







 
   
     
       
         A Preparative to studie, or, The vertue of sack
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A43604 of text R22858 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing H1790). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
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         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         A43604
         Wing H1790
         ESTC R22858
         12744695
         ocm 12744695
         93216
         
           
            This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of
             Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal
            . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
          
        
      
       
         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A43604)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 93216)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 253:E158, no 7)
      
       
         
           
             A Preparative to studie, or, The vertue of sack
             Beaumont, Francis, 1584-1616.
             Brathwaite, Richard, 1588?-1673.
             Edwards, Henry, 17th cent.
             Heywood, Thomas, d. 1641.
             Taylor, John, 1580-1653.
          
           [2], 5 p.
           
             [s.n.],
             London :
             1641.
          
           
             Variously ascribed to Thomas Heywood, Henry Edwards, Francis Beaumont, Richard Brathwaite, and John Taylor.
             In verse.
             Reproduction of original in Thomason Collection, British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Drinking of alcoholic beverages -- England -- Early works to 1800.
           London (England) -- Social life and customs -- 17th century.
        
      
    
       A43604  R22858  (Wing H1790).  civilwar no A preparative to studie: or, The vertue of sack· [no entry] 1641    911 1 0 0 0 0 0 11 C  The  rate of 11 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the C category of texts with between 10 and 35 defects per 10,000 words. 
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           A
           PREPARATIVE
           to
           Studie
           :
           OR
           ,
           THE
           VERTUE
           OF
           SACK
           .
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           
             Anno
             Dom.
          
           1641.
           
        
      
    
     
       
       
       
         
           A
           PREPARATIVE
           to
           Study
           :
           OR
           ,
           THE
           VERTVE
           OF
           Sacke
           .
        
         
           FEtch
           me
           
             Ben.
             
             Iohnsons
          
           Scull
           ,
           and
           fill
           't
           with
           Sacke
           ,
        
         
           Rich
           as
           the
           same
           he
           dranke
           ,
           when
           the
           whole
           packe
        
         
           Of
           jolly
           Sisters
           pledg'd
           ,
           and
           did
           agree
           ,
        
         
           It
           was
           no
           sinne
           to
           be
           as
           drunke
           as
           hee
           ;
        
         
           If
           there
           be
           any
           weakenesse
           in
           the
           wine
           ,
        
         
           Ther
           's
           vertue
           in
           the
           Cup
           to
           mak
           't
           divine
           ;
        
         
           This
           muddy
           drench
           of
           Ale
           does
           tast
           too
           much
        
         
           Of
           Earth
           ,
           the
           Malt
           retaines
           a
           scurvy
           touch
        
         
           Of
           the
           dull
           Hynde
           that
           sow'd
           it
           ,
           and
           I
           feare
        
         
           There
           's
           heresie
           in
           hops
           ;
           give
           
             Calvyn
          
           Beere
           ,
        
         
         
           And
           his
           precise
           Disciple
           ,
           such
           as
           thinke
        
         
           There
           's
           Powder
           Treason
           in
           all
           
             Spanish
          
           drinke
           ,
        
         
           Call
           Sack
           an
           Idoll
           ,
           we
           will
           kisse
           the
           cup
           ,
        
         
           For
           feare
           their
           Conventicle
           be
           blowne
           up
        
         
           With
           superstition
           ;
           aw●y
           with
           Brew-house
           Almes
           ,
        
         
           Whose
           best
           mirth
           is
           six-shilling
           Beere
           and
           Psalmes
           .
        
         
           Let
           me
           rejoyce
           in
           sprightly
           Sack
           that
           can
        
         
           Create
           a
           Braine
           even
           in
           an
           empty
           Pan
           ,
        
         
           
             Canary
          
           !
           it
           is
           thou
           that
           dost
           inspire
        
         
           And
           actuate
           the
           soule
           with
           heavenly
           fire
           .
        
         
           Thou
           that
           sublim'st
           the
           Genius-making
           wit
        
         
           Scorne
           earth
           ,
           and
           such
           as
           love
           or
           live
           by
           it
           ,
        
         
           Thou
           mak'st
           us
           Lords
           of
           Regions
           large
           and
           faire
           ,
        
         
           Whilst
           our
           conceipts
           build
           Castles
           in
           the
           Ayre
           .
        
         
           Since
           fire
           ,
           earth
           ,
           ayre
           ,
           thus
           thy
           inferiors
           bee
           ,
        
         
           Henceforth
           I
           le
           know
           no
           Element
           but
           thee
           ;
        
         
           Thou
           precious
           
             Elixar
          
           of
           all
           Grapes
        
         
           Welcome
           ,
           by
           thee
           our
           Muse
           begins
           her
           scapes
           ;
        
         
           I
           would
           not
           leave
           thee
           Sack
           to
           be
           with
           
             Iove
             ,
          
        
         
           His
           
             Nectar
          
           is
           but
           faign'd
           ,
           but
           I
           doe
           prove
        
         
           Thy
           more
           essentiall
           worth
           :
           I
           am
           (
           me
           thinkes
           )
        
         
           In
           the
           
             Exchequer
          
           now
           ,
           harke
           how
           it
           chinks
           ,
        
         
           And
           doe
           esteeme
           my
           venerable
           selfe
        
         
           As
           brave
           a
           fellow
           as
           if
           all
           that
           Pelfe
        
         
         
           Were
           sure
           mine
           owne
           ,
           and
           I
           have
           thought
           a
           way
        
         
           Already
           how
           to
           spend
           it
           ,
           I
           would
           pay
        
         
           No
           debts
           ,
           but
           fairely
           empty
           every
           Trunke
        
         
           And
           change
           the
           Gold
           for
           Sack
           to
           keepe
           me
           drunke
           ,
        
         
           And
           so
           by
           consequence
           till
           rich
           
             Spaines
          
           wyne
        
         
           Being
           in
           my
           Crowne
           ,
           the
           
             Indies
          
           too
           were
           mine
           ,
        
         
           And
           when
           my
           Braines
           are
           once
           aflote
           (
           Heav'n
           blesse
           us
           )
        
         
           I
           thinke
           my selfe
           a
           better
           man
           then
           
             Croesus
             ,
          
        
         
           And
           now
           I
           doe
           conceipt
           my selfe
           a
           Judge
           ,
        
         
           And
           coughing
           ,
           laugh
           ,
           to
           see
           my
           Clyents
           trudge
        
         
           After
           my
           Lordships
           Coach
           unto
           the
           Hall
        
         
           For
           Justice
           ,
           and
           am
           full
           of
           Law
           withall
           ,
        
         
           And
           doe
           become
           the
           Bench
           as
           well
           as
           hee
        
         
           That
           fled
           of
           late
           for
           want
           of
           honestie
           ,
        
         
           But
           I
           le
           be
           Judge
           no
           longer
           ,
           though
           in
           jeast
           ,
        
         
           For
           feare
           I
           should
           be
           talk't
           with
           like
           the
           rest
           ,
        
         
           When
           I
           am
           sober
           :
           who
           can
           chuse
           but
           thinke
        
         
           Me
           wise
           ,
           that
           am
           so
           wary
           in
           my
           drinke
           ?
        
         
           Oh
           ,
           admirable
           Sack
           !
           heer
           's
           dainty
           sport
           ,
        
         
           I
           am
           come
           backe
           from
           
             Westminster
          
           to
           Court
           ,
        
         
           And
           am
           growne
           young
           againe
           ,
           my
           Phtisick
           now
        
         
           Hath
           left
           me
           ,
           and
           my
           Judges
           graver
           brow
        
         
           Is
           smooth'd
           ,
           and
           I
           turn'd
           amorous
           as
           
             May
             ,
          
        
         
           When
           she
           invites
           young
           Lovers
           forth
           to
           play
        
         
         
           Upon
           her
           flowry
           bosome
           :
           I
           could
           winne
        
         
           A
           Vestall
           now
           ,
           or
           tempt
           a
           Saint
           to
           sinne
           .
        
         
           Oh
           ,
           for
           a
           score
           of
           Queenes
           !
           you
           'd
           laugh
           to
           see
        
         
           How
           they
           would
           strive
           ,
           which
           first
           should
           ravish
           mee
           .
        
         
           Three
           Goddesses
           were
           nothing
           :
           Sack
           has
           tipt
        
         
           My
           tongue
           with
           Charmes
           like
           those
           which
           
             Paris
          
           sipt
        
         
           From
           
             Venus
          
           when
           she
           taught
           him
           how
           to
           kisse
        
         
           Faire
           
             Helen
             ,
          
           and
           invite
           a
           farther
           blisse
           ,
        
         
           Mine
           is
           
             Canary-Rhetorique
             ,
          
           that
           alone
        
         
           Would
           turne
           
             Diana
          
           to
           a
           burning
           stone
           ,
        
         
           Stone
           with
           amazement
           burning
           with
           Loves
           fire
           ,
        
         
           Hard
           to
           the
           touch
           ,
           but
           short
           in
           her
           desire
           ,
        
         
           Inestimable
           Sack
           !
           thou
           mak'st
           us
           rich
           ,
        
         
           Wise
           ,
           amorous
           ,
           any
           thing
           ;
           I
           have
           an
           itch
        
         
           To
           t'other
           Cup
           ,
           and
           that
           perchance
           will
           make
        
         
           Me
           valiant
           too
           ,
           and
           quarrell
           for
           thy
           sake
           :
        
         
           If
           I
           be
           once
           inflam'd
           against
           thy
           Foes
        
         
           That
           would
           preach
           down
           thy
           worth
           in
           small-beer-prose
           ,
        
         
           I
           shall
           doe
           Miracles
           as
           bad
           or
           worse
           ,
        
         
           As
           he
           that
           gave
           the
           King
           an
           hundred
           horse
           :
        
         
           I
           'me
           in
           the
           North
           already
           ;
           Lasley's
           dead
           ,
        
         
           He
           that
           would
           rise
           ,
           carry
           the
           King
           his
           head
           ,
        
         
           And
           tell
           him
           (
           if
           he
           aske
           ,
           who
           kill'd
           the
           
             Scot
          
           )
        
         
           I
           knock't
           his
           Braines
           out
           with
           a
           pottle
           pot
           .
        
         
         
           Out
           ye
           Rebellious
           Vipers
           ;
           J
           'me
           come
           back
        
         
           From
           thence
           againe
           ,
           because
           there
           's
           no
           good
           Sack
           ,
        
         
           T'other
           odde
           Cup
           ,
           and
           I
           shall
           be
           prepar'd
        
         
           To
           snatch
           at
           Starres
           ,
           and
           pluck
           downe
           a
           reward
        
         
           With
           mine
           owne
           hands
           ,
           from
           
             Iove
          
           upon
           their
           backs
        
         
           That
           are
           ,
           or
           
             Charles
          
           his
           Enemies
           or
           Sacks
           ;
        
         
           Let
           it
           be
           full
           ,
           if
           I
           doe
           chance
           to
           spill
        
         
           Over
           my
           study
           by
           the
           way
           ,
           I
           will
           ,
        
         
           Dipping
           in
           this
           diviner
           Incke
           my
           pen
           ,
        
         
           Write
           my selfe
           sober
           ,
           and
           fall
           too
           t
           agen
           .
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
    
    

