A Broadside against COFFEE; Or, the Marriage of the Turk.  

COFFEE, a kind of Turkish Renegade,  
Has late a match with Christian water made;  
At first between them happened a Demur,  
Yet joined they were, but not without great stir;  
For both so cold were, and so faintly met,  
The Turkish Hymen in his Turban sweat.  
Coffee was cold as Earth, Water as Thames,  
And stood in need of recommending Flames;  
For each of them steers a contrary course,  
And of themselves they sue out a Divorce.  
Coffee so brown as berry does appear,  
Too swarthy for a Nymph so fair, so clear:  
And yet his sails he did for England hoist,  
Though cold and dry, to court the cold and moist;  
If there be aught we can as love admit;  
'Tis a hot love, and lasteth but a fit.  
For this indeed the cause is of their stay,  
Newcastles bowels warmer are than they:  
The melting Nymph distils herself to do't,  
Whilst the Slave Coffee must be beaten to't:  
Incorporate him close as close may be,  
Pause but a while, and he is none of he;  
Which for a truth, and not a story tells,  
No Faith is to be kept with Infidels.  
Sure he suspects, and shuns her as a Whore,  
And loves, and kills, like the Venetian Moor;  
Bold Asian Brat! with speed our confines flee;  
Water, though common, is too good for thee.  
Sure Coffees vexed he has the breeches lost,  
For she's above, and he lies undermost;  
What shall I add but this? (and sure 'tis right)  
The Groom is heavy, cause the Bride is light.  
This canting Coffee has his Crew enriched,  
And both the Water and the Men bewitched.  
A Coachman was the first (here) Coffee made,  
And ever since the rest drive on the trade;  
Me no good Engalash! and sure enough,  
He played the Quack to salve his Stygian stuff;  
Ver boon for the stomach, the Cough, the Ptisick,  
And I believe him, for it looks like Physic.  
Coffee a crust is charkt into a coal,  
The smell and taste of the Mock China bowl;  
Where huff and puff, they labour out their lungs,  
Lest Dives like they should bewail their tongues.  
And yet they tell ye that it will not burn,  
Though on the Jury Blisters you return;  
Whose furious heat does make the water rise,  
And still through the Alembics of your eyes.  
Dread and desire, ye fall to't snap by snap,  
As hungry Dogs do scalding porridge lap,  
But to cure Drunkards it has got great Fame;  
Posset or Porridge, will't not do the same?  
Consusion huddles all into one Scene,  
Like Noah's Ark, the clean and the unclean.  
But now, alas! the Drench has credit got,  
And he's no Gentleman that drinks it not;  
That such a Dwarf should rise to such a stature!  
But Custom is but a remove from Nature.  
A little Dish, and a large Coffee-house,  
What is it, but a Mountain and a Mouse?  
From Bawdy-houses differs thus your hap;  
They give their tails, you give their tongues a clap.  
Mens humana novitatis avidissima.    

London, Printed for J. L. Anno Dom. 1672.