







 
   
     
       
         Sot's paradise, or, The humours of a Derby-ale-house with a satyr upon the ale.
         Ward, Edward, 1667-1731.
      
       
         
           1698
        
      
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             Sot's paradise, or, The humours of a Derby-ale-house with a satyr upon the ale.
             Ward, Edward, 1667-1731.
          
           16 p.
           
             [s.n.],
             London :
             1698.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
             A satyr Derby-ale: p. 14-15.
             In verse.
             Attributed to Edward Ward. cf. BM.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Ale -- Anecdotes
           Drinking of alcoholic beverages -- Anecdotes
           Hotels -- England -- Derbyshire -- Anecdotes
           Bars (Drinking establishments) -- England -- Derbyshire -- Anecdotes
           Taverns (Inns) -- England -- Derbyshire -- Anecdotes
        
      
    
     
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           Sot's
           Paradise
           :
           OR
           ,
           The
           HUMOURS
           of
           a
           Derby-Ale-House
           :
           WITH
           A
           SATYR
           UPON
           THE
           ALE.
           
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           in
           the
           Year
           ,
           1698.
           
        
      
       
         
         
         
           THE
           PRINTER
           TO
           THE
           READER
        
         
           
             REader
             ,
             what
             e'er
             the
             Author
             truly
             meant
          
           
             I
             know
             not
             ,
             but
             he
             told
             me
             his
             intent
          
           
             Was
             not
             to
             Lampoon
             ,
             or
             Reflect
             on
             any
             ;
          
           
             But
             thro'
             Necessity
             he
             writ
             ,
             like
             many
             ,
          
           
             In
             
               Pinch-Gut
               Times
            
             ,
             to
             get
             the
             
               Ready
               Penny.
            
             
          
        
         
           
             Suppose
             
               (
               said
               I
            
             )
             you
             've
             anger'd
             some
             Bravado
             ,
          
           
             I
             hate
             the
             standing
             of
             a
             Bastinado
             ?
          
        
         
           
             
               Poh
               ,
               poh
            
             ,
             said
             he
             ,
             
               such
               Dangers
               never
               heed
            
             ,
          
           
             
               I
               'de
               such
               a
               Cockscomb
               Redicule
               indeed
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Each
               Sentence
               should
               have
            
             Gaul
             and
             Venom
             in
             't
             ,
          
           
             
               Which
               you
               ,
               to
               recompence
               your
               Drubs
               ,
               shall
               Print
               :
            
          
           
           
             
               Mortals
               have
               oft
               ,
               to
               their
               destruction
               ,
               found
               ,
            
          
           
             Poets
             ,
             like
             Gods
             ,
             
               can
               at
               a
               distance
               Wound
            
             .
          
        
         
           
             I
             thank
             you
             Sir
             
               (
               said
               I
            
             )
             such
             Verse
             ,
             I
             doubt
             ,
          
           
             S'But
             a
             poor
             Plaster
             for
             a
             batter'd
             Snout
             .
          
        
         
           
             He
             prest
             the
             Copy
             forward
             ,
             I
             seem'd
             shye
             ,
          
           
             Till
             by
             these
             words
             he
             brought
             me
             to
             comply
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               The
               Characters
               are
               random
               writ
               ,
               God
               knows
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Slightly
               dispatch'd
               ;
               design'd
               ,
               like
            
             Salesmens
             Cloaths
             ,
          
           
             
               For
               no
               one
               in
               particular
               ,
               but
               where
            
          
           
             
               They
               best
               by
               chance
               shall
               fit
               ,
               for
               them
               to
               wear
            
          
        
         
           
             Nay
             then
             ,
             
               said
               I
            
             ,
             if
             any
             Sot
             can
             find
          
           
             His
             Picture
             here
             ,
             and
             not
             as
             his
             design'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             Angry
             be
             ,
             I
             'll
             hire
             the
             Author
             then
             ,
          
           
             To
             whet
             his
             Wits
             ,
             and
             Write
             as
             Keen
             again
             :
          
           
             Since
             I
             can
             justly
             say
             (
             to
             save
             my
             Bacon
             )
          
           
             I
             no
             Offence
             intend
             ,
             I
             pray
             let
             none
             be
             taken
             .
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           Sot's
           Paradise
           :
           OR
           ,
           The
           HUMOURS
           of
           a
           Derby-Ale-House
           .
        
         
           
             WHEN
             anxious
             Thoughts
             my
             troubled
             Brains
             possest
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             wild
             Hag
             rid
             straddling
             o'er
             my
             Breast
             ,
          
           
             Loaded
             with
             Sorrow
             ,
             I
             pursu'd
             my
             rest
             .
          
        
         
           
             My
             Pockets
             far
             too
             empty
             were
             for
             Wine
             ,
          
           
             That
             
               Noble
               Juice
            
             !
             That
             Cordial
             of
             the
             Vine
             !
          
           
             By
             
               Humane
               Race
            
             so
             justly
             held
             Divine
             .
          
        
         
           
             To
             ease
             my
             Cares
             I
             stumbl'd
             into
             R
             —
             's
             ,
          
           
             
               Sots
               Paradise
            
             ,
             so
             Fam'd
             of
             latter
             days
          
           
             For
             Derby-Ale
             ,
             it
             bears
             away
             the
             Bays
             .
          
        
         
           
             Thro'
             Entry
             dark
             I
             th'
             
               Tippling
               Mansion
            
             saught
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             close
             Dimensions
             rais'd
             a
             Jealous
             thought
          
           
             I
             'd
             been
             Trappan'd
             ,
             and
             in
             a
             Mouse-Trap
             caught
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Like
             Weesel
             thro'
             a
             Cranny
             thus
             I
             crept
             ;
          
           
             And
             as
             he
             Screams
             ,
             so
             I
             a
             Murm'ring
             kept
             ;
          
           
             Now
             Paus'd
             and
             Swore
             ,
             then
             Gropt
             and
             forward
             step'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             Through
             stumbling
             craggy
             Ways
             the
             Godly
             steal
          
           
             To
             Heaven
             ,
             whence
             I
             concluded
             ,
             without
             fail
             ,
          
           
             This
             narrow
             Path
             must
             lead
             to
             Heavenly
             Ale.
             
          
        
         
           
             But
             in
             this
             Pot-gun
             Passage
             did
             I
             meet
          
           
             A
             bulky
             Sot
             ,
             who
             forc'd
             me
             to
             Retreat
             ;
          
           
             And
             shot
             me
             ,
             like
             a
             Pellat
             ,
             to
             the
             Street
             .
          
        
         
           
             I
             gain'd
             the
             Barr
             by
             several
             Essays
             ,
          
           
             Where
             mourning
             Widow
             sat
             with
             dolful
             Face
             ;
          
           
             And
             on
             each
             Hand
             a
             Room
             ,
             but
             ne'er
             a
             Place
             .
          
        
         
           
             I
             turn'd
             to
             th'
             Left
             ,
             and
             did
             amongst
             them
             squeese
             ,
          
           
             There
             heard
             some
             Belsh
             ,
             some
             Fart
             ,
             and
             others
             Sneeze
             ;
          
           
             Buzzing
             and
             Humming
             like
             a
             Hive
             of
             Bees
             .
          
        
         
           
             This
             Room
             I
             did
             for
             Ease
             and
             Cleanness
             chuse
             ,
          
           
             The
             Chappel
             call'd
             ,
             from
             having
             Seats
             like
             Pews
             ,
          
           
             Where
             grizled
             Sots
             sit
             nodding
             o'er
             the
             News
             .
          
        
         
           
             With
             painful
             jostling
             I
             a
             Place
             possest
             ,
          
           
             Sat
             down
             ,
             then
             Belch'd
             and
             Farted
             like
             the
             rest
             ,
          
           
             Thump'd
             with
             my
             Fist
             ,
             and
             cry'd
             I
             broke
             a
             Jest.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             In
             comes
             a
             Female
             Tapstriss
             ,
             Pale
             and
             Wan
             ,
          
           
             Sod'n
             with
             the
             fumes
             of
             what
             she's
             Drank
             and
             Drawn
             ,
          
           
             Looks
             worse
             than
             the
             green
             Girl
             who
             wants
             a
             Man.
             
          
        
         
           
             Sir
             do
             you
             pleafe
             ,
             I
             pray
             ,
             to
             have
             your
             Ale
          
           
             Drawn
             New
             ,
             or
             with
             a
             little
             dash
             of
             Stale
             :
          
           
             I
             gave
             her
             answer
             ,
             and
             she
             soon
             turn'd
             Tail.
             
          
        
         
           
             One
             sage
             old
             Bard
             next
             Chimney
             Nook
             was
             got
             ,
          
           
             Fix'd
             as
             a
             Statue
             ,
             motionless
             he
             sat
             ,
          
           
             His
             Eyes
             regarding
             neither
             Who
             nor
             What.
             
          
        
         
           
             This
             speechless
             Image
             most
             I
             did
             admire
             ,
          
           
             No
             Derby
             could
             this
             Mortal
             Lump
             Inspire
             ,
          
           
             Who
             like
             Old
             Puss
             ,
             sat
             Purring
             o'er
             the
             Fire
             .
          
        
         
           
             One
             whim
             he
             had
             was
             often
             put
             in
             play
             ,
          
           
             By
             Name
             salute
             this
             Monumental
             Clay
             ,
          
           
             He
             Huffs
             and
             Puffs
             ,
             starts
             up
             and
             runs
             away
             .
          
        
         
           
             Then
             in
             thrusts
             one
             ,
             strives
             hard
             to
             get
             a
             Place
             ;
          
           
             Witty
             in
             Words
             ,
             and
             Satyr
             in
             his
             Face
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             boldly
             speaks
             in
             Dearby-Ales
             disgrace
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Pox
               on
               't
            
             ,
             said
             he
             ,
             
               I
               Yesterday
               stept
               in
            
             ,
          
           
             
               And
               drank
               Nine
               Tankards
               to
               divert
               my
               Spleen
               ,
            
          
           
             
               It
               fail'd
               ,
               and
               now
               I
               'm
               come
               to
               drink
               Ninteen
               .
            
          
        
         
           
           
             At
             Squire
             's
             
               I
               heard
               a
            
             Beaux
             
               so
               Dant
               and
               Sink
               it
            
             ,
          
           
             
               Four
               Tankards
               numb'd
               his
               Wits
               ,
               you
               won'd
               not
               think
               it
            
             ;
          
           
             
               He
               swore
               we
               all
               are
               Clod-skul'd
               Sots
               who
               drink
               it
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             This
             much
             disgruntl'd
             all
             the
             swilling
             Herd
             ,
          
           
             Who
             grin'd
             ,
             and
             at
             him
             enviously
             star'd
             ,
          
           
             In
             answer
             not
             a
             Mortal
             wag'd
             his
             Beard
             .
          
        
         
           
             One
             Gapes
             ,
             a
             second
             Nods
             ,
             a
             third
             he
             Winks
             ,
          
           
             A
             fourth
             he
             Smoaks
             ,
             a
             fifth
             blows
             Pipe
             and
             Drinks
             ,
          
           
             Not
             One
             in
             Ten
             that
             either
             Talks
             or
             Thinks
             .
          
        
         
           
             Thus
             seldom
             Speak
             ,
             unless
             't
             is
             to
             complain
          
           
             Of
             Ptisick
             ,
             Stone
             ,
             the
             Gout
             ,
             or
             fome
             old
             Pain
          
           
             That
             grieves
             them
             sorely
             ,
             when
             the
             Moon
             's
             i'
             th'
             Wain
             .
          
        
         
           
             Here
             worn-out
             Sinners
             at
             their
             Ailes
             repine
             ,
             .
          
           
             (
             The
             Herd
             thus
             sympathetically
             join
             )
          
           
             All
             Grunting
             o'er
             their
             Hogwash-Ale
             like
             Swine
             .
          
        
         
           
             Up
             rises
             now
             and
             then
             ,
             a
             brawny
             Sot
             ,
          
           
             Before
             the
             Fire
             he
             turns
             his
             Ars
             about
             ,
          
           
             Hauks
             up
             his
             Flegm
             ,
             then
             Spitting
             staggers
             out
             .
          
        
         
           
             With
             me
             this
             smoky
             Clime
             did
             not
             agree
             ,
          
           
             These
             Sots
             too
             Grave
             were
             ,
             that
             's
             too
             Dull
             ,
             for
             me
             ;
          
           
             No
             Talk
             is
             worse
             than
             much
             Loquacity
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Willing
             to
             take
             a
             General
             Survey
             ,
          
           
             T'
             observe
             the
             Difference
             in
             
               Mortal
               Clay
            
             ,
          
           
             I
             stole
             from
             thence
             ,
             to
             the
             next
             Room
             made
             way
             .
          
        
         
           
             This
             call'd
             the
             Bear-Garden
             ,
             where
             at
             a
             Table
          
           
             I
             heard
             ,
             amongst
             a
             wild
             Promiscuous
             Rabble
             ,
          
           
             More
             
               Tongues
               confus'd
            
             then
             ere
             were
             known
             at
             Babel
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             Beaux
             repeating
             to
             his
             friend
             a
             Novel
             ,
          
           
             Two
             Lawyers
             in
             Dispute
             began
             to
             Cavel
             ,
          
           
             A
             fifth
             ,
             with
             Chalk
             ,
             was
             scoring
             out
             an
             Oval
             .
          
        
         
           
             And
             ,
             being
             as
             cunning
             as
             a
             
               Hocus
               Pocus
            
             ,
          
           
             Had
             laid
             a
             Wager
             with
             a
             John
             a
             Nokus
             ,
          
           
             He
             'd
             with
             a
             Thred
             and
             Pins
             find
             out
             the
             Focus
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             Scholar
             ,
             next
             ,
             of
             Batchelor's
             Degree
             ,
          
           
             Standing
             four
             Years
             at
             Universitie
             ,
          
           
             Rose
             up
             and
             flung
             a
             Witticism
             at
             me
             .
          
        
         
           
             I
             lik'd
             the
             Sport
             ,
             and
             did
             retort
             the
             same
             .
          
           
             I
             hit
             him
             Home
             according
             to
             my
             Aim
             ;
          
           
             But
             could
             not
             get
             his
             
               Hair
               Brain'd
               fury
            
             tame
          
        
         
           
             So
             Learn'd
             he
             seem'd
             ,
             so
             Witty
             in
             Discourse
             ,
          
           
             He
             'd
             hold
             me
             all
             the
             Money
             in
             his
             Purse
             ,
          
           
             Tho'I
             seem'd
             Man
             he
             'd
             prove
             me
             but
             a
             Horse
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             I
             gravely
             said
             it
             did
             his
             Skill
             surpass
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             in
             return
             ,
             I
             instanc'd
             him
             a
             Case
          
           
             Wherein
             a
             Scholar
             prov'd
             himself
             an
             Ass.
             
          
        
         
           
             He
             smelt
             a
             Rat
             and
             found
             he
             was
             mistaken
             ,
          
           
             Shut
             up
             his
             Brains
             ,
             true
             knowledge
             had
             forsaken
             ,
          
           
             And
             dwindl'd
             into
             News
             to
             save
             his
             Bacon
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             
               little
               Captain
            
             ,
             tho'
             of
             
               great
               Renown
            
             ,
          
           
             Cock'd
             up
             his
             Hat
             swore
             Zoons
             and
             then
             sate
             down
             ,
          
           
             Out-chatter'd
             all
             the
             Magpies
             in
             the
             Town
             .
          
        
         
           
             He
             talk'd
             of
             
               Heros
               ,
               Hectors
            
             ,
             and
             Bravadoes
             ,
          
           
             Of
             
               Gashes
               ,
               Slashes
               ,
               Cuts
            
             ,
             and
             Carbanadoes
             ,
          
           
             Of
             
               Cannons
               ,
               Mortars
               ,
               Bombs
            
             and
             
               Hand
               Granadoes
            
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             
               Valiant
               Pigmy
            
             ,
             eagar
             to
             declare
          
           
             His
             Broils
             in
             Taverns
             ,
             not
             Exploits
             in
             War
             ,
          
           
             Teas'd
             me
             with
             Nonsence
             more
             than
             I
             could
             bear
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Dilect
             he
             retain'd
             he
             learn'd
             at
             Nurse
             ,
          
           
             And
             that
             his
             Words
             might
             be
             of
             greater
             force
             ;
          
           
             He
             tagg'd
             Each
             Sentence
             with
             an
             Oath
             or
             Curse
             .
          
        
         
           
             A
             
               Dapper
               Blade
            
             was
             Squeez'd
             among
             the
             rest
             ,
          
           
             Who
             would
             have
             made
             each
             Word
             he
             spoke
             a
             Jest
          
           
             Aim'd
             at
             
               much
               Witt
            
             but
             little
             he
             possest
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Like
             
               Ill
               Rung
               Bells
            
             he
             did
             Confus'dly
             Nock
          
           
             His
             
               Ill
               Tun'd
               Words
            
             to
             hammer
             out
             a
             Joak
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Tongue
             out
             run
             the
             Larum
             of
             a
             Clock
             .
          
        
         
           
             This
             Mortal
             prov'd
             a
             
               Midnight
               Magistrate
            
             ,
          
           
             Who
             ask's
             us
             ,
             
               Why
               so
               dunk
               ,
               and
               why
               so
               late
               ?
            
          
           
             Little
             in
             Person
             ,
             tho'
             in
             Office
             Great
             .
          
        
         
           
             He
             Huckles
             much
             ,
             tho'
             what
             by
             that
             he
             means
             ,
          
           
             Let
             
               Oldish
               ,
               Shirley
            
             ,
             or
             such
             Learned
             Brains
          
           
             T'
             inform
             the
             World
             ,
             imploy
             their
             Skilful
             Pens
             .
          
        
         
           
             Next
             sat
             a
             Drone
             ,
             whose
             Wits
             had
             but
             a
             Dull-Edge
             ,
          
           
             His
             Gravity
             ,
             and
             nice
             Grammatick
             Knowledge
             ,
          
           
             Spoke
             him
             some
             Senior
             Cockscomb
             of
             a
             Colledge
             .
          
        
         
           
             He
             Learned
             Reasons
             offer'd
             unto
             some
             ,
          
           
             Why
             Gerounds
             end
             in
             di
             ,
             in
             do
             ,
             or
             dum
             ,
          
           
             Then
             grave
             attention
             gave
             ,
             and
             sat
             
               hum
               Drum.
            
             
          
        
         
           
             Next
             him
             a
             Spark
             bedawb'd
             with
             Golden
             Twine
             ,
          
           
             So
             very
             Grave
             ,
             and
             eke
             so
             very
             Fine
             ,
          
           
             I
             took
             him
             for
             some
             Statesman
             on
             Design
             .
          
        
         
           
             Some
             humble
             Lord
             ,
             so
             generously
             free
             ,
          
           
             Seeking
             Applause
             and
             Popularity
             ,
          
           
             Came
             here
             to
             Court
             the
             good
             Mobility
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             I
             turn'd
             about
             ,
             and
             view'd
             him
             for
             a
             space
             ,
          
           
             No
             Sword
             he
             'd
             on
             ,
             and
             in
             his
             Meen
             no
             Grace
             ,
          
           
             Dulness
             instead
             of
             Grandure
             in
             his
             Face
             .
          
        
         
           
             My
             Judgment
             er'd
             ,
             I
             quickly
             found
             its
             faillure
             ,
          
           
             No
             Honour
             in
             his
             Speech
             ,
             in
             's
             Looks
             no
             Valour
             ,
          
           
             A
             Lord
             ,
             thought
             I
             ,
             wounds
             this
             must
             be
             a
             Taylor
             .
          
        
         
           
             When
             e'er
             he
             spoke
             it
             matter
             was
             of
             fact
             ,
          
           
             So
             Emphattical
             his
             Words
             and
             so
             compact
             ,
          
           
             No
             
               Strowling
               Player
            
             could
             be
             more
             exact
             .
          
        
         
           
             Against
             him
             Teague
             ,
             an
             Irish
             Barber
             sat
             ,
          
           
             Who
             has
             a
             Thousand
             Whimsies
             in
             his
             Pate
             ,
          
           
             Makes
             Wigs
             ,
             tunes
             Bagpipes
             ,
             does
             the
             Lord
             knows
             what
             .
          
        
         
           
             By
             chance
             ,
             said
             I
             ,
             
               What
               is
               't
               a
               Clock
               I
               Pray
               ?
            
          
           
             After
             some
             time
             he
             'd
             studdy'd
             what
             to
             say
             ,
          
           
             He
             Answer'd
             ,
             
               By
               me
               Shoul
               't's
               Shaterday
            
             .
          
        
         
           
             Each
             loving
             each
             ,
             as
             truly
             as
             a
             Brother
             ,
          
           
             In
             all
             things
             act
             alike
             ,
             
               Speak
               ,
               Drink
            
             and
             Smother
             ,
          
           
             Delight
             ,
             as
             Monkeys
             ,
             to
             Buffon
             each
             other
             .
          
        
         
           
             Like
             the
             Twin-stars
             ,
             these
             two
             United
             are
             .
          
           
             It
             's
             no
             great
             matter
             whether
             both
             appear
             ,
          
           
             If
             you
             see
             one
             ,
             in
             him
             the
             other's
             there
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             The
             Ale
             at
             last
             to
             these
             weak
             Noddles
             stole
             ,
          
           
             Supply'd
             the
             want
             of
             Brains
             in
             every
             Skull
             ,
          
           
             And
             made
             them
             Merry
             ,
             tho'
             it
             made
             me
             Dull
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Taylor
             begg'd
             of
             his
             Reverse
             a
             Tune
             ,
          
           
             Teague
             for
             his
             Bagpipes
             sent
             ,
             and
             fix'd
             his
             Drone
             ,
          
           
             Then
             Play'd
             
             Dundee's
             Farwel
             ,
             and
             Sung
             
               O
               hone
            
             .
          
        
         
           
             This
             pleas'd
             the
             Mob
             ,
             and
             made
             them
             hoop
             and
             hollow
             ,
          
           
             As
             when
             the
             Brindled
             Dog
             against
             the
             Fallow
          
           
             Pins
             down
             the
             Bull
             ,
             and
             makes
             him
             Roar
             and
             Bellow
             .
          
        
         
           
             I
             Teas'd
             and
             Tir'd
             with
             this
             Bear-Garden
             Play
             ,
          
           
             In
             doleful
             dumps
             did
             for
             Ten
             Tankards
             Pay
             ,
          
           
             And
             Sick
             ,
             not
             Drunk
             ,
             I
             homwards
             steer'd
             my
             way
             .
          
        
      
       
         
         
           A
           SATYR
           UPON
           Derby-Ale
           .
        
         
           
             BASE
             and
             Ignoble
             Flegm
             ,
             dull
             DERBY
             -
             ALE
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             canst
             o'er
             none
             but
             Brainless
             Sots
             prevail
             ;
          
           
             Chokes
             them
             if
             New
             ,
             and
             Soure
             art
             if
             Stale
             .
          
        
         
           
             Thou
             drownst
             no
             Care
             ,
             or
             do'st
             thou
             Elevate
             ;
          
           
             In
             stead
             of
             quenching
             Drouth
             ,
             do'st
             Drouth
             create
             ,
          
           
             Makes
             us
             dull
             Sots
             at
             an
             expensive
             rate
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Old
               English
               Ale
            
             ,
             which
             Upstart
             Fops
             disdain
             ,
          
           
             Brew'd
             by
             our
             Grandsiers
             ,
             Chear'd
             the
             Heart
             of
             Man
             ,
          
           
             Quench'd
             Drouth
             with
             pleasure
             ,
             and
             prolong'd
             their
             Span.
             
          
        
         
           
             But
             thou
             !
             
               Poor
               Slime
            
             ,
             thou
             art
             not
             Ale
             ,
             for
             why
             ?
          
           
             Thou
             neither
             Cheares
             the
             Heart
             ,
             or
             Brisks
             the
             Eye
             ;
          
           
             The
             more
             we
             Drink
             the
             more
             we
             still
             are
             Dry.
             
          
        
         
           
           
             Rare
             Fat'ning
             Swill
             ,
             to
             Belly
             up
             Lean
             Guest
             ,
          
           
             It
             feeds
             a
             Man
             in
             six
             Months
             to
             a
             Beast
             ,
          
           
             And
             gives
             him
             bulk
             ,
             for
             a
             Church-Ward'n
             at
             least
             .
          
        
         
           
             Puff'd
             up
             with
             thee
             ,
             Dispirited
             ,
             Debas'd
             ,
          
           
             We
             into
             
             Gray's-Inn
             reel
             (
             O
             Pump
             be
             prais'd
             )
          
           
             There
             Quench
             that
             Drouth
             thy
             Treacly
             Dregs
             have
             rais'd
             .
          
        
         
           
             One
             hearty
             Draught
             prepares
             for
             Pipe
             of
             Funk
             ,
          
           
             Three
             Tankards
             whets
             my
             Appetite
             for
             Punk
             ,
          
           
             Four
             makes
             me
             Sick
             ,
             but
             Ten
             wont
             make
             make
             me
             Drunk
             .
          
        
         
           
             O'er
             Nipperkins
             of
             thee
             six
             Hours
             I
             sit
             ,
          
           
             Till
             spent
             my
             Total
             ,
             and
             benum'd
             my
             Wit
             ,
          
           
             Thus
             nothing
             have
             ,
             and
             just
             for
             nothing
             fit
             .
          
        
         
           
             Our
             Wits
             ,
             or
             Thoughts
             ,
             thou
             never
             canst
             advance
          
           
             Above
             th'
             Affairs
             of
             Poland
             ,
             or
             of
             France
             ,
          
           
             Wounds
             ,
             thou'
             rt
             a
             Booby
             to
             a
             Cup
             of
             Nantes
             .
          
        
         
           
             Thou'
             rt
             fit
             for
             those
             who
             are
             from
             Troubles
             free
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             Cur'st
             no
             Spleen
             ,
             thou
             art
             unfit
             for
             me
             ,
          
           
             I'd's
             live
             ,
             almost
             ,
             drink
             
             Adam's
             Ale
             as
             thee
             .
          
        
         
           
             Thou
             mak'st
             us
             Fat
             in
             little
             time
             't
             is
             true
             ,
          
           
             The
             same
             will
             Swins-Flesh
             and
             Potatoes
             do
             ;
          
           
             They
             covet
             Flesh
             ,
             not
             Brains
             ,
             that
             follow
             you
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             Thou
             Noble
             Ale
             !
             Mere
             Caudle
             ,
             and
             unfit
          
           
             For
             Men
             of
             Care
             to
             drink
             ,
             or
             Men
             of
             Wit
             ,
          
           
             Poor
             
               English
               Coffee
            
             for
             a
             plodding
             Cit.
             
          
        
         
           
             Guzzle
             for
             Carmen
             ,
             Foggy
             and
             Unfine
             ,
          
           
             For
             nothing
             fit
             but
             to
             Exhaust
             our
             Coin
             ;
          
           
             Water
             to
             Brandy
             ,
             and
             Small-Beer
             to
             Wine
             .
          
        
         
           
             Forgive
             my
             drowsy
             Muse
             where
             e'er
             she
             nods
             ,
          
           
             She
             's
             not
             Inspir'd
             or
             Tutor'd
             by
             the
             Gods
             ,
          
           
             She
             Rimes
             o'er
             Ale
             ,
             others
             o'er
             Wine
             ,
             that
             's
             odds
             .
          
        
         
           
             What
             if
             you
             say
             she
             's
             Dull
             ,
             it
             's
             no
             great
             matter
             ,
          
           
             Gross
             Muddy
             Ale
             's
             a
             heavy
             Theam
             for
             Satyr
             ,
          
           
             
               Tom
               Brown
            
             be
             judge
             ,
             or
             honest
             
               Ben
               Bridgwater
            
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
         
      
    
     
  

