-mongers, and all you  
Drink-dablers, that have so long kept ado  
With China-Ale, Stupone, Virgin-Wine,  
Alum and Metheglin, and a hundred fine  
Devices more, all to no purpose, know,  
Ye han't the way; these are all things that grow  
Here, here at home, when as a foreign Fart,  
Mixed and miscalled according unto Art,  
Sells quick as the new Perukes now adays,  
Goes off as well, and takes the selfsame place.   

But whine not, Dunces, nor despair, ye Fools;  
Ye have Backsides left yet, and good Close stools,  
Large as the Coffee-Kettles: make good use  
Of these; they shall an equal gain produce.  
Remember Coff ', can ye but Piss and Cack?  
Jumbleed together, call it Scythian Sack,  
Tantavelin, Fogofarto, or but some  
New name, not known in English Christendom;  
Or let some Jew derive its stock and stem  
At least as far as from jerusalem,  
That so it be'nt smelled out; let him but frame  
Ought but to call't out of its Christian Name;  
Post up its Virtues every where in good  
Strange Hebrew-English, which not understood  
Makes much the better; there lies all the knack,  
The Jest's pure Hogo, and the Conceit's smack:  
For in this Age, nothing's cried up for good,  
Save what's stark naught, or what's not understood.  
So that, I fear, these very Rules may run  
I' th' compass of some commendation.  
But to the scope: There must be got mad Boys  
For your first setters, or as't were Decoys,  
I entice the Novists, till they've made a Road  
Unto your Door, and your Knack begins to mode;  
When you'd, I fear, be forced to have wait  
Some tall-gown'd-Porter at your thronged Gate  
To make distinction of your Guests, lest none  
Enter but friends, and men of fashion;  
And this will take the Youngsters so, you'll see  
A Leaguer daily at your Door will be;  
You'll be besieged with Money and good Words  
For the rare Juice that your Backsides affords;  
Ye shall make Coffee stink. In short, be all  
Made men at length, for to make men withal.  
'T shall ne'er be said, a Turdy Turk could do  
More with a mere Sirreverence than you.    

London, Printed in the year 1663.