







 
   
     
       
         The character of a coffee-house wherein is contained a description of the persons usually frequenting it, with their discourse and humors, as also the admirable vertues of coffee / by an eye and ear witness.
         Eye and ear witness.
      
       
         
           1665
        
      
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         A31685
         Wing C1967
         ESTC R32619
         12730494
         ocm 12730494
         66475
         
           
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         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A31685)
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             The character of a coffee-house wherein is contained a description of the persons usually frequenting it, with their discourse and humors, as also the admirable vertues of coffee / by an eye and ear witness.
             Eye and ear witness.
          
           [2], 10 p.
           
             s.n.],
             [London :
             1665.
          
           
             In verse.
             Place of publication suggested by Wing.
             Reproduction of original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Coffeehouses -- Poetry.
        
      
    
     
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           THE
           CHARACTER
           OF
           A
           Coffee-House
           .
        
         
           WHEREIN
           Is
           contained
           a
           Description
           of
           the
           Persons
           usually
           frequenting
           it
           ,
           with
           their
           Discourse
           and
           Humors
           ,
           AS
           ALSO
           The
           Admirable
           Vertues
           of
           COFFEE
           .
        
         
           By
           an
           Eye
           and
           Ear
           Witness
           .
        
         
           
             When
             Coffee
             once
             was
             vended
             here
             ,
          
           
             The
             Alc'ron
             shortly
             did
             appear
             :
          
           
             For
             (
             our
             Reformers
             were
             such
             Widgeons
             ,
             )
          
           
             New
             Liquors
             brought
             in
             new
             Religions
             .
          
        
         
           Printed
           in
           the
           Year
           ,
           1665.
           
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
         
           THE
           CHARACTER
           OF
           A
           Coffee-House
           .
        
         
           A
           Coffee-house
           ,
           
           the
           learned
           hold
        
         
           It
           is
           a
           place
           where
           
           Coffee's
           sold
           ;
        
         
           This
           derivation
           cannot
           fail
           us
           ,
        
         
           For
           where
           
           Ale
           's
           vended
           ,
           that
           's
           an
           Ale-house
           .
        
         
           This
           being
           granted
           to
           be
           true
           ,
        
         
           'T
           is
           meet
           that
           next
           the
           Signs
           we
           shew
        
         
           Both
           where
           and
           how
           to
           find
           this
           house
        
         
           Where
           men
           such
           
             cordial
             broth
          
           carowse
           .
        
         
           And
           if
           Culpepper
           woon
           some
           glory
        
         
           In
           turning
           the
           Dispensatory
        
         
           From
           Latin
           into
           English
           ;
           then
           ,
        
         
           Why
           should
           not
           all
           good
           
             English
             men
          
        
         
           Give
           him
           much
           thanks
           who
           shews
           a
           cure
        
         
           For
           all
           diseases
           men
           endure
           ?
        
         
           As
           you
           along
           the
           streets
           do
           trudge
           ,
           
        
         
           To
           take
           the
           pains
           you
           must
           not
           grudge
           ,
        
         
         
           To
           view
           the
           Posts
           or
           Broomsticks
           where
        
         
           The
           Signs
           of
           Liquors
           hanged
           are
           .
        
         
           And
           if
           you
           see
           the
           great
           Morat
        
         
           With
           Shash
           on
           's
           head
           instead
           of
           hat
           ,
        
         
           Or
           any
           Sultan
           in
           his
           dress
           ,
        
         
           Or
           picture
           of
           a
           Sultaness
           ,
        
         
           Or
           
           John's
           admir'd
           curled
           pate
           ,
        
         
           Or
           th'
           great
           Mogul
           in
           's
           Chair
           of
           State
           ,
        
         
           Or
           Constantine
           the
           Grecian
           ,
        
         
           Who
           fourteen
           years
           was
           th'
           onely
           man
        
         
           That
           made
           Coffee
           for
           th'
           great
           Bashaw
           ,
        
         
           Although
           the
           man
           he
           never
           saw
           :
        
         
           Or
           if
           you
           see
           a
           
           Coffee-cup
        
         
           Fil'd
           from
           a
           Turkish
           pot
           ,
           hung
           up
        
         
           VVithin
           the
           clouds
           ,
           and
           round
           it
           Pipes
           ,
        
         
           
             Wax
             Candles
             ,
             Stoppers
          
           ,
           these
           are
           types
        
         
           And
           certain
           signs
           (
           with
           many
           more
        
         
           VVould
           be
           too
           long
           to
           write
           them
           'ore
           ,
           )
        
         
           VVhich
           plainly
           do
           Spectators
           tell
        
         
           That
           in
           that
           house
           they
           Coffee
           sell
           .
        
         
           Some
           wiser
           than
           the
           rest
           (
           no
           doubt
           ,
           )
        
         
           Say
           they
           can
           by
           the
           smell
           find
           't
           out
           ;
        
         
           In
           at
           a
           door
           (
           say
           they
           ,
           )
           but
           thrust
        
         
           Your
           Nose
           ,
           and
           if
           you
           scent
           
             burnt
             Crust
          
           ,
        
         
           Be
           sure
           there
           's
           Coffee
           sold
           that
           's
           good
           ,
        
         
           For
           so
           by
           most
           't
           is
           understood
           .
        
         
           Now
           being
           enter'd
           ,
           there
           's
           no
           needing
        
         
           Of
           complements
           or
           gentile
           breeding
           ,
        
         
           For
           you
           may
           seat
           you
           any
           where
           ,
        
         
           There
           's
           no
           respect
           of
           persons
           there
           ;
        
         
           Then
           comes
           the
           Coffee-man
           to
           greet
           you
           ,
        
         
           VVith
           welcome
           Sir
           ,
           let
           me
           entreat
           you
           ,
        
         
           To
           tell
           me
           what
           you
           'l
           please
           to
           have
           ,
        
         
           For
           I
           'm
           your
           humble
           humble
           slave
           ;
        
         
         
           But
           if
           you
           ask
           ,
           what
           good
           does
           Coffee
           ?
        
         
           He
           'l
           answer
           ,
           Sir
           ,
           don't
           think
           I
           scoff
           yee
           ,
        
         
           If
           I
           affirm
           there
           's
           no
           disease
        
         
           Men
           have
           that
           drink
           it
           but
           find
           ease
           .
           
        
         
           Look
           ,
           there
           's
           a
           man
           who
           takes
           the
           steem
        
         
           In
           at
           his
           Nose
           ,
           has
           an
           extreme
        
         
           Worm
           in
           his
           pate
           ,
           and
           giddiness
           ,
        
         
           Ask
           him
           and
           he
           will
           say
           no
           less
           .
        
         
           There
           sitteth
           one
           whose
           Droptick
           belly
        
         
           VVas
           hard
           as
           flint
           ,
           now
           's
           soft
           as
           jelly
           .
        
         
           There
           stands
           another
           holds
           his
           head
        
         
           'Ore
           th'
           
           Coffee-pot
           ,
           was
           almost
           dead
        
         
           Even
           now
           with
           Rhume
           ;
           ask
           him
           hee
           'l
           say
        
         
           That
           all
           his
           Rhum's
           now
           past
           away
           .
        
         
           See
           ,
           there
           's
           a
           man
           sits
           now
           demure
        
         
           And
           sober
           ,
           was
           within
           this
           hour
        
         
           Quite
           drunk
           ,
           and
           comes
           here
           frequently
           ,
        
         
           For
           't
           is
           his
           daily
           Malady
           .
        
         
           More
           ,
           it
           has
           such
           reviving
           power
        
         
           'T
           will
           keep
           a
           man
           awake
           an
           houre
           ,
        
         
           Nay
           ,
           make
           his
           eyes
           wide
           open
           stare
        
         
           Both
           Sermon
           time
           and
           all
           the
           prayer
           .
        
         
           Sir
           ,
           should
           I
           tell
           you
           all
           the
           rest
        
         
           O'
           th'
           cures
           't
           has
           done
           ,
           two
           hours
           at
           least
        
         
           In
           numb'ring
           them
           I
           needs
           must
           spend
           ,
        
         
           Scarce
           able
           then
           to
           make
           an
           end
           .
        
         
           Besides
           these
           vertues
           that's
           therein
           ,
        
         
           For
           any
           kind
           of
           Medicine
           ,
        
         
           The
           
             Commonwealth
             —
             Kingdom
          
           I
           'd
           say
           ,
        
         
           Has
           mighty
           reason
           for
           to
           pray
        
         
           That
           still
           Arabia
           may
           produce
        
         
           Enough
           of
           Berry
           for
           it's
           use
           :
        
         
           For
           't
           has
           such
           strange
           magnetick
           force
           ,
        
         
           That
           it
           draws
           after
           't
           great
           concourse
        
         
         
           Of
           all
           degrees
           of
           persons
           ,
           even
        
         
           From
           high
           to
           low
           ,
           from
           morn
           till
           even
           ;
        
         
           Especially
           the
           
             sober
             Party
          
           ,
        
         
           And
           News-mongers
           do
           drink
           't
           most
           hearty
           .
        
         
           Here
           you
           '
           r
           not
           thrust
           into
           a
           Box
           ,
        
         
           As
           Taverns
           do
           to
           catch
           the
           Fox
           ,
        
         
           But
           as
           from
           th'
           top
           of
           Pauls
           high
           steeple
           ,
        
         
           Th'
           whole
           
           City
           's
           view'd
           ,
           even
           so
           all
           people
        
         
           May
           here
           be
           seen
           ;
           no
           secrets
           are
        
         
           At
           th'
           Court
           for
           Peace
           ,
           or
           th'
           Camp
           for
           War
           ,
        
         
           But
           straight
           they
           'r
           here
           disclos'd
           and
           known
           ;
        
         
           Men
           in
           this
           Age
           so
           wise
           are
           grown
           .
        
         
           Now
           (
           Sir
           )
           what
           profit
           may
           accrew
        
         
           By
           this
           ,
           to
           all
           good
           men
           ,
           judge
           you
           .
        
         
           VVith
           that
           he
           's
           loudly
           call'd
           upon
        
         
           For
           Coffee
           ,
           and
           then
           whip
           he
           's
           gone
           .
        
         
           Here
           at
           a
           Table
           sits
           (
           perplext
           )
        
         
           A
           griping
           Usurer
           ,
           
           and
           next
        
         
           To
           him
           a
           gallant
           Furioso
           ,
        
         
           Then
           nigh
           to
           him
           a
           Virtuoso
           ;
        
         
           A
           Player
           then
           (
           full
           fine
           ,
           )
           sits
           down
           ,
        
         
           And
           close
           to
           him
           a
           
             Country
             Clown
          
           .
        
         
           O'
           th'
           other
           side
           sits
           some
           Pragmatick
           ,
        
         
           And
           next
           to
           him
           some
           sly
           Phanatick
           .
        
         
           The
           gallant
           he
           for
           Tea
           doth
           call
           ,
        
         
           The
           Usurer
           for
           nought
           at
           all
           .
           
        
         
           Pragmatick
           he
           doth
           intreat
        
         
           That
           they
           will
           fill
           him
           some
           
             Beau
             cheat
          
           ,
        
         
           The
           Virtuoso
           he
           cries
           hand
           me
        
         
           Some
           Coffee
           mixt
           with
           
             Sugar
             candy
          
           .
        
         
           Phanaticus
           (
           at
           last
           )
           says
           come
           ,
        
         
           Bring
           me
           some
           Aromaticum
           .
        
         
           The
           Player
           bawls
           for
           Chocolate
           ,
        
         
           All
           which
           the
           Bumpkin
           wond'ring
           at
           ,
        
         
         
           Cries
           ,
           ho
           ,
           my
           Masters
           ,
           what
           d'
           ye
           speak
           ,
        
         
           D'
           ye
           call
           for
           drink
           in
           Heathen
           Greek
           ?
        
         
           Give
           me
           some
           good
           old
           Ale
           or
           Beer
           ,
        
         
           Or
           else
           I
           will
           not
           drink
           ,
           I
           swear
           .
        
         
           Then
           having
           charg'd
           their
           Pipes
           around
           ,
        
         
           They
           silence
           break
           ;
           First
           the
           profound
        
         
           And
           sage
           Phanatique
           ,
           Sirs
           ,
           what
           news
           ?
           
        
         
           Troth
           says
           the
           Us'rer
           I
           ne'r
           use
        
         
           To
           tip
           my
           tongue
           with
           such
           discourse
           ,
        
         
           'T
           were
           news
           to
           know
           how
           to
           disburse
        
         
           A
           summ
           of
           mony
           (
           makes
           me
           sad
           )
        
         
           To
           get
           ought
           by
           't
           ,
           times
           are
           so
           bad
           .
        
         
           The
           other
           answers
           ,
           truly
           Sir
        
         
           You
           speak
           but
           truth
           ,
           for
           I
           'le
           aver
        
         
           They
           ne'r
           were
           worse
           ;
           did
           you
           not
           hear
        
         
           VVhat
           prodigies
           did
           late
           appear
        
         
           At
           
             Norwich
             ,
             Ipswich
             ,
             Grantham
             ,
             Gotam
             ?
          
        
         
           And
           though
           prophane
           ones
           do
           not
           not
           'em
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           we
           —
           Here
           th'
           Virtuoso
           stops
        
         
           The
           current
           of
           his
           speech
           ,
           with
           hopes
        
         
           Quoth
           he
           ,
           you
           will
           not
           tak
           't
           amiss
           ,
        
         
           I
           say
           all
           's
           lies
           that
           's
           news
           like
           this
           ,
        
         
           For
           I
           have
           Factors
           all
           about
        
         
           The
           Realm
           ,
           so
           that
           no
           Stars
           peep
           out
        
         
           That
           are
           unusual
           ,
           much
           less
           these
        
         
           Strange
           and
           unheard-of
           Prodigies
        
         
           You
           would
           relate
           ,
           but
           they
           are
           tost
        
         
           To
           me
           in
           letters
           by
           first
           Post
           .
        
         
           At
           which
           the
           Furioso
           swears
        
         
           Such
           chat
           as
           this
           offends
           his
           ears
           ,
        
         
           It
           rather
           doth
           become
           this
           Age
        
         
           To
           talk
           of
           bloodshed
           ,
           fury
           ,
           rage
           ,
        
         
           And
           t'
           drink
           stout
           healths
           in
           brim-fill'd
           Nogans
           ,
        
         
           To
           th'
           Downfall
           of
           the
           
             Hogan
             Mogans
          
           .
        
         
         
           VVith
           that
           the
           Player
           doffs
           his
           Bonnet
           ,
        
         
           And
           tunes
           his
           voice
           as
           if
           a
           Sonnet
        
         
           VVere
           to
           be
           sung
           ;
           then
           gently
           says
           ,
        
         
           O
           what
           delight
           there
           is
           in
           Plays
           !
        
         
           Sure
           if
           we
           were
           but
           all
           in
           Peace
           ,
        
         
           This
           noise
           of
           Wars
           and
           News
           would
           cease
           ;
        
         
           All
           sorts
           of
           people
           then
           would
           club
        
         
           Their
           pence
           to
           see
           a
           Play
           that
           's
           good
           .
        
         
           You
           'l
           wonder
           all
           this
           while
           (
           perhaps
           )
        
         
           The
           Curioso
           holds
           his
           chaps
           ,
        
         
           But
           he
           doth
           in
           his
           thoughts
           devise
           ,
        
         
           How
           to
           the
           rest
           he
           may
           seem
           wise
           ;
        
         
           Yet
           able
           longer
           not
           to
           hold
           ,
        
         
           His
           tedious
           tale
           too
           must
           be
           told
           ,
        
         
           And
           thus
           begins
           ,
           Sirs
           unto
           me
        
         
           It
           reason
           seems
           that
           liberty
        
         
           Of
           speech
           and
           words
           should
           be
           allow'd
        
         
           VVhere
           men
           of
           differing
           judgements
           croud
           ,
        
         
           And
           that
           's
           a
           Coffee-house
           ,
           for
           where
        
         
           Should
           men
           discourse
           so
           free
           as
           there
           ?
        
         
           Coffee
           and
           Commonwealth
           begin
        
         
           Both
           with
           one
           letter
           ,
           both
           came
           in
        
         
           Together
           for
           a
           Reformation
           ,
        
         
           To
           make
           's
           a
           free
           and
           sober
           Nation
           .
        
         
           But
           now
           —
           With
           that
           Phanaticus
        
         
           Gives
           him
           a
           nod
           ,
           and
           speaks
           him
           thus
           ,
        
         
           Hold
           brother
           ,
           I
           know
           your
           intent
           ,
        
         
           That
           's
           no
           dispute
           convenient
        
         
           For
           this
           same
           place
           ,
           truths
           seldome
           find
        
         
           Acceptance
           here
           ,
           they
           'r
           more
           confin'd
        
         
           To
           Taverns
           and
           to
           Ale-house
           liquor
           ,
        
         
           VVhere
           men
           do
           vent
           their
           minds
           more
           quicker
           ,
        
         
           If
           that
           may
           for
           a
           truth
           but
           pass
        
         
           VVhat
           's
           said
           ,
           
             In
             vino
             veritas
          
           .
        
         
         
           With
           that
           up
           starts
           the
           
             Country
             Clown
          
           ,
        
         
           And
           stares
           about
           with
           threatning
           frown
           ,
        
         
           As
           if
           he
           would
           even
           eat
           them
           all
           up
           ,
        
         
           Then
           bids
           the
           boy
           run
           quick
           and
           call
           up
        
         
           A
           Constable
           ,
           for
           he
           has
           reason
        
         
           To
           fear
           their
           Latin
           may
           be
           treason
           .
        
         
           But
           straight
           they
           all
           call
           what
           's
           to
           pay
           ,
        
         
           Lay
           't
           down
           ,
           and
           march
           each
           several
           way
           .
        
         
           At
           th'
           other
           table
           sits
           a
           Knight
           ,
           
        
         
           And
           here
           
             a
             grave
             old
             man
          
           ore
           right
        
         
           Against
           his
           worship
           ,
           then
           perhaps
        
         
           That
           by
           and
           by
           a
           Drawer
           claps
        
         
           His
           bum
           close
           by
           them
           ,
           there
           down
           squats
        
         
           
             A
             dealer
             in
             old
             shoes
             and
             hats
          
           ;
        
         
           And
           here
           withouten
           any
           panick
        
         
           Fear
           ,
           dread
           or
           care
           a
           bold
           Mechanick
           .
           
        
         
           The
           Knight
           (
           because
           he
           's
           so
           )
           he
           prates
        
         
           Of
           matters
           far
           beyond
           their
           pates
           .
        
         
           
             The
             grave
             old
             man
          
           he
           makes
           a
           bustle
           ,
        
         
           And
           his
           wise
           sentence
           in
           must
           justle
           .
        
         
           Up
           starts
           th'
           
             Apprentice
             boy
          
           and
           he
        
         
           Says
           boldly
           so
           and
           so
           't
           must
           be
           .
        
         
           
             The
             dealer
             in
             old
             shoes
          
           to
           utter
        
         
           His
           saying
           too
           makes
           no
           small
           sputter
           .
        
         
           Then
           comes
           the
           pert
           
             mechanick
             blade
          
           ,
        
         
           And
           contradicts
           what
           all
           have
           said
           .
        
         
           The
           end
           of
           all
           their
           Chat
           is
           this
           ,
        
         
           Each
           for
           the
           Dutch
           have
           rods
           in
           piss
           .
        
         
           There
           by
           the
           fier-side
           doth
           sit
           ,
        
         
           One
           freezing
           in
           an
           Ague
           fit
           .
        
         
           Another
           poking
           in
           '
           t
           with
           th'
           tongs
           ,
        
         
           Still
           ready
           to
           cough
           up
           his
           lungs
           .
        
         
           Here
           fitteth
           one
           that
           's
           melancolick
           ,
        
         
           And
           there
           one
           singing
           in
           a
           frolick
           .
        
         
         
           Each
           one
           hath
           such
           a
           prety
           gesture
           ,
        
         
           At
           Smithfield
           fair
           would
           yield
           a
           tester
           .
        
         
           Boy
           reach
           a
           pipe
           cries
           he
           that
           shakes
           ,
        
         
           The
           songster
           no
           Tobacco
           takes
           ,
        
         
           Says
           he
           who
           coughs
           ,
           nor
           do
           I
           smoak
           ,
        
         
           Then
           
             Monsieur
             Mopus
          
           turns
           his
           cloak
        
         
           Off
           from
           his
           face
           ,
           and
           with
           a
           grave
        
         
           Majestick
           beck
           his
           pipe
           doth
           crave
           .
        
         
           They
           load
           their
           guns
           and
           fall
           a
           smoaking
           ,
        
         
           Whilst
           he
           who
           coughs
           sits
           by
           a
           choaking
           ,
        
         
           Till
           he
           no
           longer
           can
           abide
           ,
        
         
           And
           so
           removes
           from
           th'
           fier
           side
           .
        
         
           Now
           all
           this
           while
           none
           calls
           to
           drink
           ,
        
         
           Which
           makes
           the
           
             Coffee
             boy
          
           to
           think
        
         
           Much
           they
           his
           pots
           should
           so
           enclose
           ,
        
         
           He
           cannot
           pass
           but
           tread
           on
           toes
           .
        
         
           With
           that
           as
           he
           the
           Nectar
           fills
        
         
           From
           pot
           to
           pot
           ,
           some
           on
           't
           he
           spills
        
         
           Upon
           the
           Songster
           ,
           Oh
           cries
           he
           ,
        
         
           Pox
           ,
           what
           dost
           do
           ?
           thou
           '
           st
           burnt
           my
           knee
           ▪
        
         
           No
           says
           the
           boy
           ,
           (
           to
           make
           a
           bald
        
         
           And
           blind
           excuse
           ,
           )
           
             Sir
             't
             will
             not
             scald
          
           .
        
         
           With
           that
           the
           man
           lends
           him
           a
           cuff
        
         
           O'
           th'
           ear
           ,
           and
           whips
           away
           in
           snuff
           .
        
         
           The
           other
           two
           ,
           their
           pipes
           being
           out
           ,
        
         
           Says
           
             Monsieur
             Mopus
          
           I
           much
           doubt
        
         
           My
           friend
           I
           wait
           for
           will
           not
           come
           ,
        
         
           But
           if
           he
           do
           ,
           say
           I
           'm
           gone
           home
           .
        
         
           Then
           says
           the
           
             Aguish
             man
          
           I
           must
           come
        
         
           According
           to
           my
           wonted
           custome
           ,
        
         
           To
           give
           ye
           '
           a
           visit
           ,
           although
           now
        
         
           I
           dare
           not
           drink
           ,
           and
           so
           adieu
           .
        
         
           The
           boy
           replies
           ,
           O
           Sir
           ,
           however
        
         
           You
           '
           r
           very
           welcome
           ,
           we
           do
           never
        
         
         
           Our
           
             Candles
             ,
             Pipes
          
           or
           Fier
           grutch
        
         
           To
           daily
           customers
           and
           such
           ,
        
         
           They
           '
           r
           Company
           (
           without
           expence
           ,
           )
        
         
           For
           that
           's
           sufficient
           recompence
           .
        
         
           Here
           at
           a
           table
           all
           alone
           ,
        
         
           Sits
           (
           studying
           )
           
             a
             spruce
             youngster
             one
          
           ,
        
         
           VVho
           doth
           conceipt
           himself
           full
           witty
           ,
        
         
           And
           's
           '
           counted
           
             one
             o'
             th'
             wits
             o'
             th'
             City
             ,
          
           )
        
         
           Till
           by
           him
           (
           with
           a
           stately
           grace
           ,
           )
        
         
           A
           Spanish
           Don
           himself
           doth
           place
           .
        
         
           Then
           (
           cap
           in
           hand
           )
           a
           brisk
           Monsieur
        
         
           He
           takes
           his
           seat
           ,
           and
           crowds
           as
           near
        
         
           As
           possibly
           that
           he
           can
           come
           .
        
         
           Then
           next
           a
           Dutchman
           takes
           his
           room
           .
        
         
           The
           Wits
           glib
           tongue
           begins
           to
           chatter
           ,
        
         
           Though
           't
           utters
           more
           of
           noise
           than
           matter
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           '
           cause
           they
           seem
           to
           mind
           his
           words
           ,
        
         
           His
           lungs
           more
           tattle
           still
           affords
           .
        
         
           At
           last
           says
           he
           to
           Don
           ,
           I
           trow
        
         
           You
           understand
           me
           ?
           
             Sennor
             no
          
        
         
           Says
           th'
           other
           .
           Here
           the
           Wit
           doth
           pause
        
         
           A
           little
           while
           ,
           then
           opes
           his
           jaws
           ,
        
         
           And
           says
           to
           Monsieur
           ,
           you
           enjoy
        
         
           Our
           tongue
           I
           hope
           ?
           
             Non
             par
             ma
             foy
          
           ,
        
         
           Replies
           the
           Frenchman
           :
           nor
           you
           ,
           Sir
           ?
        
         
           Says
           he
           to
           th'
           
             Dutchman
             ,
             Neen
             mynheer
          
           :
        
         
           VVith
           that
           he
           's
           gone
           ,
           and
           cries
           ,
           why
           sho'd
        
         
           He
           stay
           where
           wit
           's
           not
           understood
           ?
        
         
           There
           in
           a
           place
           of
           his
           own
           chusing
        
         
           (
           Alone
           )
           some
           lover
           sits
           a
           musing
           ,
        
         
           VVith
           arms
           across
           ,
           and
           's
           eyes
           up
           lift
           ,
        
         
           As
           if
           he
           were
           of
           sence
           bereft
           ,
        
         
           Till
           sometimes
           to
           himself
           he
           's
           speaking
           ,
        
         
           Then
           sighs
           as
           if
           his
           heart
           were
           breaking
           .
        
         
         
           Here
           in
           a
           corner
           sits
           a
           Phrantick
           ,
        
         
           And
           there
           stands
           by
           a
           frisking
           Antick
           .
        
         
           Of
           all
           sorts
           some
           and
           all
           conditions
           ,
        
         
           Even
           
             Vintners
             ,
             Surgeons
          
           and
           Physicians
           .
        
         
           The
           blind
           ,
           the
           deaf
           ,
           and
           
             aged
             cripple
          
        
         
           Do
           here
           resort
           and
           Coffee
           tipple
           .
        
         
           Now
           here
           (
           perhaps
           )
           you
           may
           expect
        
         
           My
           Muse
           some
           trophies
           should
           erect
        
         
           In
           high
           flown
           verse
           ,
           for
           to
           set
           forth
        
         
           The
           
             noble
             praises
          
           of
           its
           worth
           .
        
         
           Truth
           is
           ,
           
             old
             Poets
          
           beat
           their
           brains
        
         
           To
           find
           out
           high
           and
           lofty
           strains
        
         
           To
           praise
           the
           (
           now
           too
           frequent
           )
           use
        
         
           Of
           the
           bewitching
           
             grapes
             strong
             juice
          
           .
        
         
           Some
           have
           strain'd
           hard
           for
           to
           exalt
        
         
           The
           liquor
           of
           our
           
             English
             Mault
          
           ,
        
         
           Nay
           Don
           has
           almost
           crackt
           his
           nodle
        
         
           Enough
           t'
           applaud
           his
           
             Caaco
             Caudle
          
           .
        
         
           The
           
             Germans
             Mum
             ,
             Teag's
             Usquebagh
          
           ,
        
         
           (
           Made
           him
           so
           well
           defend
           Tredagh
           ,
           )
        
         
           Metheglin
           ,
           which
           the
           Brittains
           tope
           ,
        
         
           Hot
           
             Brandy
             wine
          
           ,
           the
           Hogans
           hope
           .
        
         
           Stout
           Meade
           which
           makes
           the
           Russ
           to
           laugh
           ,
        
         
           Spic'd
           Punch
           (
           in
           bowls
           ,
           )
           the
           Indians
           quaff
           .
        
         
           All
           these
           have
           had
           their
           pens
           to
           raise
        
         
           Them
           Monuments
           of
           lasting
           praise
           ,
        
         
           Onely
           poor
           Coffee
           seems
           to
           me
        
         
           No
           subject
           fit
           for
           Poetry
           .
        
         
           At
           least
           't
           is
           one
           that
           none
           of
           mine
           is
           ,
        
         
           So
           I
           do
           wav
           t
           ,
           and
           here
           write
           —
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
         
      
    
     
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A31685-e120
           
             The
             derivation
             of
             a
             Coffee-house
             .
          
           
             Signs
             how
             to
             find
             it
             out
             .
          
           
             The
             vertues
             of
             Coffee
             .
          
           
             The
             company
             .
          
           
             The
             several
             liquors
             
          
           
             Their
             discourse
             .
          
           
             The
             company
             .
          
           
             Their
             discourse
             .
          
        
      
    
  

