BACCHANALIA: OR A DESCRIPTION OF A Drunken Club.  
A POEM.  
Silenum pueri somno vidêre jacentem. Virgil.  
LONDON, Printed for Robert Boulter, at the Turks Head in Cornhill, over against the Royal Exchange. 1680.   

THE DESCRIPTION OF A Drunken Club.  

I.  
IT was my hap Spectator once to be,  
As I unseen, in secret Angle, sit,  
Of that unmanly Crowd,  
Who, with Wits low, and Voices loud,  
Were met to Celebrate,  
In Evening late,  
The Bacchanalian Solemnity.  
If what I then  
Or heard, or saw, I here relate again,  
Accuse me not of Incivility,  
In blabbing privacy;  
Since all men know, that in those Mysteries,  
(Quite different from other Deities)  
No man obliged is to secrecy.  
Yea, if I should Conceal,  
'Twould be in vain:  
That pervious Tribe would their own Acts reveal,  
Since Wine (transparent thing!) no secret can retain.   

II.  
The Actors in this Scene were not of one  
Age, Humour, Figure, or Condition.  
See One with hollow Cheeks, meager, and lean,  
By Sipping-Hectick, e'en consumed quite,  
As he a Skeleton had been,  
Enough to put Death's self into a fright:  
Only in this he seemed to differ from the Dead,  
He lifted oft his Hand up to his Head,  
Another swollen up with Hydropic fat,  
Out-strutting Eyes, and Paunch that so o'er grows,  
He might vie Bellies with the very Butt,  
From whence the precious Liquor flows.  
One comes with Crimson face,  
More red than Erysipelas;  
Another pale, through Vital heat struck dead,  
By greater heat of Wine, extinguished.  
Yet is the Case of both, much what the same,  
Nature, in One, is on a flame,  
And, in the Other, all in Ashes laid.  
One young as Hebe, smooth as Ganymede,  
Another old Silenus seems to be,  
With trembling-Hand, and palsie-Head,  
And lame on Feet, with Gouty Malady;  
One Grave, and Saturnine,  
Another jolly, brisk, and fine,  
He seemed not much unlike the lusty God of Wine.   

III.  
One Noble was, yclept a Lord, I wis,  
Another did a meaner Title take,  
A Tinker height: but all's one, that, or this,  
Lyaean-Laws no difference do make.  
Cups reconcile Degrees, and Natures too;  
He Noblest is, who can in Drink outdo.  
No boast of Blood will here allowed be,  
But what from tender Grape is pressed.  
No need of Heralds, or their Blazonry;  
He bears best Coat, who bears his Liquor best.  
(Such Passive Valour is in most Request)  
No talk of Race, or Pedigree;  
For Honour here is a mere sudden thing:  
The Garland hops from Brow to Brow,  
As more, or less, the moist Achievements grow,  
Who yesterday was Puny, now is Crowned a King.   

IV.  
But see! the Battle comes.  
Sound Trumpets, now, and Drums!  
Two Armies ranked, and facing, I espied;  
Whom nothing, but one long Plain, did divide,  
The Table called. Well chosen ground, for both,  
So plain, and smooth,  
It gave no vantage unto either Side.  
Signal once given, the Bullets fly  
From side to side, so furiously,  
That, in short time, none scaped without a Wound,  
Yea bloody Wound: only, 'twixt this,  
And common Wounds, some difference is,  
That those do let blood out, but these infund.  
One thing indeed I mused to see,  
Each Soldier, to his own mouth, lift his paw,  
Before he aimed at face of Enemy.  
What? sure, quoth I, these do their Bullets chaw,  
Before they Fight. Or, is it Dutchman's Law,  
Who, 'ere his Valour in Sea-Fight appear,  
First taketh a Dose of his own Gunpowder?  
And now the battle's hot. Each Champion grows  
(Like chafed Lion) more enraged by blows.  
For Wounds do valour but augment.  
Wounds broach their Fury, and give Rage a Vent.  
Nothing will now their keen Revenge content,  
Until they see their Foes  
Lie prostrate at their Feet, senseless, and dead:  
And hence their blows  
Are levelled all against the Soul's chief Seat, the Head.   

V.  
And, by this time, me-thought, I saw  
Dame Reason trembling stand upon  
The top of her Conarion,  
Dreading a Deluge from the Floods below.  
As Mortals in Deucalion's Flood, on cliff  
Of Caucasus, or Tenariff,  
On Airy Alps, or Apennine,  
Prolonged that Fate, which they could not decline.  
But what she feared is come.  
See! the Waves rise, and Billows foam;  
And washing first her Foot, and Shin,  
Then Wast, and Shoulders, Neck, and Chin,  
At last quite stop her mouth, surround her piercing Eye,  
Yea swallow Head and Brain,  
Till nought of her doth visible remain,  
No not the very Hair,  
Which stands upright,  
Through dismal fright,  
But all, by swelling Surge, surmounted are.   

VI  
And now a new Scene comes. The Censor's gone,  
All things in medley, and confusion, run.  
Words now, like Thiefs in Interregnums, break  
Their Prisons. All men hear, and all men speak:  
Yet none another understands, nor yet  
Himself a whit.  
And, could some nimble-handed Scribe have writ  
All that was said; Babel had been retrieved,  
And all her Tongues Revived.  
Yea more confused these Tongues, than Babel's, were:  
They talked of Towers on Earth, but these in Air.   

VII.  
One is All Manhood; talks of nothing else,  
But Swords, and Guns, and Forts, and Citadels;  
Sieges, and Fights by Sea and Land,  
And with a Gravity Censorian,  
'Twixt generous scorn, and pity; doth condemn  
What the World calls Exploit, or Stratagem.  
Alas! your Dutch-Fights, or Blakes Tunis Knacks,  
What were they all, but Squibs and Cracks?  
Throw Eighty Eight in,  
'Twas but a mere Bear-baiting.  
Cales Fight was but a Flutter,  
And Great Lepanto, famed of yore,  
To a true Sea-Fight, was no more,  
(Although Historique Coxcombs make a Splutter)  
Than shooting Ducks in Pond, or stabbing of an Otter.   

VIII.  
Some talk of Bajazet's great Battle;  
'Twas more a Tumult, than a Fight  
I would more Execution with one  
Well-marshaled, resolute Troop, have done,  
Than Tamerlane's long drove of Motley cattle.  
And Cannae Field (to speak the right)  
Was merely lost for want  
Of Courage both, and Management.  
O, how I would have knocked, had I been there,  
And kicked, and cuffed, that Punic Cur,  
As long as He could stir!  
I would have given him Beef to's Vinegar.  
The Stripling Macedonian,  
What was he to a Man,  
Although his Legends make a mighty pother?  
And those two Roman Boys,  
Who in Pharsalian Fray did make such noise  
(As Lucan prates) they did but spit at one another.   

IX.  
The World did ne'er yet know  
What Resolution, joined with Art, could do.  
Could I but find  
A pack of Heroes to my mind,  
And of as clear  
A Valour, as myself; I'd not despair  
To rid poor Christendom of all its fear.  
I'd seize the Turk in his own Dardanells,  
That all the Spells  
Of Magic Art, should▪ never set him free.  
Then wafting o'er the Euxine Sea,  
To I'm of Tartary,  
I'd make his Cham-ship, and his flat-faced men  
For eating raw Horse-legs again.  
The Persian King  
I'd take, and in his Carpets roll  
Him up, like his own Silkworms; and so bring  
Him quite away under my Arm. Mogoll  
I'd make to stoop. Or, if he durst advance  
His sturdy Lance,  
I'd hamstring him, and all his Elephants.  
So passing on  
To China, and Japan,  
To Africa shore, and to American,  
I'd Conquer th' Universe, in far less bound  
Of time, than lazy Drake, or Magellan, could sail it round.   

X.  
Another, he is all State-Policy;  
Esteeming then Himself most wise  
In Mysteries  
Of Government, when he  
Has lost the Hegemonique Faculty.  
As if his Wine-soakt Brains  
Like Rivers were,  
Which ever deepest are,  
In times of greatest Floods, and Rains.  
Or, as on watery Brook,  
In Moonshine Night, we look,  
And see the Stars, how in their Orbs they move:  
So, while with Wine  
His liquid Brains do shine,  
He sees the motions of the Powers above.  
Europe, quoth he,  
Is merely lost, I see,  
For lack of good Intelligence.  
And understanding of Intrigues,  
The Crafts of Treaties, and of Leagues,  
This Spoils all States, and ruins Governments.  
But, were I once in Secretary's Place,  
I'd quickly bring things to a better pass.  
Alas! Colbert's an Ass,  
I'd Fox him with his own French Wine;  
Then gauge his Brains, and so the bottom find,  
Extent, and Compass, of the French Design.  
The Jesuits themselves I'd undermine;  
Outdo th' Ignation Cripples in their Play,  
I'd halt ere I was Lame, as well, and better far, than they.   

XI.  
Are these the Pope's Grand Tools?  
Worshipful Noddies! who, but blundring Fools,  
Would ever have forgot,  
To burn those Letters, that Revealed their Plot?  
Or, in an Alehouse, told, that Godfrey's dead,  
Three days before he was discovered;  
Leaving the Silly World, to call to mind  
That Common Logic, They, that hide, can find?  
But see their Master-policy  
On Primrose-Hill!  
Where their Grand Enemy,  
Like Saul upon Mount- Gilboa; doth lie,  
Fallen on his Sword, as he himself did kill.  
But O the Infelicity!  
That blood was fresh, and gushed out of the Wound,  
This so congealed that not one Spot was found;  
No, not upon his Sword; as if it would  
Tell us, 'twas guiltless of its Master's blood.  
Some Carcases, by bleeding, do declare;  
This by not bleeding, showed the Murderer.  
But, to his broken-Neck, I pray;  
What can our Politicians say?  
He hanged, then stabbed Himself, for a sure way?  
Or, first he stabbed himself, then wrung about  
His Head, for madness, that advised him to't?  
Well, Primrose, may our Godfrey's Name, on thee  
(Like Hyacinth) inscribed be.  
On Thee his Memory flourish still,  
(Sweet, as thy Flower, and lasting, as thy Hill)  
Whilst blushing Somerset, to her  
Eternal shame, shall this Inscription wear,  
The Devil's an Ass: for Jesuits, on this Spot,  
Broke both the Neck of Godfrey, and their Plot:  
Thus spoke this Sage: whilst I, from thence,  
Inferred, amidst heaps of Impertinence,  
Fools sometimes chop on Truth, and Drunkards stumble upon sense.   

XII.  
Another's all Art, and Philosophy.  
Encyclopaedia, with its mighty sound,  
What is't, quoth he, but when the Brain turns round?  
Of which versatile Ingeny  
No man, I'm sure, is Master, more than I.  
Tongues are my Element. I declare,  
I'll talk with any man on Earth,  
And yet a dearth  
Of words will never fear.  
The fertile Cups best Dictionaries are.  
And as for Rherotick, that two-handed Art,  
Which Play's both Plaintiff's, and Defendants part;  
To me 'tis Natural: for, even now, what e'er,  
Methinks, I look on, double doth appear.  
Logick's a Toy. Alas!  
I'll prove by Syllogisms, a man's an Ass,  
Yet never stir out of this Room,  
(Most Reverend Friends) to find a Medium.  
Arithmetic, and Algebraick Arts,  
What are they to a man of parts?  
A member, he  
Unworthy sure must be,  
Of such a Learned Club as this,  
Who understands not, what a Reckoning is.  
Astronomy's a Science which I know  
So throughly, that my Head even now,  
I feel, is in the Clouds; and with each Star  
I'm so familiar  
Without a Jacobs-Staff, I know not how to go.   

XIII.  
Philosophy both new, and old, I know.  
The seven wise Men, of whom the Grecians tell us,  
Were but a Club of honest Fellows,  
That sat, and drank, and talked, as we do now;  
until the Reckoning was come,  
Then every man threw in his Symbolum.  
Yea Sects of old had their Origination  
But from the liquour's various Operation.  
Some, when inspired by the Barrel,  
Grew Sceptical, or apt to quarrel:  
Others, inclined to the Dogmatique way,  
Are wondrous Positive in all they say.  
'Twas the same Sherry,  
That made Democritus so merry,  
And weeping Heraclite so sorry:  
For he (as most suppose)  
Was Maudlin, when he sniveled so at Nose.  
Some would be so dead drunk, that, pinch them ne'er  
So hard, they never felt: these Stoics were.  
Others were sensible a little  
And this was called the Peripatetique Whittle,  
Others, of Epicurus madcap strain,  
No pleasure knew like Drunk, and drunk again.  
Yea even grave Plato's Academic Tribe  
No scruple made to bibb,  
Until Ideas crawled in their Brain.  
As for Mechanic Virtuoso's skill,  
That found'st all Knowledge in Experiments,  
(Although indeed I know what 'tis, full well,  
To make Man's Reason truckle to his sense)  
Yet I have found a more Compendious way,  
For whilst, in quest of Nature, they  
By tedious searches clear the Object; I  
Do all, by strengthening the Faculty.  
With brisk Falernum, clear the dim-eyed Soul;  
This was, I'm sure, the old Philosophy,  
They ever sought, for Truth, i'th' bottom of the Bowl.   

XIV.  
But the most frequent humour's still behind;  
Which is, to talk of Grave Divinity.  
Of which, the proper Reason to assign,  
I find it not an easy Task to be.  
Whether from that near Consanguinity,  
And natural Love  
'Twixt Bacchus and great Jove;  
Whose Son he was, and hatched up, in his Thigh,  
In place we commonly do call, Popes-Eye;  
An Omen that, in time, he'd prove  
A great Dictator in Theology?  
Or, that the Grape so sweet,  
That Nectar of the Gods, does men inspire  
With Sacred Fire.  
And raise their thoughts to more than Humane height?  
Or that the Intellect doth gasping lie,  
And thence, to utter doth desire,  
Some few grave Sentences, before she die?   

XV.  
To give you an Account of my Belief,  
Quoth one deep Sage, who thought himself a Chief,  
I'm no Mahometan:  
But utterly defy the Alcoran;  
Whose Cursed Laws forbid the use of Wine.  
Nor shall the Jews Religion be mine,  
Which so abhors that harmless Beast, the Swine.  
The Pope I do Pronounce to be  
Stark Antichristian  
Which prove by forty Arguments I can.  
But only, name this One, I shall,  
So strong, it well may serve for all,  
He takes the Cup from honest Laity.  
Base dirty Clown!  
I wonder in what Town,  
Unless it were Hogs-Norton, he was bred.  
To drink to men,  
And presently forbid,  
On pain of Death, they must not pledge again.  
Were He un-erring; as He does pretend,  
His Wit would Him have better Manners taught:  
But Wit, and Manners both, I see, are naught.  
And shall I then believe  
What such a Slovenly Religion saith,  
And pin my Faith  
Upon a Snotty Sleeve?  
No, no; if e'er my Reason I resign,  
It shall be only to a Glass of Wine.  
Thus did this Hero vent,  
'Gainst Triple-Crown, his discontent;  
Throughout which whole Discourse, thought I,  
An Argument close couched doth lie,  
'Gainst Rome's Infallibility,  
Stronger then what hath yet expressed been:  
For Standards by are apt to think,  
That Popes, sometimes, may be in Drink,  
And then, as rambling, talk, as other men.   

XVI.  
But he proceeds. I could rehearse ye  
The State, quoth he, of Modern Controversy.  
What Weapons keen are used in that sharp Sport,  
Betwixt Arminius, and Dort.  
How those twit These, with turning men  
To Stocks, and Stones; and how again  
The Absolute Divine  
Whips Cinq with Thirty Nine;  
Not much unlike the Jewish scourging Discipline.  
I could the Gordian knot untie  
Of Ecclesiastic Polity;  
And tell the Street, and Sign,  
Where that Great Lady dwells, called Jus-Divine,  
Who Courted long by all has been,  
But still so Coy, She's scarcely to be seen.  
I could Discourse of Ceremonial Jar,  
(That least, yet greatest War)  
Whose Hot Spurs, on each side, engage so far  
Beyond their slow-paced Squadrons, that oft they,  
By mere pursuing, lose the Day.  
Some would confine Religion's Dress  
To the Course Frieze of mere Necessity:  
Others attire Her all in Lace,  
Preferring still the greatest Bravery.  
Some make Her all Embroidery, and Seaming;  
Some let Her ravel out, for lack of Hemming.  
Some are resolved to scruple whatsoever  
Is by Authority enjoined:  
Whilst some again, to cross the others mind,  
Wish all things were Enjoined, that scrupled are.  
But how much better would it be,  
Would but you Bigots of each side, quoth he,  
Come hither, to observe Our prudent Fashion,  
And imitate Our signal Moderation!  
For We, in these  
Solemnities,  
Do neither scruple, nor press Modes upon ye;  
Drink either with, or without Ceremonye.  
Each man enjoys his Liberty, provided  
He takes his Cup,  
And drinks all up,  
All other Doubts, and Circumstances are decided.   

XVII.  
But by this time Tongues began to rest;  
The Talking Game was at the best.  
A sleepy Scene beginneth to appear.  
Bright Reason's ray,  
By damp of Wine, within this Hemisphere,  
Was quenched before: and now dim sense, to stay,  
Must not expect, long after Her.  
So when, Night's fairest Lantern, Cynthia bright  
Is set; each little mist, or thin-spread Cloud  
Sufficient is to shroud  
The pink-eyed Stars, and make a pitchy Night.  
Old Morpheus comes, with Leaden Key,  
His drowsy Office to perform:  
Though some there are, that do affirm,  
'Twas Bacchus did it; and that He  
Had Legal Right, to lock up each man's Brain:  
Since every Room  
His own Goods did contain,  
And was his proper Wine-Cellar become.   

XVIII.  
Some down into their Seats do shrink,  
As snuffs in Sockets sink;  
Some throw themselves upon the Bed,  
Some at Feet, and some at Head,  
Some Cross, some Slope-wise, as they can;  
Like Hogs in straw, or Herrings in a pan.  
Some on the Floor do make their humble Bed,  
(Proper effect of Wine!)  
So over-laden Vine,  
Prop failing, bows its bunchy Head,  
To kiss the Ground, from whence 'twas nourished.  
One, stouter than the rest, maintained the Field,  
And scorned to yield.  
A Roman Emperor, standing, vowed to die;  
And so, quoth he, will I;  
Till nodding, as he stood, the Churlish Wall  
Repulsed his Head, and made him, reeling fall;  
So, with a jot.  
Embraced the common lot,  
The last, but yet the greatest, Trophy, of them all.   

XIX.  
So slept they sound; but whilst they slept,  
Nature, which all this while, had kept  
Her last reserve of strength,  
In Stomaches mouth, where, Helmont saith,  
The Soul its chiefest Mansion hath,  
Began at length  
To kick, and frisk, and stoutly strove  
To throw the Liquid Rider off.  
For now Her Case, like Mariners, was grown,  
In leaky Ship, She must or pump, or drown.  
Or whether that the Wine, which, till this time,  
Was wont to dwell in Cellar's cooler Clime,  
Now put in Stomaches boiling-Pot,  
Found its new Habitation too hot?  
What e'er it was, the Floods gushed out  
From every spout,  
With such a force; they made a fulsome fray.  
One, who athwart his Neighbour lay,  
Did right into his Pocket disembogue;  
For which the other would have called him Rogue,  
But that his forestalled mouth (brawls to prevent)  
Replenished was with the same Element.  
I'th' next man's face Another spews,  
Who doth, with nimble Repartee, retort  
His own, and his Assailants juice,  
And so returns him double for't.  
One with a Horizontal mouth,  
Discharges up into the Air,  
Which falls again in Perpendicular:  
Much like those Clouds, in Sea, that's South,  
Which, in a Lump, descend, and quite  
overwhelm the Ship, on which they chance to light:  
The Floor with such a Deluge was o'erflown,  
As would infallibly have run  
Quite through, and to it's native Cellar gone,  
As Rivers Circulate to th' Ocean:  
Had it not been incrassate with a scum,  
Which did, for Company, from Stomach come.  
Nor was this all. The surly Element,  
With Oral Channels not content,  
Reverberates; and downward finds a Vent.  
Which my Nice Muse to tell forbears,  
And begs, for what is past, the pardon of your Ears.   

XX.  
At length the Storm blows o'er; the Sky grows clear,  
Clouds are dispelled, and fogs, and fumes,  
And Madam Dianoia now resumes  
Her Throne; when nimble Drawer mounts the stair,  
And guessing, by this time, these Heroes were  
In Reckoning-case; produceth, sans delay,  
A Bill more swelled, and more inflamed, than they.  
Gigantic Items! yet evicted  
Nothing could be, nor contradicted,  
By any of the Company:  
Because 'twas all beyond Man's Memory.  
Since than Objection was fruitless,  
Solution must be the business.  
All pockets (but even now well lined) were swept,  
Not one Cross, for a Neast-egg, kept.  
Tokens, and single pence, must go,  
Jacobusses, and Medals too;  
And all too little to discharge the score,  
But forced to sign a Bill for as much more.  
And thus the Poet's Fiction came to pass,  
That Bacchus Conquered the golden India's   

XXI.  
All done, and now just ready to depart,  
I, from my close recess, out start.  
And cried, Hold Gallants! I perceive,  
The Play is done; yet give a Stranger leave,  
Before the Company up break,  
In a few words, the Epilogue to speak.    

Epilogue.  

Now these mad Hurricanes are overblown,  
In cooler thoughts, Considet what ye he done.  
Think, each of you this day has killed a Man,  
Stabbing, with murderous Hand,  
That noble Reason, by which Mortals are  
Most like their Maker, and do bear  
Their Great Creator's Superscription.   

Think of your ruin'd Health. See! your own Blood  
Flies in your guilty Face: as if she would  
Now tell you, to your Head, 'Tis you alone,  
But whom she's scorched, disordered, and undone.   

Think of those Hours consumed in sordid Vice,  
Those Golden Sands, that run in vain,  
(Lusts Measure made and Sacrifice)  
Those winged Hours, that ne'er return again.   

Think of that abused Wealth,  
Due to your Families, or the Poor;  
Think how you swallow, in each Drunken Health,  
The Widow's Tears, and starved Orphans Gore,   

Think of your Bankrupt Reputation;  
Each Ear abhors your more than brutish Name;  
More dirty than the dirt you tread upon.  
Your very Vomit stinks not, like your Fame.   

Think, lastly, on the World's great Doom,  
When guilty Souls must to an Audit come.  
A far more heavy Reckoning, then e'er  
You met with here.  
More true by far, and yet far more severe.   

Think on All this: and think on't soberly,  
And then, perhaps you'll say, as well as I,  
Your Mirth is Madness: Wine is Poison fell:  
Your Paradise is Bedlam; if not Hell.   
FINIS.