A satire AGAINST COFFEE.  

AVoid, Satanick Tipple! hence  
Thou Murderer of Farthings, and of Pence;  
And Midwife to all false Intelligence!   

Avoid, I say, of Hell thou art,  
For God no liquor doth to man impart,  
But that which quenches Thirst, or cheers the Heart.   

Baked in a pan, Brewed in a pot,  
The third device of him who first begot  
The Printing Libels, and the Powder-plot.   

A Swill that needs must be accursed,  
And of all sorts of Drink the very worst,  
By which the Devils Children (Lies) are nursed.   

Now if I fancy not amiss,  
Vespasian, who imposed Excise on Piss,  
Would for no smell of Lucre suffer this.   

The Sister of the common Sewer,  
That passes through the Reins with Streams impure;  
That Robs the Vintner and undoes the Brewer.   

For by this poor Arabian Berry,  
Comes the Neglect of Malago and Sherry,  
And sooty Surges rise to Charon's Ferry.   

The Sweat of Negroes, Blood of Moors,  
The Blot of Signpost, and the Slain of doors,  
And the last Shift of Publicans and Whores.   

Give o'er you Whifflers then! enough;  
Convert your Powder into Irish Snuff,  
And lay your Lace upon some richer Stuff.