A
SATYR
AGAINST
BRANDY.
Written by Jo. Hains, as he saith himself.
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FArewell Damn'd Stygian Juice, who dost bewitch
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From the Court Baud, down to the Country Bitch:
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Thou liquid Flame, by whom each fiery Face
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Lives without Meat, and blushes without Grace:
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Sink to your native Hell, and mend the fire,
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Or, if you rather chuse to settle nigher,
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Return to the dull Clime from whence you came,
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Where Wit and Courage may require your flame,
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Where they Carouze in your Vesuvian Bowls,
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To crust the Quagmire of their Spungy Souls.
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Had Dives for thy scorching moysture cry'd,
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Abr'am in mercy had his suite deny'd:
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Or Bonner known thy force, the Martyrs blood
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Had Siss'd in thee and sav'd the Nations wood.
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Essence of Embers, Scum of melting Flint,
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With all the Native sparkles floating in't.
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Sure the black Chymist with the cloven Foot
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All AEtnas Simples in his 'Limbeck put,
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And double still'd, nay Quintessenc'd thy Juice,
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To charcoal Mortals for his future use.
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Fire-ship to Nature, who do'st doubly wound,
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For those that graple thee, are burnt and drown'd.
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As when Heav'n press'd th' Auxil'arys of Hell,
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A flaming storm on cursed Sodom fell.
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And when it's single Plagues could not prevail,
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Egypt was scal't with kindled Rain and Hail:
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So Natures feuds are reconcil'd in thee,
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Thou two great Judgments in Epitomy:
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God's past and future anger breaths in you
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A Deluge and a Conflagration too.
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View yonder Sot (I do not mean Sheriff S------)
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Grilly'd all o're by thee from Head to Foot:
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His drowzy Eyelids shoard above their pitch,
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His Cheeks with Carbuncles and Rubies rich;
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His Scull instead of Brains supply'd with Cinder,
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His Nose turns all his Handkerchifs to Tinder:
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He breaths like a Smiths Forge, and wets the fire,
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Not to allay the flame, but raise it higher:
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His trembling hands scarce heave the liquor in,
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His Nerves all crackle in his Parchment skin;
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His Stomack don't concoct, but bake his food;
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His Liver even Vitrifies his Blood;
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His Guts from Natures drudgery are freed,
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And in his Bowels Salamanders breed.
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He's grown too hot to think, too dull to laugh,
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And steps as if he walk'd with Pindars Staff.
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The moving Glass-house lightens with his Eyes,
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Singes his Cloaths and all his marrow fries;
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Glows for a while, and then in Ashes dies.
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Thus like a sham Prometheus, we find
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Thou stealest a fire from Hell to kill Mankind.
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But hold ------ lest we the Saints dire anger merit,
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By stinting their Auxiliary Spirit:
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We hear of late, whate're the wicked think,
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Thou art reform'd and turn'd a Godly drink:
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And doubtless thou'rt con-natural to them,
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For both thy Spirit and theirs abound in Phlegm;
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'Ere since the Publick Faith for Plate did wimble,
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And sanctifi'd thy Gill with Hannahs Thimble:
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Thou left'st thy old bad Company of Vermin,
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The Drunken Porters, and the swearing Carr-men;
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And the lewd Drivers of the Hackney Coaches,
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And now tak'st up with sage discreet Debauches;
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Thou freely drop'st upon Gold Chains and Fur,
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And Sots of Quality thy Minions are.
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No more shalt thou foment an Ale-house brawle,
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But the more sober Riots at Guild-hall,
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Where, by thy Spirits fallible direction,
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The Reprobates stood Poling for Election.
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If this trade holds, what will the wicked doe?
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The Saints sequester e'vn their Vices too,
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For since the Art of Whoring's grown precise,
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And Perjury hath got demurer Eyes;
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'Tis time, high time to circumcise the Gill,
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And not let drinking be Philistian still.
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Go then thou Emblem of their torrid Zeal,
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Add flame to flame and their stiff tempers Neal,
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'Till they grow ductile to the Publick Weale.
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And since the Godly have espous'd thy Cause,
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Don't fill their heads with Libertys and Laws,
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Religion, Privilege, and lawless Charters,
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Mind them of Falstaffs Heir apparent Garters,
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And keep their outward Man from Ketches Quarters.
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One Caution more (now we are out of hearing)
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Many have died of drinking, some of swearing;
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If these two Pests should in Conjunction meet,
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The grass wou'd quickly grow in every street:
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Save thou the Nation from that double blow,
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And keep thy fire from Salamanca T O.
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