THE PARADISE OF PLEASURE: OR, AN ENCOMIUM UPON DARBY-ALE.  
In ANSWER to a Scurrilous Lampoon, called, Sott's Paradise; Or, A satire against Darby-Ale.  
— Cum vini vis penitravit,  
Consequitur gravitas Membrorum, Praepediuntur  
Crura vacillanti, Tardescit Lingua, madet Mens,  
Nant Oculi; Clamour, singultus, jurgia Gliscunt.  Lucretius. 
LONDON, Printed for A. Baldwin, at the Oxford-Arms, in Warwick-Lane. 1700.   

To all the Lovers of DARBY-ALE.  
GENTLEMEN,  
I Have often wondered, That we, who are professed Lovers of this Liquor, should not have among us one Generous Son of Apollo that dare draw his Pen in the defence of our Cause; I am sure the universal Contagion of Dulness has not so overspread us, but we have Poetic Forces enough to answer any of our Opposers; yet were it otherwise, that a Barrenness of Fancy had possessed us, the Subject itself would (like the Ovidian Deo Agitante) point us out the Road to Parnassus.  
Of Darby-Ale I own I'm a passionate Admirer, and no fond Amorist was ever more captivated with the Charms of his Mistress, than I with the Charms of its Brightness: Where there is Love, there is Admiration; and where Admiration, Respect: and from hence proceeds my Regret to have Odiums cast upon the Object of my Wishes: when the saucy I Lampoon, called, Sot's Paradise, at every Bookseller's stared me in the face; I've been possessed with Fury almost to Distraction; a long time I have fed myself with hopes of Revenge, that some new Champion would enter the Lists and foil the Pigmy Satirist: Hitherto I have found my Expectation balked; but rather than our Divertive Clubbs, and Inspiring Liquor should suffer the stains and aspersions they now lie under, I chose to undertake the Combat myself, in hopes to put a stop to the growing Tyranny of Reprinting Sot's Paradise. This is the sole Reason that I have attempted An Encomium; and if my Poem has diminished the intrinsic Worth and Delight that our Liquor deserves, impute it rather to my unskilfulness in Fancy and Numbers, than the weakness of the Cause.  
Gallant Souls are proved by their actions, and those actions are more conspicuous and noble which proceed purely from Loyalty and Resolution: I have served several Campaigns under Darby-Ale, with success, and it would be very ungenerous (in this time of danger) to desert my Standard; had it no secret Spell to engage me in its Service, I should not (like Mr. W— d) basely turn Traitor and Runagado from that which had done me such eminent Service; for, let him pursue its Ruin with the utmost rack of Thought and Invention, and pretend what aversion he pleases, he owes his Trip to Jamaica, and some other of his best Compositions, to its Assistance.  
Now, Gentlemen, since we have Enemies (and those too so potent) I hope you will not leave me to stand the shock of their Rage. I shall know your intentions by your favourable acceptance of this Piece; but, be it how it will (as Epaminondas said to his Buckler, so say I to my Liquor) Me Defendas, & Ego te Defendam, I have no more to add, but hope when this comes to your Hands, you will drink the Health of  
Your Humble Servant, Philo-Darby.   

AN ENCOMIUM UPON DARBY-ALE.  

LET other Bards the help of Phoebus ask,  
When they assume some high Poetic task;  
I crave no Aid, nor will invoke his Fire,  
'Tis Darby-Ale alone shall me Inspire;  
My Pen engaged on its transporting Theme,  
I beg no other Hellyconian Stream;  
A Dose of this transcends that Fictious Name.  
Nought else my daring Muses Flight shall raise,  
Then quaff her Liquor whilst I sing its praise;  
And if she sicken in this noble Race,  
Reviving Cups shall cheer her drooping Pace.   

Methinks I feel her struggling in my Breast,  
Like Delphic Priests, with Oracles oppressed,  
To give her vent's to calm her into Rest.  
Dictate great Soul of Mirth, thou Darby-Ale,  
For thou canst best thy hidden Charms Reveal;  
When sluggish Years have drained our Strength away,  
Thou giv'st new Fires to old Promethean Clay:  
Thy sacred Juice does break old Age's Chains,  
And make new Blood, come Dancing through the Veins;  
Eighty Reverse into his Twenty's Prime,  
And dost unbarr the Iron Gates of Time:  
Had that sage Sorceress known thee heretofore,  
When drooping Aesons Life she did restore,  
With this Elixir, he had died no more.   

In vain let Chemists their dark Arts Exalt,  
They're all Chimaeras to the Darby-Malt;  
For that alone which from thy Grain Distils,  
We find to be the Lethe of our Ills.  
Let Alchemists some cursed Mishap bemoan;  
And waste their Substance for a Fictious Stone,  
When its possession lies in thee alone:  
In this rich Juice, colour and taste unite,  
To charm the Sense, and please the Appetite;  
The Glasses Growned, 'tis Rapture to behold  
The lively Atom, Dance in Liquid Gold.   

In dusky Egypt, where no Worship Reigns,  
but what the Error of their Fancy frames;  
Did they to this bright Liquor bend their Knee,  
There were pretence for their Idolatry:  
Had Epicurus, when he Bliss defined,  
But tasted thee, thou'dst Extafied his Mind,  
To thee alone he'd Happiness confined.   

When Clouds of Grief hang hovering round the Soul,  
Those Fogs are scattered by a Lucid Bowl;  
Harassed with Care, with Troubles when oppressed,  
It quells the raging Passions of our Breast;  
The Wealthy Merchant's Loss it does Restore,  
His Ills are lulled, and he Repines no more:  
Wrecks nor Misfortunes can his Rest destroy,  
He drowns his Losses in a Flood of Joy.   

The Brawny Priest, who Scripture has perplexed,  
For Darby-Ale, forsakes his Prayers and Text;  
Warmed with some healing Quart, he talks more Sense  
Than from his Pulpit e'er he did dispense.  
Each sparkling Glass does sparkling Wit excite,  
And makes the Poet, in a Rapture write:  
If the transporting thoughts, that charm the Mind,  
Are only Pellets of the Blood Refined,  
To this rich Juice, we should our homage pay,  
That does the Spirits to the Brain convey.  
Let other Coxcombs to their Bags be Slaves,  
And, as they purchase Wealth, be pricked for Knaves,  
Grant me of this transparent Liquor store,  
I'll thank the Gods, and ask 'em for no more:  
On some tall Butt (with more triumphant Pride)  
With Glasses Crowned, I'd rather sit astride,  
Than the vast Ocean's Admiral to Ride;  
Could I like Midas in my wish avail,  
I'd Metamorphize all to Darby-Ale;  
The Silver Thames should change its Crystal hue,  
And Ships should in that noblest Liquor Blow;  
Or could I higher but the grant obtain,  
The Fleecy Clouds should sparkling Derby Rain.   

Blessed be the Soul who this great Art first sound,  
In high Elogius may his Name be Crowned,  
Inscribed on Parian Marble, let it shine,  
Myriad of Years, in spice of mouldering Time.  
When Wine bore sway, the Nation's greatest Curse,  
This Art appeared, and stemmed its Conquering Course;  
For when to this great Project he gave Birth,  
He taught at once, Frugality and Mirth;  
When costly Wines (it cannot be denied)  
Had almost Bankrupt Cornhill and Cheapside.   

Bandy and Anis, with that fatal train,  
Destroy the Land, and ought no longer Reign;  
They Fire the Brain, and all the Vitals Burn,  
And, into Embers, do the Entrails turn;  
Perpetual Burn pray upon the Heart,  
And we possess hot AEtna's in each part;  
For Sots alone such burning Cups are fit,  
Not for the generous Souls of Mirth and Wit,  
But Stroling Carmen, or the plodding Fool,  
That take delight in being Drunk and Dull.   

jove as he lately in the Divan Sat,  
Musing how Mortals posted to their Fate,  
Ordered some Gods the Matter to Debate:  
From the Illustrious House; they straight withdrew,  
Apollo, Regnant of the Sacred Crew:  
The Matter weighed, that Peer of Heaven's High Court,  
From the Committee, Thus made his Report;  
Wonder not, Ruler of the spang'led Sky,  
That Souls throng Styx, and to Olympus Fly,  
When Wine, the British Nation's chiefest good,  
Is turned distempered, and corrupts the Blood;  
Tied to a Chain of Plagues, poor Mortals groan  
Under Consumptions, Tysicks, and the Stone;  
Tired with Diseases, they their Lives resign,  
And own their Deaths to noxious Fumes of Wine:  
Others by Dropsies to a Bulk are blown,  
Resembling those, who would have Stormed thy Throne:  
This is the Grand Result of our Debate,  
They'll faster die, if Wine not Abdicate;  
Let Bacchus tear the Grapes from off his Brow;  
and mission him to's Bacchanals below;  
With no full Bowls of Wine let him appear,  
But Darby-Ale, Transparent, Lucid, Clear;  
Tell 'em the Gods to Pity are inclined,  
And sent this Cordial, to Revive Mankind,  
Who other Liquor Drinks, breaks the Decree,  
Passed by this House, and Ratified by Thee;  
As quick Infection, order they decline  
That Door they see encircled with a Vine;  
If this, by Bacchus, with all speed be done,  
Mortals a longer Race of Years shall Run:  
Thus Ceased great Phoebus, and all praised the God,  
And mighty jove gave his assenting Nod.   

From this Decree great London is grown wise,  
Claret's condemned, and Darby-Ale we prise;  
Each separate Street in different Signs do show,  
That happy Nectar is contained below:  
But— As Planets borrow from the Orb of Light,  
So other Darby-Houses may shine Bright,  
By the Reflection of Thy Sun, Great White: 
The Sign of the Sun in Golden-Lane.   
Such plenteous Stores do gild thy Sun with Beams,  
Thine is the Fountain, theirs the lesser Streams.  
'Tis Ecstasy to see thy Cellar graced  
With well piled Butts, in noble order placed;  
Such high carved Hogsheads all around we see,  
That sure on Earth thou'rt Bacchus' Deputy;  
Thy Trade's no wonder, where should Crowds resort,  
But where the God of Drinking keeps his Court?  
As far as English Banners are displayed,  
Thy Name's Adored, and potent Ale conveyed;  
Not to our Isle alone, thy Fame is known,  
But where the Winds do Course, or Ships are Blown;  
The rough unpolished Indian-Planters own  
More Influence from Thy Sun, than from their own;  
Thy Butts Unlading, they Rejoice and Smile,  
Blessing the bounteous product of our Isle;  
Thy Liquid Cargo does contain such Joys,  
That they their Gold and Country's growth despise,  
And for it Barter costly Gems as Toys.  
As long as this Rich Juice distilled shall be,  
Thy Name's consigned to all Posterity.   

The next to thee, Watt's Renown soars high,  
Whose Stock Inferior Houses does supply; 
In St. James'- Market.   
Each Rank, each Order, daily grace his House,  
And at thronged Tables roundly do Carouse;  
From his great Room vast flakes of Smoak arise,  
And Pipes, like Stars, do shine in gloomy Skies;  
In chatting Clubs your Politicians sit,  
And as they Drink; they more refine their Wit:  
The Harrast Warrior there forgets his Toils,  
In plundering Pints he finds more glorious Spoils.  
Uxorious Cit, whose greatest Plague's a Wife,  
Forgets his ills, and drowns Domestic Strife:  
To thee he comes to meliorate his Pains,  
His Cares are hushed, and lively Pleasure Reigns.   

To Iackson's Mansion there's some Honour due, 
In Hidestreet, Bloomsbury.   
Whose Complaisance attracts a generous Crew;  
Each rolling Night his Rooms to Wit give Birth,  
His House the Body Politic of Mirth.   

Antaeus' seated at one Board we see,  
Flushed with the Juice (from all Example free)  
And setting up for Popularity;  
When numerous Cups have wrought upon his Brain,  
His Sense he by his Courage does maintain:  
Antaeus' like, he'd Hercules Assail,  
Nor can the Liquor o'er his Strength prevail,  
But from each blow that Hercules does make,  
Touching the Cup, he does fresh vigour take.   

When Pints Replete, do Malpas Spirits raise,  
He tunes his Viol to harmonious Lays;  
His chanting sounds do on my Senses roll,  
Dissolve my Frame, and wanton in my Soul:  
Had Orpheus known to strike his Lyre so well,  
He'd brought his Wife a second time from Hell.   

When healing Draughts Lycurgus Blood do warm,  
His Thoughts surprise us, and his Words do charm;  
In pointed satire, wisely he displays  
The Senseless Coxcomb, and the Fool Pourtrays;  
And there let's fall as much Extemp're Wit  
As in some Plays of two Years growth is Writ.   

The Artful Albus hither does repair,  
Whose Carriage is Genteely Debonair;  
To fleeting Time his Works shall wing his Fame,  
When Dykes shall Die, and Titian want a Name.   

No satire centred in Cratena's Face,  
His Eyes dart Love, and Smiles his Brows do grace;  
With Pint and Pipe sagiciously he'll sit  
Remarking those that do engender Wit;  
To every Query makes his pat Replies,  
And when the Clock strikes Ten, he pays, and flies.   

Honesto here his transient hours beguiles  
With serious Glasses, recreates his Toils,  
He Drinks and Talks, and as he Smokes, he Smiles.  
Decrepit Gulpo, of the Hobbian Race,  
Who owns no God, and Scripture does deface;  
His Worship lies locked up in Error's Veil,  
And if he Bows to aught,— 'tis Darby-Ale.   

Melinthus (inoffensive in his way)  
Sits listening, pleased with what the Wits do say;  
Silent and unconcerned he takes their hints,  
And adds the Pleasure to succeeding Pints.   

With rueful Phiz, Cornutus takes his place,  
His Brows are branched, and Care o'erwelms his Face,  
Till Iackson's Ale his sinking Spirit buoys,  
More than the Common's Court, or Proctor's noise;  
With many more, too tedious to rehearse,  
Beneath a Rhyme or dignity of Verse.   

To Fullwood's-Rents my Muse might take her flight;  
To praise those blissful Cellars of Delight;  
But Grays-Inn Sparks can best defend the Cause,  
And prove this Ale the Key to all the Laws.   

Curse on the Scribbler who with dearth of Sense,  
Dares to profane its Sovereign Excellence;  
May he capacious Hogsheads round him spy,  
Like Tantalus, in Plenty still be Dry;  
And from his Thirst such Torture may he feel,  
Worse Racks than e'er Ixion from his Wheel,  
Let strange Chimera's dance before his Sight,  
And shock his trembling Senses all the Night;  
Obsequious Catchpoles wait him as he Rise,  
And be upon his haunts the London Spies;  
Till he be left both Penyless and Poor,  
To drag a hated Life from Door and Door:  
And and may his Doggrel Muse ne'er meet Success,  
But damned to keep Employed some Grubstreet Press.   
FINIS.