A satire against Brandy.  

FArewel damned Stygian Juice, that dost bewitch,  
From the Court Bawd, down to the Country Bitch;  
Thou Liquid Flame, by whom each fiery Face  
Lives without Meat, and blushes without Grace,  
Sink to thy Native Hell to mend the Fire,  
Or if it please thee to ascend yet higher,  
To the dull Climate go, from whence you came,  
Where Wit and Courage do require your Flame;  
Where they Carouse it in Vesuvian Bowls,  
To crust the Quagmire of their spongy Souls:  
Had Dives for thy scorching Liquor cried;  
Abraham in Mercy had his suit denied;  
Had Bonner known thy force, the Martyr's Blood  
Had hissed in thee, and saved the Nations Wood:  
Essence of Ember, scum of melting flint,  
With all the Native sparkles floating in't;  
Sure the Hack-Chymist with his Cloveh foot,  
All AEtna's simples in one Lymbeck put,  
And double stilled, nay quintescenced thy Juice,  
To charcoal Mortals for his future use.  
Fireship of Nature, thou dost doubly wound,  
For they that grapple thee, are burnt and drowned:  
Gods past and future Anger breath in you  
A Deluge and a Conflagration too.   

View yonder Sot, I do not mean Sh—  
Grilled all o'er, by thee, from head to foot,  
His greasy Eyelids shoared above their pitch,  
His Face with Carbuncles, and Rubies rich,  
His Scull instead of Brains supplied with Cinder,  
His Nose turns all his Handkerchiefs to Tinder;  
His Stomach don't concoct, but bake his Food,  
His Liver even vitrefies his Blood;  
His trembling hand scarce heaves his Liquor in,  
His Nerves all cracle under's Parchment Skin;  
His Guts from Nature's drudgery are freed,  
And in his Bowels Salamanders breed.  
The moving Glass-house lightens with his Eyes,  
Sings his clothes, and all his Marrow frys,  
Glows for a while, and then in Ashes dies.  
Thus like a shame Promethius we find,  
Thou stolest a Fire from Hell, to kill Mankind.  
But stay, lest I the Saints dire Anger merit,  
By stinting their auxiliary Spirit.  
I am informed, whate'er we wicked think,  
Brandy's reformed, and turned a godly Drink  
Thou'st left thy old bad Company of Vermin,  
The swearing Porters, and the drunken Carmen;  
And the new drivers of the Hackney Coaches,  
And now tak'st up with fage discreet debauches;  
Thou freely droppest upon Gold Chains, and Furr,  
And Sots of Quality thy Minions are.  
No more shalt thou foment an Alehouse brawl,  
But the more sober Riots of Guild-Hall;  
Where by the Spirits fallible Direction,  
We Reprobates once pol'd for an Election:  
If this trade hold, what shall we Mortals do,  
The Saints Sequester even our Vices too.  
For since the Art of Whoring's grown precise,  
And Perjury has got demurer Eyés,  
'Tis time, high time to circumcise the Gill,  
And not let Brandy be Philistian still.