THE CHARACTER OF A TAVERN.  
With A brief draught of a DRAWER.  
LONDON, Printed for D. A. 1675.   

THE Character OF A TAVERN, etc.  
A Tavern is an Academy of Debauchery, where the Devil teaches the seven deadly sins instead of Sciences, a Tipling-School a degree above an Alehouse, where you may be drunk with more Credit and Apology, 'tis the Rendezvous of Gallants, the Good Fellows Paradise, and the Miser's Terror, who fits here in fear of his Life because of the shot; A Map of the World, where all humours are drawn in Epitome, and the best Theatre of Natures and Dispositions, which are here truly Acted not Played; A melancholy man may find matter enough to divert him, to see Heads as Brittle as Glasses, and as often broken, to observe men both come hither to Quarrel, and come hither to be made Friends, so that if the simile were not already worn threadbare, I would call it Telephus' Sword that both makes wounds and cures them.  
'tis an Engine of the largest size, for draining the Pocket, the common Consumption of the Afternoon, and the maker away of a Rainy day, a Torrid Zone that scorches their Faces that long Inhabit it, whilst Tobacco is the Gun powder that blows them up, so that much danger were to be dreaded if the Charitable Vintner should not have store of Water ready to allay these Flames; House of Sin you may call it, but not a House of Darkness, For the Candles are seldom out, and it is like those Countries near the North-Pole, where 'tis as clear at midnight as at mid day.  
'Tis a Bedlam of Wits, where men ate rather mad than merry, here one breaking a Jest on the Drawer, or perhaps a Candlestick or Bottle over his Crown, there another repeating scraps of old Plays, or some Bawdy Song, this speaking Latin, and a fourth Nonsense, whilst all with loud hooting and laughing confound the noise of Fiddlers, who are properly called a Noise, for no Music can be heard for them; 'Tis a Babel of Voices, a Gallimans' fry of Opinions, and an Hodge Podge of Nations, you shall hear one talking very gravely of Religion, and another Ranting, and swearing Dammee, and Sink me, at the same instant, parties of different Sects and persuasions will meet here, and be sociable though not at Church; And below in the Cellar you shall see the French and the Spanish, with the Natives of the Rhine (notwithstanding the present Wars between them) lie quietly altogether.  
As you come in to show that you are going to a Trial of your Lives, you must first appear at the Bar, where Madam Minks with her Head behung with as many Toys as their Bush, sits like the Goddess Semele (Mother of Bacchus) under her all-commanding Canopy, Casting the Nativityes of your Estates in strange Egyptian Hieroglyphics and Trithemian Characters; And finds by the Horoscope of the Board, and frequent Ill Directions of Score in the Half Moon, That your Fortunes are short-lived, and your Purses declining into an Irrevocable Consumption; Next the Blew Aproned Captain of this Enchanted Castle comes into view, you would take him for a Hogshead set on two stumps, and moved by Scrues or Clockwork, for his Belly is big enough for a Popish Limbus, yet coming nearer, you may discern somewhat like that which in Men they call a Face, but broader than the Pewter Platter in St. Johns-street, and studded and embossed all over with vices Heraldry.  
In the midst of which his Nose blazes like a Comet, and infallibly pretends drought: He thinks nature gave him a Mouth, not so much to speak, as to drink off his Liquor, For that is the main use he puts it to, and of all the miracles that ever Christ did, he thinks none so meritorious, As the turning Water into Wine, which he himself often endeavours to imitate.  
These Animals we must pray, entreat, crave, beseech, and implore for a Bottle that's neat and brisk, and Racy, and at last go without it, unless we bribe Death's Emissaries, those Dregs and Lees of Mortality, your yaulìng, impudent, saucy, nimble-tongued A-non-a-non Sirs, to whom once more you must beg as heartily as a Condemned Man does for a Reprieve, That they would graciously be pleased not to poison you at your own charge; Indeed there is scarce a Pint true, wholesome and right drank, which the Guests do not twice pay for, first to the Drawer, and then to the Master, and there is more Wine vended in a year, in this one overgrown City, under the notion of Canary, than the whole Canaries produce; But there lies the Excellency and Mystery of the Trade, he that is best at Brewing and Balderdashing Wines is most esteemed, and this they call managing a Cellar, the end of which is to cheat men's Palates, and the effect to destroy their Bodies: The Pharmacopeia of a Mountebank, or the Quackeries of Moor fields, befriend not the Grave-makers, so much as these Squires of the Spigot do; for Pandora's Box never gave vent to the Tithe of those mischiefs that are broached with a Pipe of sophisticated Wine, which makes me fancy when they Ring for the Boy to fetch t'other Pint, that I hear the Passing bell of those that send for it. And when the splay mouthed Rascals cry, D'ye call Sir, Methinks it sounds like Charon's Voice summoning us to his Ferry-boat: To hear them bawl out their Hypocritical well come, the satire would as much wonder as at the Man, that blew hot and cold: For they welcome when you go in, and welcome when you go out, and yet 'tis not you are welcome at all, but your Money.  
Nor is it only with their Cups (like Circe) that they inchant us, they can help you to a dainty morsel too at Luculluses price; Their Fricacies and Phagon's, Dishes you must pay four times over for. First, for the meat. Secondly, for dressing. Thirdly, for sauce. And Fourthly, for the hard name; When they provide you a Dinner, you were better keep open house all Christmas, their Extravagant Treats in the great Chamber, serve only to debauch the Hospitality of private Families, and are most effectual decoys, where a young Bridegroom many times spends half his Wife's Portion for the conveniency of Dancing and Fiddles; Let the Room be never so neat when you come in, after a little fitting, It becomes like the street after a dashing shower, where the Spouts are flushing above, and the Conduits running below, whilst the Iordans like swelling Rivers overflow their Banks, and the Urine drops through the Ceiling into the mouth of him that sits under;  
In brief, a Tavern is a Scene of Confusion; A Gulf to swallow up a Man's Money, and his time, which is yet more precious; a Nursery of Extravagancy, and a necessary place for Assignations between Cracks and their Cullies.  
FINIS.