The Delights of the Bottle. OR, The town-Galants Declaration for Women and Wine. Being a Description of a Town-bred-Gentleman, with all his Intrigues, Pleasure, Company, Humour, and Conversation.  

Gallants from faults he can not be exempt,  
Who doth a task so difficult attempt;  
I know I shall not, hit your features right,  
'Tis hard to imitate in black and white.   

Some Lines were drawn by a more skilful hand,  
And which they were you'll quickly understand;  
Excuse me therefore if I do you wrong,  
I did but make a Ballad of a Song.   
To a most Admirable New Tune, every where much in request.  

 
 

THe Delights of the Bottle, & charms of good wine,  
To the power & the pleasures of love must resign,  
Though the night in the joys of good drinking be past,  
The debauches but still the next morning doth last;  
But loves great debauch is more lasting and strong,  
For that often lasts a man all his life long.  
Love, and Wine, are the bonds that fasten us all,  
The world, but for this, to confusion would fall;  
Were it not for the pleasures of love and good wine,  
Mankind, for each trifle, their lives would resign;  
they'd not value dull life, or would live without thinking  
Nor Kings rule the world, but for love & good drinking.  
For the Drove, and the Dull, by sobriety cursed,  
that would ne'er take a glass, but for quenching his thirst  
He that once in a Month takes a touch of the Smock,  
And poor Nature up-holds with a bit and a knock  
whatever the ignorant Rabble may say,  
Tho' he breathes till a hundred, he lives but a day.  
Let the Puritan preach against wenches, and drink,  
He may prate out his Lungs, but I know what I think;  
When the Lecture is done, he'll a Sister entice;  
Not a Lecher in Town can Outdo him at Vice;  
Tho' beneath his Religion, he stifles his joys,  
And becomes a Debauch without clamour or noise.  
'Twixt the Uices of both, little difference lies,  
But that one is more open, the other precise:  
Though he drinks like a chick, with his eyeballs lift up,  
Yet I'll warrant thee boy, he shall take off his cup:  
His Religious debauch, does the gallants outmatch,  
For a Saint is his Wench, and a Psalm is; his Catch.    

The Second Part,  
To the same Tune.  

FOr the Lady of Virtue, & Honour so strict,  
That who offers her Guinneys deserves to be kicked  
Who with sport by herself, doth her fancy beguile,  
That's ashamed of a jest, and afraid of a smile;  
May she lie by herself, till she wear out the stairs,  
Going down to her Dinner, and up to her Prayers.  
But let us that have Noble and generous souls,  
No method observe, but in filling our bowls;  
Let us frolic it round, to replenish our veins,  
And with notions divine, to inspire our brains,  
'Tis a way that's Gentile, and is found to be good,  
Both to quicken the Wit, and enliven the blood.  
What a pleasure it is to see bottles before us,  
With the women among us to make up the Chorus?  
Now a jest, now a Catch, now a Buss, now a Health,  
Till our pleasure comes on by insensible stealth,  
And when grown to a height, with our Girls we retire,  
By a brisker enjoyment, to slacken the fire.  
And this is the way that the wiser do take,  
A perpetual motion in pleasure to make:  
With a flood of Obrian, we fill up each vein,  
All the Spirits of which loves Atimbeck must drain;  
While the soberer Sot, has no motion of blood,  
For his fancy is nothing but Puddle and Mud.  
He's a slave to his soul, who in spite of his sense,  
With a Clog of his own putting on can dispense,  
For he Fetters himself, when at large he might rove,  
So he's tied from the sweets of good drinking and love,  
Yet he's satisfied well, that he's thought to be wise,  
By the dull and the foolish; I mean the precise.  
For my part whatever the consequence be,  
To my will and my fancy, I'll always be free,  
They are mad that do wilfully run upon shelves,  
Since dangers, and troubles, will come of themselves;  
For whoever desireth to live like a man,  
He must be without trouble, as long as he can.  
And these are the pleasures true Gallants do find,  
To which if you are not, you should be inclined,  
If you follow my counsel, you take off the curse,  
And if you do not, we are never the worse;  
Yet none will refuse, but a Beggar or Cit,  
Who to car'on the humour, wants Money or Wit.    
FINIS.   

Printed for P. Brook by, and R. Burton, and are to be sold at their shops in West-smith-field.