Pasquil's Palinodia, AND His progress to the Tavern, Where after the survey of the CELLAR, you are presented WITH A pleasant pint of Poetical Sherry.  
Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt  
quae scribuntur aquae potoribus.  Horac: ad mecaenatem. 
Quem non  
Huc, huc pierides.  
Castalius or Vinum Hispanense   depiction of muse and vintner 
LONDON: Printed by THOMAS SNODHAM, 1619.   

APPROBATIO.  
Jnnocuos censura potest permittere lusus,  
Lasciva est nobis pagina, vita proba est.  Sic censeo M. Valerius Martialis.  

THE PRINTER To the Reader.  
GENTLEMEN, I understand that the AUTHOR is so far out of patience, to hear that this Pasquil is priest for the public view, which was intended only for the private satisfaction of his peculiar friends, that he will not greet the READER so much as with a Letter of Commendations; yet considering that in these days we are altother carried away with Fashions, and that it is quite beside the custom to put forth a Poem, without a Dedicatory preamble, let me I pray you make bold, for want of a better scholar, to salute the courteous Reader with a few words of Complement. Who the Author is I know not, & therefore on his behalf I will be silent; yet I hear that he is of the mind of that merry Huntsman, which would neither give nor sell his Hare, but when he saw the travailer gallop away with her, and that he was out of hope to have her again, he cried out, Take her, Gentleman, I will bestow her on you. Concerning the Poem, although I shall be thought to be suitor ultra crepidam, yet in my opinion, it is a tolerable Pint of Poetical Sherry, and if the Muse's Seller afford no worse wine, it will make Sack better respected, and go down the merrier.  
What the peevish, puritanical, and meager Zoilist out of his malicious humour shall calumniate, it skills not, for as the Proverb is, aut bibat, aut abeat: This dish was not dressed to set his Dog-teeths on work, and therefore if he like not these Lettuce, let him pull back his lips, for as the Poet saith, 
Virg. de Livore.  
Non lux, non cibus est suavis illi,  
Nec potus juuat, aut sapor lyaei,  
Nec si pocula jupite, propinet, etc.  He was borne with teeth, and grind when he first came into the world, he feeds upon snakes, drinks small-beer and vinegar, keeps no good company, lives without charity, and dies without honesty; hic finis Zoili. Notwithstanding for the ingenious and candidous Readers, and all those fat honest men which are of a frank and sociable disposition, I dare be bold to promise, that this dish of drink will not be distasteful unto any of their stomachs, for as they have bodies of a better constitution, so are their minds more fairly qualified, and their judgements freer from corruption: and therefore to their taste is this Pint of Poetry dedicated, which if it seem pleasant to their palate, let me be well paid for presenting them with it in paper, and I rest satisfied.   

Libellus ad Lectorem ex Martiale.  

RVmpitur invidia quidam, charissime Lector,  
quod me turba legit, rumpitur invidia,  
Rumpitur invidia, quòd sum iucundus amicis,  
quòd conviva frequens, rumpitur invidia;  
Rumpitur invidia, quod amamur, quodque probamur,  
rumpatur, quis quis rumpitur invidia.   

Non nimium cure: nam caenae fercula nostrae  
malim convivis quam placuisse Cocis.    

Pasquil's Palinodia, OR, His pint of Poetry.  

Lo. I the man whose Muse whilom did play  
A hornpipe both to Country and the City,  
Am now again enjoined to sing or say,  
And tune my crowd unto another ditty,  
To comfort Moone-faced Cuckolds, that were sad,  
My Muse before was all in horns clad,  
But now she marcheth forth and on her back  
She wears a corselet of old Sherry Sack.   

Therefore it is not as in days of yore,  
When bloodshed and fierce battles were her song  
And when her Trumpets did Tantara roar  
Till all her murdering Soldiers lay along,  
A milder tune she now plays on her strings,  
And Carols to good company she sings, 
The Dedication.   
To all good fellows that are wise in Season,  
Listen a while and you shall know the reason.   

Long had she Chanted for the horned Crew  
And reaped no praise nor penny from their hands,  
Nor cup of drink, which is a Fiddlers due  
(As every good companion understands)  
And therefore unregarded being dry,  
My Muse grew melancholy out acry,  
And angry forth she runs into the streets,  
Cursing each churlish Cuckold which she meets.   

When I beheld her in that moody vain,  
Which want to be so blithe and full of sport,  
After I ran, to call her home again,  
Lest she might chance to meet some man of sort,  
Some wealthy tradesman, that had been Cornuted,  
Of whose large horns it must not be disputed,  
And in this crabbed humour fall to rail,  
And so be had to Counter, without bail.   

When I my sullen Muse had overtook,  
I 'gan reprove her for her wild behaviour,  
And charged her to return, as she did look  
Ever to be received into my favour:  
But she as mad, as is in March a Hare,  
Did like unto a Bedlam stamp and stare,  
And for an hour her patience was so weak,  
And rage so priest her, that she could not speak.   

At last when passion was a little sway'de,  
And that the reins of fury 'gan to slack,  
A thousand curses on the head, she said▪  
Of every Cuckold, that cries What d'ye lack,  
May all their horns grow visible to sight,  
May they prove jealous, and their women light,  
And care not who look on, that all may geere  
And laugh aloud when their Rams-heads appear.   

And may discredit, scorn and fowl disdain  
Light on the horns of every English Goat,  
Ungrateful churls, that reward my pain  
Not with so much, as with a single groat:  
Have I wiped off the scurrilous disgrace  
Which every Varlet cast upon their face,  
And righted all their wrongs, yet none so kind,  
As with fair words to show a thankful mind?   

If I had Chroniceld the hungry Rats  
Which eat up Corn, and made provision dear▪  
Or Registered what price a Cade of Sprats,  
And pickled Herrings, bare in such a year,  
What grim-faced Collier stood upon the Pill●ry,  
And who did march most bravely at Th'artillery▪  
Or how men walked on Thames the last great 〈…〉 oft,  
Then I am sure my pains had not been ●ost.   

But I have laboured to redeem their fame,  
And lift their heads to honour with my pen,  
Dissolved all Clouds that did obscure the same,  
And ranked them with the worthiest sorts of men,  
I crowned their horns with bays, & graced them more  
Than ever any Muse hath done before,  
And yet no Cuckold from the forked ranks,  
Puts out his weathers-face to give me thanks.   

If for their wives I had my lamp-oil spent,  
And in their service drawn my Inkhorn dry,  
Those loving creatures would withal content  
Have sought me out, my love to gratify,  
Kisses and confects had fallen with my wishes,  
And many other delicates in dishes,  
And even the pen, that writ in their defence,  
Should have been guilded for my recompense.   

Hapless was I to leave those gentle Souls,  
Poor worms, that suffer more than all men see,  
And take the part of perverse jobornols,  
Void of good nature, love, and courtesy,  
Now I perceive my error, and repent  
That I against them was so vehement,  
And that the world may know that I am turned,  
Here I do wish those bitter lines were burned.   

For now I find those Doves are Innocent,  
And that the Cuckold chiefly is in fault,  
Whose stubborn carriage, and stern regiment  
Makes upright women many times to halt:  
For when a man is of a sour condition,  
Churlish and froward in his disposition,  
It thrusts such things into a woman's mind  
As she near dreamed on, if he had been kind.   

And blame her not, for she is not of Steel,  
Nor made of Iron, Brass, or such hard Mettle,  
Neither so senseless that she cannot feel  
When she is used as Tinkers do a Kettle,  
She is a tender thing, refined and pure,  
And harsh rough handling cannot well endure,  
But like a Venice- Glass, she breaks asunder,  
When boisterous man will strive to keep her under.   

Let the mad Cuckold ponder his wives case  
In equal balance justly with his own,  
And he shall find, that she doth only trace  
His crooked footsteps; for if she but frown,  
Or somewhat sharply speak a word or two,  
When good occasion moves her so to do,  
Then strait he calls her half a dozen whores,  
And to the Tavern gets him out of doors.   

And what is then his prattle with his mates  
His fellow Drunkards, sitting o'er the pot?  
There he begins the story, and relates  
What an infernal fury he hath got,  
An everlasting Scold, that's never quiet  
But checks him for his company and riot,  
Why bang her well quoth one, for by this quart,  
If she were my wife, I would break her heart.   

Well, quoth another, fill a cup of Sack,  
And let all Scolds be damned as deep as hell,  
Abridge her maintenance, and from her back  
Pull her proud clothes; for they do make her swell.  
And thus in devilish counsel there they sit,  
Till with old Sherry they have drowned their wit,  
Then drunk, at midnight, home the knave doth creep,  
And beats his wife, and spews, & falls asleep.   

There lies the beast until he rise again  
Next day at twelve, when being not half well,  
A hair of Bacchus' dog must cure the pain  
In which by last nights surfeiting he fell:  
Then he at Tavern, as he did before  
drink himself drunk that day & many more,  
And in this thriftless course his glass doth run  
Till he run out at heels, and be undone.   

And what excuse doth then the Bankrupt frame  
For his profuse and prodigal expense?  
Marry forsooth, his Wife did cause the same,  
Against whose scolding tongue there's no defence:  
For when a man at home cannot be merry,  
he's forced to run abroad to drink old Sherry:  
Thus she, poor Turtle, wrong and slander bears,  
Who sits mean while at home in grief & tears.   

Shall this most false and slanderous accusation  
Be currant for the man, and his abuse?  
And shall a woman suffer condemnation,  
And not be heard to speak in her excuse?  
It is too great a wrong, and most unjust,  
The weaker to the wall should thus be thrust,  
And when she hath a more indifferent cause  
To be denied the favour of the laws.   

Shall a vast unthrift with a false pretence  
Wrong his poor wife, and be exempt from blame?  
And shall a woman which hath just offence,  
And forced by dogged usage to her shame,  
If she another friend do entertain,  
To give her some content, and ease her pain,  
Shall she be censured with disgraceful speeches,  
And he stand clear because he wears the breeches?   


Mars was the first Cuckold maker.  Awake great Mars, for sure thou art asleep,  
Or such injustice thou wouldst not let pass:  
There was a time, when thou didst love to keep  
And in a corner kiss a pretty Lass:  
And therefore if within thy fiery breast  
Any quick spark of warlike courage rest,  
For old acquaintance sake do women right,  
And let them not be overthrown with might.   

But Mars is deaf, and justice will not hear,  
And laws are partial against women's side,  
And for because the cruel laws are clear  
When women in another case are tried,  
That by their book they shall receive no favour,  
Which unto wicked men is oft a Saviour:  
They now suppose it is a great offence,  
If they be heard to speak in their defence.   

But they shall speak you forked Unicorns,  
And you shall hear them to your small content,  
And in despite of your ambitious Horns,  
I'll stand as Champion for the Innocent:  
And so display your baseness and disgrace,  
That children shall deride you to your face,  
And Town and country both, shall notice have,  
That every Cuckold is a fool or knave.   

Peace idle Muse, quoth I, and be content,  
Thou art too bitter, vehement and loud,  
These railing words will make us both be shent,  
For Cuckolds are grown mighty, rich, and proud,  
And wisemen think it is the part of fools  
To be too busy meddling with edge-tools:  
And therefore be advised, I do implore thee,  
Lest with their horns, for barking, they do gore thee.   

I care not for their greatness, she replied,  
Nor do I fear them though their horns look high,  
For presently let come what will betide,  
Into the City shall my journey lie;  
Where I will ring all Cuckolds such a peal,  
As shall quite shame them in the Commonweal.  
Well then, said I, if nought will bring thee back  
Yet ere thou go, le's drink a pint of Sack.   

For now I saw, that in this raging fit  
To use persuasion was but further folly,  
And that her passion bade exiled her wit,  
And drowned my Muse so deep in melancholy,  
That for to cure her was no other charm,  
But with a cup of Sack to make her warm,  
And heat her brains, which as all Poets find,  
Doth quicken wit, and qualifies the mind.   

Between the Muses and the God of wine,  
There is a league of kindness, peace and love,  
There consanguinity doth them combine,  
Being begotten both by lusty jove,  
So that, no Muse well bred, and truly borne,  
Her natural brother's company can scorn,  
And by their crowns their amity is seen,  
One wearing Laurel, th'other ivy green.   

And this to be the reason I suppose  
That every jovial Poet loves good liquor,  
It is the Heliconian Butt, that sweetly flows  
With sprightly Sack, which makes invention quicker,  
And he's no lawful son unto the Muses  
That loves small beer, and better drink refuses,  
Nor can a waterish wit the Laurel win,  
His Muse is lank, and his conceit is thin.   

And not alone have Poets these conditions,  
Merry conceited lads, and like their mothers,  
But all their servants, Rymers and Musicians,  
And red-faced Trumpeters, with many others  
Which have with Crotchets stuffed their pericranions,  
Are still reputed to be good Companions,  
And for this reason which is here presented,  
My Muse to see the Tavern was contented.   

Yet to the City fain she would have gone,  
Yielding a reason for to draw me thither,  
As that their wine was better ten to one  
Near to th'exchange, where Merchants meet together,  
But I half jealous, where great numbers be  
That some grand Cuckold she might chance to see,  
And in this heat of Fury fall to jar,  
Drew her along at last through Temple-bar.   

Keep in your heads my Neighbours of the Strand,  
And look not out until my Muse be past,  
Your Wives are good, for aught I understand,  
And yond may be no Cuckolds, and they chaste,  
Yet lest my Muse might chance for to descry  
Something might stir her bile as she walks by,  
For peace-sake, I entreat you every one,  
You would pull in your heads, till she be gone.   

Fairly we marched on, till our approach  
Within the spacious passage of the Strand  
Objected to our sight a Sommer-broach,  
Ycleap'd a Maypole, which in all our Land  
No City, Town, nor street, can parallel,  
Nor can the lofty spire of Clarken-well,  
Although he have the vantage of a Rock,  
Perch up more high his turning weathercock.   

Stay quoth my Muse, and here behold a sign  
Of harmless mirth and honest neighbourhood,  
Where all the Parish did in one combine,  
To mount the rod of peace, and none withstood:  
Where no capricious Constables disturb them,  
Nor justice of the peace did seek to curb them,  
Nor peevish Puritan in railing sort,  
Nor overwise Churchwarden spoiled the sport.   

Happy the age, and harmless were the days,  
(For then true love and amity was found,)  
When every village did a Maypole raise,  
And Whitsonales, and May-games did abound:  
And all the lusty younkers in a rout  
With merry Lasses danced the rod about,  
Then friendship to their banquets bid the guests,  
And poor men fared the better for their feasts.   

Then reigned plain honest meaning, and good will,  
And neighbours took up points of difference,  
In Common laws the Commons had no skill,  
And public feasts were Courts of Conscience.  
Then one grave Sergeant at the Common-pleas  
Might well dispatch the Motions at his ease,  
And in his own hands though he had the Law,  
Yet hardly had a Client worth a straw.   

Then Lords of Castles, Manors, Towns & Towers  
Rejoiced when they beheld the Farmer's flourish,  
And would come down unto the Sommer-Bowers  
To see the Country gallants dance the Morris,  
And sometimes with his tenants handsome daughter  
Would fall in liking, and espouse her after  
Unto his serving-man, and for her portion  
Bestow on him some Farm, without extortion.   

But since the Sommer-poles were overthrown,  
And all good sports and merriments decayed,  
How times and men are changed, so well is known  
It were but labour lost if more were said:  
And therefore I'll be silent, for I hold,  
They will not mend although their faults be told,  
Nor is it safe the spur-galed world to prick,  
For she's a lusty jade, and jades will kick.   

Alas poor Maypoles, What should be the cause  
That you were almost banished from the earth?  
You never were rebellious to the laws,  
Your greatest crime was harmless honest mirth;  
What fell malignant spirit was there found,  
To cast your tall Pyramids to ground?  
To be some envious nature it appears,  
That men might fall together by the ears.   

Some fiery Zealous Brother, full of spleen,  
That all the world in his deep wisdom scorns,  
Could not endure the Maypole should be seen  
To wear a coxcomb higher than his horns,  
He took it for an Idol, and the feast  
For sacrifice unto that painted beast;  
Or for the wooden Trojan Ass of sin,  
By which the wicked merry Greeks came in.   

But I do hope once more the day will come,  
That you shall mount and perch your Cocks as high  
As ere you did, and that the Pipe and Drum,  
Shall bid defiance to your enemy;  
And that all Fiddlers which in corners lurk,  
And have been almost starved for want of work,  
Shall draw their Crowds, and at your exaltation  
Play many a fit of merry recreation.   

And thou my native town, which was of old, 
lead   
(When as thy Bonfires burned, and Maypoles stood,  
And when thy Wassall-cups were uncontrolled,)  
The sommer-Bower of peace and neighberhood,  
Although since these went down, thou liest forlorn  
By factious schisms, and humours overbeared,  
Some able hand I hope thy rod will raise,  
That thou mayst see once more thy happy days.   

And now conceive us to be come as far  
As the perspicuous fabric of the Burse,  
Against which frame, the old Exchange makes war,  
Misdoubting that her trading would be worse  
By the erection of that stately front,  
Which cries what lack ye, when men look upon't:  
But for thy take, Gresham; take no care,  
Thou wilt have doings whilst thou hast good ware.   

Whilst Coaches and Caroaches are i'th' world,  
And women take delight to buy fond Babbles,  
And o'er the stones whilst Ladies will be hurled.  
For which their horses are still kept i'th' stables,  
And whilst thy shops with pretty wenches swarm,  
Which for thy custom are a kind of charm  
To idle gallants, thou shalt still be sure  
To have good utterance for thy furniture.   

And therefore be not envious, nor conspire  
Against thy younger Sisters small beginnings,  
Thou art so rich thy trade cannot retire,  
And she so poor thou needest not fear her win,  
If ought do raise her head, (as who can tell?)  
It is her lowliness will make things sell,  
Her sole humility will vent her wares,  
For if men will not climb, shel'e come down stairs.   

If she this open course had kept before,  
And out of sight her shops had not withdrawn,  
Doubtless her take would have been much more,  
For points, gloves, garters, cambrick-smocks & lawn.  
The man of trade which doth the world begin,  
Seldom grows rich if he keep shop within:  
For by this means no custom can be gotten,  
And ere he sell his wares, they will be rotten.   

And therefore let a Tradesman that would thrive,  
First get a shop in some fair street of taking,  
My next advice is, that he fairly wive,  
For such a toy, is many a youngman's making,  
Then let his shop be stuffed on every side  
With new additions to increase vain pride,  
And he shall see, great Gallants with huge Broaches,  
Light at his door from Male and Female Coaches.   

The Burse of Britain left behind our back,  
We now approach the cross, ycleaped Charing,  
A weatherbeaten piece, which goes to wrack,  
Because the world of Charity is sparing,  
Hang down thy head, O Westminster for shame,  
And all you Lawyers which pass by the same,  
Blush (if you can) and are not brazen faced,  
To see so fair a monument disgraced.   

Do you not see how London hath repaired 
The Cross in Cheapside.   
And trimmed her Sister, with great charge and cost?  
And though her head was from her shoulders pared  
Yet she is now restored, and fairly crossed,  
Brave Freemen, I applaud you for this thing,  
And will one day your further praises sing,  
Mean while my Muse in commendation tells,  
You keep your wives most neat, and all things else.   

It is a shame you Gown'd-men of the Law,  
For 'tis with you that I must put the Case,  
Although I know you do not care a straw,  
What I do tell you, yet unto your face  
I say, it is a shame, and ill befits,  
That you should sell your shreds of Law & Writs  
At so dear rate, to many a poor man's loss,  
And not bestow one Fee to mend this Cross.   

For many pious Acts and Monuments  
The City will for ever be commended,  
Many fair Colleges with goodly rents,  
From zeal of Kings and Bishops are descended,  
And many private men, our age's wonders  
Have unto famous Hospitals been founders:  
But where survives that work of Charity,  
That from a Lawyer draws his pedigree?   

Redeem your fame, you lawful Barristers,  
And let the world speak better of your zeal,  
The commons say, which are no flatterers,  
That half the riches of the Commonweal  
Is in your hands, or will be if you live,  
Because you always take, and nothing give,  
And that your Fees which certain were of old,  
Are now uncertain, like a Copyhold. 
The fines.    

And yet they say you are so honest grown,  
You will not take your Fee to plead a cause,  
Though once you had a Fee, you now have none,  
That single word accords not with the Laws:  
It must come showering in a golden flood,  
Or some of you will do a man small good,  
And whatsoever men give, you'll not forsake it,  
Because you know that by the Law you take it.   

Thus do the vulgars' talk, and you can tell  
Whether this fame be true, or else a liar,  
But howsoe'er it be, you may do well  
To let poor Charity come near your fire  
And warm herself, that men no more may hold  
The charity of Lawyers to be cold:  
It will men's loud with admiration draw,  
To see some Gospel joined with Common-law.   

And for the first good work of your devotion,  
When next you trample to the spacious Hall,  
Let Charing-cross entreat you hear her Motion,  
That for your succour by the way doth call,  
Build up her ruins, and restore her glory,  
Which time and graceless hands made transitory.  
And let her be as fair to look upon,  
As is the stately Cross at Abington.   

Profit and honour certainly will spring  
Both to your souls and calling by this sight,  
Into your mind good motions it will bring,  
As you pass by, to do your Clients right,  
To your vocation will arise from hence  
A good report, and greater reverence,  
When with a cross she's topped, & fair carved under  
THIS IS THE LAWYER'S WORK, (good Reader wonder.)   

To leave conceits, that vanish as a dream,  
And which our age shall scarce report as true,  
Let us proceed to our intented Theme,  
For now to Westminster we nearer drew,  
Which when I did consider, and withal  
Into what danger we were like to fall  
If we went thither, I began to think,  
It were not best to go so far to drink.   

The reason why thus far I did proceed  
And train my Muse along from Temple-bar,  
Was to avoid the object which did breed  
The raging passion that did Reason mar,  
Therefore I thought the further I conveyed her,  
From sight of Cuckolds, which so furious made her,  
She would be sooner pleased, because we find  
That out of sight is quickly out of mind.   

But when I now conceived, that it might prove  
As dangerous to go forward, as retire  
(And that like to a Flounder I did move  
Out of the Frying-pan into the Fire)  
Because through Westminster wild Courtiers range,  
And if there be no Cuckolds it is strange,  
Forward I durst not go, but turned back,  
Greatly perplexed where to drink our Sack,   

Whilst thus I walked, much troubled and dismayed,  
A voice I heard which from a window spoke,  
And called, come hither (so I thought it said)  
And thereupon my spirit 'gan awake,  
And upward I did lift mine eyes to see  
If that I knew the place, or who was he  
That did me call, when by the Sign I found,  
It was a shop whose wares lay under ground.   

It is a place whereas old Sherry sack  
Is kept in durance in a dungeon deep,  
Attended by young Beagles at his back,  
Whose yawling throats will never let him sleep,  
But when that he would take his rest, they spout him  
And grievously they hoop & pipe about him,  
And for to let him blood they never stint,  
Into a Gallon, Pottle, Quartfield, or Pint.   

There lies he Prisoner to the God of Drink,  
Entombed within a Coffin like a Barrel,  
Because he was so forward, as I think,  
With good stale English-beer to pick a quarrel:  
For he no sooner came upon our shore  
And met March-beer, which he near saw before,  
But strait perforce they two must try a fall  
Where both were cast and spewed against the wall.   

Which thing when Bacchus heard, he for them sent,  
And Sack condemned to dungeon dark as night,  
Because he was so bold and insolent  
On English ground against March-beer to fight.  
Beer by his doom was barrelled up alive,  
Because that with a stranger he would strive,  
But was committed to a lighter vault,  
For in his own defence he made th'assault.   

Not far from Sherry sack in prison lie  
Many brave Spirits, for the like offence,  
Whom Bacchus useth with great tyranny,  
And for their liberty will not dispense,  
Until the cruel jailor, with his spawn  
Of little Curs, in pieces hath them drawn,  
And many hundred times hath let them blood,  
Which he sophisticates, as he thinks good.   

In dreadful darkness Alicante lies drowned,  
Which married men invoke for procreation,  
Next unto him brisk Claret is fast bound,  
Which adds to Venison more acceptation:  
Another corner holds pale coloured White,  
Which to see jordane doth a man incite,  
And feeble Rhenish on the Rack there strives,  
And calls for help to Merchants and their wives.   

Strong hooped in bonds are here constrained to tarry,  
Two kinsmen near allied to Sherry Sack,  
Sweet Malligo, and delicate Canary,  
Which warm the stomachs that digestion lack;  
They had a Page whom, if I can make meeter,  
I'll let you know, they called him See me Peter,  
But being found, he did no great offence,  
Paying his fees, he soon was drawn from thence.   

far in the Dungeon lies a dainty youth,  
With his sweet Brother, as their names make known,  
Unlawfully begotten in the South,  
And therefore are called Bastards, white and brown.  
For love to these have women been convicted,  
And still unto them some are so addicted  
Although with other drinks their minds are pleased,  
Yet without Bastard they are never eased.   

Within the utmost limits of this Cell,  
Surrounded with great Hogsheads like to burst,  
Old Muscadine without his eggs doth dwell,  
And Malmsey though last named, yet not the worst:  
Yet these are better used then all the rest,  
For seldom do the Beagles them molest,  
But in a morn, for then our use is most,  
To call for these, and drink them with a Tost.   

Compassed with fetters, these and many more  
Tumble in darkness one upon another,  
And never are in quiet, till the score  
Kept by the jailers wife, an aged mother,  
Hath drawn them dry, and then again they vent them,  
And in another case a new torment them,  

Porters.  And sometime cruel Saracens do roll them,  
Which are so stubborn, that none dare control them.   

Yet none of all these are more hardly used,  
Then is that true goodfellow Sherry Sack,  
If you should hear how much he is abused  
You needs must weep, or else remorse you lack,  
Trodden with feet, sold like a slave, racked, jumbled,  
Let blood, drawn dry, and by fell Porters tumbled,  
And lest all these base wrongs should not provoke him,  
With Yesso they him purge, with Lime they choke him.   

Thus cold and comfortless is he confined,  
Unto a hideous Cave, resembling hell,  
Whereas the Sun's bright beams yet never shined,  
Nor can he hear Cock crow, nor sound of Bell,  
Nor know how time doth pass, for all his light  
Is from a Candle, both by day and night,  
And all the company which do frequent him,  
Are only nimble Spirits that torment him.   

Late in the night when most men are asleep,  
And few are stirring, but thieves, cats, and crickets,  
Into the vault the jailor down doth creep,  
Where how he deals with bungholes & with spickets  
I cannot tell, yet some men do relate,  
He makes these strangers prove adulterate,  
And that's the cause when women thereof taste  
They fall to lewdness and become unchaste,   

For to beget a wise well featured child,  
Some have prescribed, that men must use good diet,  
With unsound meat the body is defiled,  
And with bad Wine the humours made unquiet,  
Good wine doth breed good blood which makes me think  
If wives are nought, 'tis long of naughty drink;  
For Woman, is by kind a virtuous creature,  
If vicious potions do not change her nature.   

From these close- Seller iumbling do arise  
Great harms, and much annoyance to man's body,  
For false impostured wines do hurt the eyes,  
And turn a wise man oft into a noddy,  
Within the brain vile excrements they gather,  
Which unto most diseases are the Father,  
As deafness, rheums, coughs, gouts, & distillations,  
Convulsions, palsies, itch, and inflammations.   

These are the cause of quarrels and debate,  
Wrath, Wounds, Disorder, Lust, and fornication,  
For note, how long men drink immaculate  
And honest Wine, without sophistication,  
So long mad passion is stayed Reasons slave,  
But when the Drawer once doth play the knave,  
And makes his Wine dishonest, and turn whore,  
Then presently the Boys begin to roar.   

And now I call to mind a pretty Tale,  
My Tutor told me when I was a Boy,  
Of some old Soldiers (if I do not fail)  
He called them greeks, that sackd the Town of Troy,  
The sacking was by base compounded Sacks,  
Which laid the Troyans' senseless on their backs, 
Inuadunt urbem vino.   
And ever since good Fellows for the same,  
True Troyans' and mad greeks have had to name.   


Troinoxant.  Where Troy did stand, I almost have forgot,  
Unless it was where London now is seated,  
For sure no Trojan better loved the pot,  
Nor with old Sack hath oftener been defeated  
Than hath our Citty-Troian; yet I gather  
It stood about the I'll of Tenet rather,  
For (as I well remember,) he did say  
The Island Tenedos stood in the way.   

But let the Poet's place it where they will,  
And tell of doughty warriors cladin Steel,  
How stiff Achilles did stout Hector kill,  
And dragged his body beastly by the heel,  
These are but fictions, for the truth is plain,  
The Troyans' were but drunk, there was none slain,  
And what wise man will say, they were not drunk,  
To fight ten years about a resty Punk?   

But when the Soldiers were with Sack suppressed,  
And some of them lay weltering in their gore,  
And some on Beds and Benches foully dressed,  
So gaped for breath, that one might hear them snore,  
And all the drunken Troyans' were asleep  
In their disgorged pickle laid to steep,  
Homewards the merry greeks returned singing,  
Yet having little cause to boast their winning.   

For hereupon blind Homer tells a fable,  
Of wonders that befell in their retire,  
How Circe with a potion execrable  
Converted them to hog's bedaubed in mire,  
And how the Siren with her pleasant lays,  
Sung sweetly unto them whom she betrays,  
Whereas the Moral is, that wine compounded,  
At Mermaid, into swine those Greeks confounded.   

'tis not the virgin liquor of the grape  
That turns a man into a filthy swine,  
A Goat, an Ass, a Lion, or an Ape,  
Such beastly fruits spring never from the Vine,  
Brisk blushing Claret, and fair maiden Sherry,  
Make men courageous, loving, wise, and merry:  
It is adulterous wine that plays the Punk,  
And robs men of their reason being drunk.   

By this time I suppose you may conjecture  
What this dark Dungeon is, and that the house  
Of which my Muse hath read so long a Lecture,  
Is nothing but a School where men carouse,  
And learn to drink; a little commonwealth,  
Where every man is free to drink a health,  
And none denied that can discharge the score:  
In brief, it is a Tavern, and no more.   

The strangers there captived you well discover  
As being with them doubtless well acquainted,  
And therefore vainly to recite them over,  
My Muse of surplusage would be attainted,  
Yet of their jailor I must needs complain,  
Which doth with so great strictness them restrain  
That without money none their sight comes near,  
And then attired in Pewter they appear.   

The Bush did wag, the Dog did shake his tail,  
When first my Muse and I approached the wicket,  
The Drawers bid us welcome and all-hail,  
And asked what was our pleasures with the spigot,  
I called for their directions how to find,  
From whence the voice was to mine ears inclined  
When strait anon a nimble Mercury,  
Brought us up stairs among good company.   

It was the day of all days in the year,  
That unto Bacchus hath his dedication,  
When mad-brained Prentices, that no men fear  
O'erthrow the dens of bawdy recreation,  
When Tailors, Cobblers, Plaist'rers, Smiths & Masons,  
And every Rogue will beat down Barber's Basins,  
Whereat Don Constable in wrath appears,  
And runs away with his stout Halberdiers.   

It was the day whereon both rich and poor,  
Are chiefly feasted with the self same dish,  
When every Paunch till it can hold no more,  
Is Fritter-fild, as well as heart can wish,  
And every man and maid do take their turn,  
And toss their Pancakes up for fear they burn,  
And all the Kitchen doth with laughter sound,  
To see the Pancakes fall upon the ground.   

It was the day when every Kitchen reeks,  
And hungry bellies keep a jubilee,  
When Flesh doth bid adieu for divers weeks,  
And leaves old Ling to be his deputy,  
Though carnal Libertines are so inclined,  
That still they love to taste what is confined,  
For all their humours are so violent  
They'll rather fast at Easter than in Lent.   

It was the day when Pullen go to block,  
And every Spit is filled with belly Timber,  
When Cocks are cudgeled down with many a knock,  
And Hens are thrashed to make them short and timber,  
When Country wenches play with stool & ball,  
And run at Barleybreak until they fall,  
And country Lads fall on them in such sort,  
That after forty weeks they rue the sport.   

And on this day, the Feast to magnify  
Of merry Bacchus, which did hear reside,  
Within this Tavern met a company  
Of true, kind, honest hearts, quite void of pride,  
That good companions and good husbands are,  
And know both how to spend and how to spare,  
That can be merry and yet never quarrel,  
Nor drown their wits and reason in a Barrel.   

And hear with many welcomes were received  
My Muse and I, and fell to drinking Sherry,  
Where after some few cups, as I conceived, 
Ille liquor docuit voces inflectere cantu.   
So it fell out, my Muse grew passing merry,  
And from her sullen humour which did reign,  
She was transported to a better vain, 
Qui canit arte canat, qui bibit arte bibat.   
And 'gan to sing, like to a jovial drinker,  
In praise of Sack, and tuned it to the Tinker.   

COme hither learned Sisters,  
and leave your forked Mountain, 
* Parnassus.   
I will you tell where is a Well,  
doth far exceed your Fountain, 
* Castalius.   
Of which, if any Poet,  
do taste in some good measure,  
It strait doth fill, both his head and quill, 
* Frustra poeticas fores compos sui pepulit.   
with ditties full of pleasure,  
And makes him sing give me Sack, old Sack boys,  
to make the Muse's merry,  
The life of mirth, and the joy of the earth,  
Is a cup of good old Sherry.   

'tis not the God of 
* Apollo.  Physic,  
nor his Apothecary,  
Nor all his Drugs, that stand in juggs,  
with Potions ordinary,  

Exultatio animae & corporis vinum.  That now shall be regarded,  
or had in any wonder,  
His Urinal against the wall,  
he now may piss asunder.  
For we have found old Sack, old Sack boys,  
which makes a sick man merry,  
The life, etc.   


Facit ad iucunditatem, ad anitatem corporis, ad vitae aequitaetem bonos mores.  It is the true Nepenthes  
which makes a sad man frolic,  
And doth redress all heaviness,  
cold Agues and the Colic,  
It takes away the crutches,  
from men are lame and crippled,  
And dries the pose, and rheums of the nose,  
if it be sound tippled.  
Then let us drink old Sack, old Sack boys,  
which makes us sound and merry,  
The life, etc.   


Liberat seruicio iurarum animum, & asserit vegetiorem & and aciorem in omnes conatus facit.  It is the River Lethe,  
where men forget their crosses,  
And by this drink they never think,  
of poverty and losses,  
It gives a man fresh courage,  
if well he sup this Nectar,  
And cowards soft, it lifts aloft,  

In praelia trudit inermem.  and makes them stout as Hector,  
Then let us drink old Sack, old Sack boys,  
which makes us stout and merry.  
The life, etc.   

It is the well of Concord, 
Omnis animi asperitas dulciori succo mitigatur levit transitum spiritus, ac molliores efficit meatus.   
where men do take up quarrels,  
When love doth lack, by drinking Sack  
they draw it from the Barrels.  
If drunkards are unruly,  
whom Claret hath inflamed,  
With a cup or two, this Sack can do, 
Bibant & furoris sui nonrecordentur.   
they sleep, and so are tamed.  
Then let us drink old Sack, old Sack boys, 
Qui bene bibit bene dormit.   
which makes us kind and merry,  
The life, etc.   

The Broth with Barley sodden, 
Multae allae potiones sunt, quibus in penaria homines ut untur, tamen inter omnes hoc vinum tenet, quia datur nobis ad necessitatem, ad sanitatem, & ad hilaritatem.   
compares not with this licker,  
The Draymans' Beer is not so clear,  
and foggy Ale is thicker:  
Matheglin is too fulsome,  
cold Cider and raw Perry,  
And all drinks stand with Cap in hand  
in presence of old Sherry.  
Then let us drink old Sack, old Sack boys,  
which makes us blithe and merry,  
The life, etc.   

No fiery red-faced Claret,  
attended with his borage,  
No Rhenish wine that's pissing fine,  
nor white, that cools the courage,  
No base begotten Bastard,  
nor blood of any Berry,  
Can raise the Brain to such a strain, 
Hoc vinum acuit nigeium.   
nor make the heart so merry.  
Then let us drink old Sack, old Sack boys,  
which makes us blithe and merry,  
The life, etc.   

The Citizen loves fiddling,  
that he may frisk and caper,  
The Scholar looks upon his books,  
and pores upon a Paper.  
The gentle blood likes hunting  
where dogs do trace by smelling,  
And some love hawks, some groves, & walks,  
and some a handsome dwelling.  

Sack sapit omnia.  Yet all these without Sack, old Sack boys,  
makes no man kindly merry.  
The life, etc.   


Vinum dicitur quia vinculum societatis.  The knot of hearty friendship,  
is by good Sack combined,  
They love no jars, nor mortal wars,  
that are to Sack inclined,  

Sine Cerere & Sacco friget Virtus.  Nor can he be dishonest,  
whom Sack and Sugar feedeth,  
For all men see, he's fat and free,  
and no ill humour breedeth.  
Then let us drink old Sack, old Sack boys,  
that makes us fat and merry,  
The life, etc.   


Vt cor per tristitiam contrabitur & torpescit, ita per vini laeticiam laxatur & titillat.  A quart of Sack well burned,  
and drunk to bedward wholly,  
I dare be bold doth cure the cold,  
and purgeth Melancholy,  
It comforts aged persons,  

Rugaque frontis abit.  and seems their youth to render,  
It warms the brains, it fills the veins,  
and fresh blood doth engender.  
Then let us drink old Sack, old Sack boys,  
which makes us warm and merry,  
The life, etc.   

Sack makes a faithful subject,  
that doth no treason study,  
Nor doth he think, when he takes this drink,  
of plotting murders bloody,  
He loves his King and Country, 
In vino verita 〈…〉.   
from whom he never started,  
The great black jack well filled with Sack,  
doth make the Guard truehearted.  
Then let us drink old Sack, old Sack boys,  
which makes true Subjects merry,  
The life etc.   

No care comes near this fountain, 
Eluit curas, & ab imo animum movet.   
where joy and mirth surpasses,  
And the God of drink stands up to the brink, 
Aliquando in exultationem & libertatem est animas extrahendus, tristisque sobrietas remonenda paulisper.   
all armed in Venice glasses,  
And calls upon good Fellows,  
that are both wise and merry,  
That about this spring, they would dance and sing,  
and drink a cup of Sherry.  
Then let us drink old Sack, old Sack boys,  
which makes us wise and merry,  
And about this spring, let us dance and sing,  
and drink a cup of Sherry.   

Thus sung my Muse, and thus the storms were laid,  
And she grew debonair and fairly calm.  
When any Muse with rage is overswayed,  
Let Poets learn it is a sovereign balm,  
To wet their pipes with good facetious Sherry,  
Which makes them jocund & most sweetly merry,  
And thus I brought her home, where now she rests, 
Foecundi calices quem non fecere disertum?   
The feast is done, ye are welcome all my guests.  
Aliquando insanire iucundissimum est.   
FINIS.