A satire AGAINST BRANDY.  Written by Jo. Hains, as he saith them; elf. 

FArewell Damned. Stygian Juice, who does; 't bewitch  
From the Court Bawd, down to the Country Bitch:  
Thou liquid Flame, by whom each fiery Face  
Lives witthout Meat, and blus; hes without Grace:  
Sink to your native Hell, and mend the fire,  
Or, if you rather choose to settle nigher,  
Return to the dull Clime from whence you came,  
Where Wit and Courage may require your flame,  
Where they Carouse in your Vesuvian Bowls,  
To crust the Quagmire of their Spunngy Souls.   

Had Dives for thy scorching moisture cried,  
Abr'am in mercy had his suit denied:  
Or Bonner known thy force, the Martyr's blood  
Had Sissed in thee and saved the Nations wood.  
Essence of Embers, Scum of melting Flint,  
With all the Native sparkles floating in't.  
Sure the black Chemist with the cloven Foot  
All Aetna's Simples in his ' Limbeck put,  
And double stilled, nay Quintessenced thy Juice,  
To charcoal Mortals for his future use.  
Fireship to Nature, who dost doubly wound,  
For those that grapple thee, are burnt and drowned.   

As when Heaven pressd th' Auxil'aries of Hell,  
A flaming storm on curseed, Sodom fell.  
And when it's single Plagues could not prevail,  
Egypt was scaled with kindled Rain and Hail:  
So Nature's feuds are reconciled in thee,  
Thou two great Judgements in Epitome:  
God's past and future anger breathes in you  
A Deluge and a Conflagration too.   

View yonder Sot (I do not mean Sheriff S—)  
Grillyed all o'er by thee from Head to Foot:  
His drowsy Eyelids shoard above their pitch,  
His Cheeks with Carbuncles and Rubies rich;  
His Soul instead of Brains supplied with Cinder,  
His Nose turns all his Handkerchifs to Tinder:  
He breathes like a Smith's Forge, and wets the fire,  
Not to allay the flame, but raise it higher:  
His trembling hands scarce heave the liquor in,  
His Nerves all crackle in his Parchment skin;  
His Stomach don't concoct, but bake his food;  
His Liver even Vitrisies his Blood;  
His Guts from Nature's drudgery are freed,  
And in his Bowels Salamanders breed  
He's grown too hot to think, too dull to laugh,  
And steps as if he walked with Pindar's Staff.  
The moving Glass-house lightens with his Eyes,  
Sings his clothes and all his marrow fries;  
Glows for a while, and then in Ashes dies.  
Thus like a shame Prometheus, we find  
Thou stealest a fire from Hell to kill Mankind.   

But hold— lest we the Saints dire anger merit,  
By stinting their Auxiliary Spirit:  
We hear of late, whate'er wicked think,  
Thou art reformed and turned a Godly drink:  
And doubtless thou'rt con-natural to them,  
For both thy Spirit and theirs abound in Phlegm;  
‛ E'er since the Public Faith for Plate did wimble,  
And sanctified thy Gill with Hannah's Thimble:  
Thou left'st thy old bad Company of Vermin,  
The Drunken Porters, and the swearing Car-men;  
And the lewd Drivers of the Hackney Coaches,  
And now tak'st up with sage discreet Debauches;  
Thou freely droppest upon Gold Chains and Fur,  
And Sots of Quality thy Minions are.  
No more shalt thou foment an Alehouse brawl,  
But the more sober Riots at Guildhall,  
Where, by thy Spirits fallible direction,  
The Reprobates stood Poling for Election.   

If this trade holds, what will the wicked do?  
The Saints sequester even their Vices too,  
For since the Art of Whoring's grown precise,  
And Perjury hath got demurer Eyes;  
'Tis time, high time to circumcise the Gill,  
And not let drinking be Philistian still.   

Go then thou Emblem of their torrid Zeal,  
Add flame to flame and their stiff tempers Neal,  
Till they grow ductile to the Public Weal.  
And since the Godly have espoused thy Cause,  
Don't fill their heads with Libertys and Laws,  
Religion, Privilege, and lawless Charters,  
Mind them of Falstaffs Heir apparent Garters,  
And keep their outward Man from Ketches Quarters.   

One Caution more (now we are out of hearing  
Many have died of drinking, some of swearing;  
If these two Pests should in Conjunction meet,  
The grass would quickly grow in every street:  
Save thou the Nation from that double blow,  
And keep thy fire from Salamanca T O.    

Printed for Jos. Hindmarsh at the Black-Bull in Cornhill, 1683.