Sot's Paradise: OR, The HUMOURS of a Derby-Ale-House: WITH A satire UPON THE ALE. The Second Edition. LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1699. THE PRINTER TO THE READER REader what e'er the Author truly meant I know not, but he told me his intent Was not to Lampoon, or Reflect on any; But through Necessity he writ, like many, In Pinchgut Times, to get the Ready Penny. Suppose (said I) 've angered some Bravado, I hate the standing of a Bastinado? Poh, poh, said he, such Dangers never heed, I'd such a Coxcomb Ridicule indeed, Each Sentence should have Gaul and Venom in't, Which you, to recompense your Drubs, shall print: Mortals have oft, to their destruction, found, Poets, like Gods, can at a distance Wound. I thank you Sir (said I) such Verse, I doubt, S'But a poor Plaster for a battered Snout. He pressed the Copy forward, I seemed , Till by these words he brought me to comply. The Characters are random writ, God knows, Slightly dispatched; designed, like Salesmens' , For no one in particular, but where They best by chance shall fit, for them to wear. Nay then, said I, if any Sot can find His Picture here, and not as his designed, And Angry be, I'll hire the Author then, To whet his Wits, and Writ as Keen again: Since I can justly say (to save my Bacon) I no Offence intent, I pray let none be taken. Sot's Paradise: OR, The HUMOURS of a Derby-Ale-House, WHEN anxious Thoughts my troubled Brains possessed, And the wild Hag rid straddling o'er my Breast, Loaded with Sorrow, I pursued my rest. My Pockets far too empty were for Wine. That Noble Juice! That Cordial of the Vine! By Humane Race so justly held Divine. To ease my Cares I stumbled into R—'s, Sots Paradise, so Famed of latter days; For Derby-Ale, it bears away the Bays. Through Entry dark I th' Tippling Mansion sought, Whose close Dimensions raised a Jealous thought I'd been Trappaned and in a Mousetrap caught. Like Weasel through a Cranny thus I crept; And as he Screams, so I a Murmuring kept; Now Paused and Swore, then Gropt, and forward step't. Through stumbling craggy Ways the Godly steal To Heaven, whence I concluded, without fail, This narrow Path must lead to Heavenly Ale. But in this Potgun Passage did I meet A bulky Sot, who forced me to Retreat; And shot me, like a Pellat, to the Street. I gained the Bar by several Essays, Where mourning Widow sat with doleful Face; And on each Hand a Room, but ne'er a Place. I turned to th' Left, and did amongst them squeeze, There heard some Belch, some Fart, and others Sneeze; Buzzing and Humming like a Hive of Bees. This Room I did for Ease and Cleanness choose, The Chapel called, from having Seats like Pews, Where grizzled Sots sit nodding o'er the News. With painful jostling I a Place possessed, Sat down, then Belched and Farted like the rest, Thumped with my Fist, and cried I broke a Jest. In comes a Female Tapstress, Pale and Wan, Sod'n with the fumes of what she'd Drank and Drawn, Looks worse than the green Girl who wants a Man. Sir do you please, I pray, to have your Ale Drawn New, or with a little dash of Stolen? I gave her answer, and she soon turned Tail. One sage old Bard next Chimney Nook was got, Fixed as a Statue, motionless he sat, His Eyes regarding neither Who nor What. This speechless Image most I did admire, No Derby could this Mortal Lump Inspire, Who like Old Puss, sat Purring o'er the Fire. One whim he had was often put in play, By Name salute this Monumental Clay, He Huffs and Puffs, starts up and runs away. Then in thrusts one, strives hard to get a Place; Witty in Words, and satire in his Face, Thus boldly speaks in Derby-Ales disgrace. Pox on't, said he, I Yesterday stepped in, And drank Nine Tankards to divert my Spleen, It failed, and now I'm come to drink Nineteen. At Squire 's I heard a Beaux so Damn and Sink it, Four Tankards numbed his Wits, you would not think it; He swore we all are Clod-skuled Sots who drink it. This much disgruntled all the swilling Herd, Who grinned, and at him enviously stared, In answer not a Mortal waged his Beard. One Gapes, a second Nods, a third he Winks, A fourth he Smokes, a fifth blows Pipe and Drinks, Not One in Ten that either Talks or Thinks, Thus seldom Speak unless 'tis to complain Of Physic, Stone, the Gout, or some old Pain That grieves them sorely, when the Moon's i'th' Wane. Here worn-out Sinners at their Ails repine, (The Herd thus sympathetically join) All Grunting o'er their Hogwash-Ale like Swine. Up rises now and then, a brawny Sot, Before the Fire he turns his Arse about, Hauks up his Phlegm, then Spitting staggers out. With me this smoky Clime did not agree, These Sots too Grave were, that's too Dull, for me; No Talk is worse than much Loquacity. Willing to take a General Survey, T▪ observe the Difference in Mortal Clay, I stole from thence, to the next Room made way. This called the Bear-Garden, where at a Table I heard, amongst a wild Promiscuous Rabble, More Tongues confused then ere were known at Babel. A Beau repeating to his friend a Novel, Two Lawyers in Dispute began to Cavel, A fifth, with Chalk, was scoring out an Oval. And, being as cunning as a Hocus Pocus, Had laid a Wager with a John a Nokus, He'd with a Thread and Pins find out the Focus. A Scholar, next, of Batchelor's Degree, Standing four Years at University, Risen up and fling a Witticism at me. I liked the Sport, and did retort the same; I hit him Home according to my Aim; But could not get his Hair Brained fury tame. So Learned he seemed, so Witty in Discourse, He'd hold me all the Money in his Purse, Tho' I seemed Man, he'd prove me but a Horse. I gravely said it did his Skill surpass, And, in return, I instanced him a Case Wherein a Scholar proved himself an Ass. He smelled a Rat, and found he was mistaken, Shut up his Brains, true knowledge had forsaken, And dwindled into News to save his Bacon. A little Captain, tho' of great Renown, Cocked up his Hat, swore Zounds; and then sat down, Out-chattered all the Magpies in the Town. He talked of Heros, Hector's, and Bravadoes, Of Gashes, Slashes, Cuts, and Carbonadoes, Of Cannons, Mortars, Bombs and Hand Granades. The Valiant Pigmy, eager to declare His Broils in Taverns, not Exploits in War, Teased me with Nonsense more than I could bear. The Di'lect he retained he learned at Nurse, And that his Words might be of greater force, He tagged each Sentence with an Oath or Curse. A Dapper Blade was Squeezed among the rest, Who would have made each Word he spoke a Jest; Aimed at much Wit, but little he possessed. Like Ill Rung Bells he did Confusedly Nock His Ill Tuned Words to hammer out a Joak, Whose Tongue outrun the Alarm of a Clock. This Mortal proved a Midnight Magistrate, Who asks us, Why so drunk, and why so late? Little in Person, tho' in Office Great. He Huckles much, tho' what by that he means, Let Oldish, Shirley, or such Learned Brains, T' inform the World, employ their Skilful Pens. Next sat a Drone, whose Wits had but a Dulledge, His Gravity and nice Grammatick Knowledge, Spoke him some Signior Cock's comb of a College. He Learned Reasons offered unto some, Why Gerounds end in di, in do, or dumb, They grave attention gave, and sat hum Drum. Next him a Spark bedawed with Golden Twine, So very Grave, and eke so very Fine, I took him for some Statesman on Design. Some humble Lord, so generously free, Seeking Applause and Popularity, Came here to Court the good Mobility. I turned about, and viewed him for a space, No Sword he'd on, and in his Mein no Grace, Dulness instead of Grandeur in his Face. My Judgement erred, I quickly found its failure, No Honour in his Speech, in's Looks no Valour, A Lord, thought I! Wounds, this must be a Tailor. When e'er he spoke, it matter was of fact, So Emphatical his Words, and so compact, No Strolling Player could be more exact. Against him Teague, an Irish Barber sat, Who has a Thousand Whimsies in his Pate, Makes Wigs, tunes Bagpipes, does the Lord knows what. By chance, said I, What is't a Clock I Pray? After some time he'd studied what to say, He Answered, By my Shoul 'tis Shaturday. Each loving each, as truly as a Brother, In all things act alike, Speak, Drink and Smother, Delight, as Monkeys, to Buffoon each other. Like the Twin-Stars, these two United are It's no great matter whether both appear, If you see one, in him the other's there. The Ale at last to these weak Noddles stole, Supplied the want of Brains in every Skull, And made them Merry, tho' it made me Dull. The Tailor begged of his Reverse a Tune, Teague for his Bagpipes sent, and fixed his Drone, Then Played Dundees Farewell, and Sung O hone. This pleased the Mob, and made them hoop and hollow, As when the Brindled Dog, against the Fallow, Pins down the Bull, and makes him Roar and Bellow. I Teased and Tired with this Bear-Garden Play, In doleful dumps did for Ten Tankards Pay, And Sick not Drunk I homewards steered my way. A satire UPON Derby-Ale. BASE and Ignoble Phlegm, dull DERBY-ALE, Thou canst over none but Brainless Sots prevail; Chokes them if New, and Sour art if Stolen. Thou drownest no Care, or dost thou Elevate; Instead of quenching Drought, dost Drought create, Makes us dull Sots at an expensive rate. Old English Ale, which Upstart Fops disdain Brewed by our Grandsires, Cheered the Heart of Man, Quenched Drought with pleasure, and prolonged their Span. But thou! Poor Slime, thou art not Ale, for why? Thou neither Cheers the Heart, or Brisks the Eye; The more we Drink the more we still are Dry. Rare fattening Swill, to Belly up Lean Guest, It feeds a Man in fix Months to a Beast, And gives him bulk for a Church-Ward'n at least. Puffed up with thee, Dispirited, Debased, We into Gray's-inns reel (O Pump be praised) There Quench that Drought thy Treacly Dregs have raised. One hearty Draught prepares for Pipe of Funk, Three Tankards whets my Appetite for Punk, Four makes me Sick; but Ten wont make me Drunk. O'er Nipperkins of thee six Hours I sit, Till spent my Total, and benumbed my Wit, Thus nothing have, and just for nothing fit. Our Wits, or Thoughts, thou never canst advance Above th' affairs of Poland, or of France, Wounds! thou'rt a Booby to a Cup of Nantes. thou'rt fit for those who are from Troubles free, Thou Cur'st no Spleen thou art unfit for me, I'd's live almost drink Adam's Ale as thee. Thou makest us Fat in little time, 'tis true, The same will Swins-Flesh and Potatoes do; They covet Flesh, not Brains, that follow you. Thou Noble Ale! Mere Caudle, and unfit For Men of Care to drink or Men of Wit, Poor English Coffee for a ploding Cit. Guzzle for Carmen, Foggy and unfine, For nothing fit but to Exhaust our Coin, Water to Brandy, and small-Beer to Wine. Forgive my drowsy Muse where e'er she nods, She's not Inspired or Tutored by the Gods, She Rhimes o'er Ale, others o'er Wine, that's odds. What if you say she's Dull, it's no great matter, Cross Muddy Ale's a heavy Theme for satire, Tom Brown be judge, or honest Ben Bridgewater. FINIS.