







 
   
     
       
         Fatal friendship, or, The Drunkards misery being a satyr against hard drinking / by the author of The search after Claret.
         Ames, Richard, d. 1693.
      
       
         
           1693
        
      
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         13284888
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         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 444:13)
      
       
         
           
             Fatal friendship, or, The Drunkards misery being a satyr against hard drinking / by the author of The search after Claret.
             Ames, Richard, d. 1693.
          
           [4], 26 p.
           
             Printed for, and sold by Randal Taylor ...,
             London :
             1693.
          
           
             Attributed to Richard Ames. Cf. NUC pre-1956.
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Drinking of alcoholic beverages -- England -- Early works to 1800.
           Alcoholism -- England -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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           Fatal
           Friendship
           ;
           OR
           ,
           THE
           
             Drunkards
             Misery
          
           :
           BEING
           A
           SATYR
           AGAINST
           Hard
           Drinking
           .
        
         
           
             —
             Cum
             Vini
             vis
             penetravit
             ,
          
           
             Consequitur
             gravitas
             Membrorum
             ,
             praepediuntur
          
           
             Crura
             vacillanti
             ,
             tardescit
             Lingua
             ,
             madet
             Mens
             ,
          
           
             Nant
             Oculi
             ,
             Clamor
             ,
             Singultus
             ,
             Jurgia
             glascant
             .
          
           
             Lucret.
             Lib.
             3.
             
          
        
         
           
             By
             the
             AUTHOR
             of
             The
             Search
             after
             Claret
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               
                 
                   Imprimatur
                   ,
                
                 
                   
                     
                       Octob.
                       18th
                       .
                       1692.
                       
                    
                  
                   
                     Edmund
                     Bohun
                     .
                  
                
              
            
          
        
         
           London
           ,
           Printed
           for
           ,
           and
           Sold
           by
           
             Randal
             Taylor
          
           ,
           near
           Stationers-Hall
           ,
           1693.
           
        
      
       
         
         
         
           TO
           ALL
           Gentlemen
           ,
           and
           Others
           ;
           More
           particularly
           ,
           
             To
             the
             Sworn
             Friends
             of
             the
             BOTTLE
             .
          
        
         
           
             Gentlemen
             ,
             &c.
             
          
        
         
           I
           Am
           very
           sensible
           ,
           that
           my
           Company
           will
           be
           as
           acceptable
           to
           you
           ,
           as
           good
           Advice
           to
           a
           
             Young
             Heir
          
           ,
           borrowing
           Money
           upon
           his
           Estate
           before
           he
           comes
           to
           Age
           ;
           or
           a
           Drawer's
           Impertinence
           ,
           who
           (
           unsent
           for
           )
           tells
           you
           ,
           
             'T
             is
             past
             Three
             in
             the
             Morning
          
           ;
           whereas
           you
           scorn
           to
           wait
           upon
           Time
           ;
           No
           ,
           let
           the
           
             Bald-pated
             Gentleman
          
           wait
           upon
           you
           .
           However
           ,
           a
           Satyr
           is
           a
           kind
           of
           a
           rugged
           Fellow
           ,
           and
           stands
           not
           much
           upon
           Preface
           ,
           or
           Ceremony
           ;
           who
           makes
           bold
           to
           present
           you
           with
           some
           of
           your
           Pictures
           ,
           drawn
           as
           near
           the
           Life
           ,
           as
           a
           rough
           Pencil
           could
           make
           them
           ;
           tho'
           ,
           you
           will
           say
           ,
           'T
           was
           〈◊〉
           what
           Sawcy
           ,
           to
           do
           your
           Pictures
           ,
           without
           your
           
             Consert
             〈◊〉
          
           Perhaps
           ,
           't
           was
           a
           little
           Presumptions
           ;
           but
           what
           dares
           〈◊〉
           a
           Satyr
           do
           ?
           'T
           is
           a
           very
           strange
           thing
           ,
           that
           a
           Man
           should
           do
           that
           over-night
           ,
           which
           he
           must
           
             ask
             Pardon
          
           of
           his
           Constitution
           for
           
             next
             Morning
          
           .
           How
           Penitent
           ,
           and
           Crop-sick
           ,
           have
           I
           seen
           a
           Spark
           ,
           after
           a
           Debauch
           ?
           His
           Body
           Feaverish
           ,
           his
           Head
           out
           of
           order
           ;
           then
           Small-Beer
           ,
           and
           Coffee
           ,
           are
           his
           Beloved
           Liquors
           ,
           and
           he
           abhors
           Wine
           for
           some
           time
           ,
           equal
           with
           a
           Mussel-man
           ;
           till
           Nature
           
           throws
           it
           off
           ,
           and
           then
           the
           Bottle
           must
           be
           ply'd
           pretty
           warmly
           ,
           to
           redeem
           the
           time
           lost
           in
           Sobriety
           .
        
         
           But
           ,
           as
           for
           those
           Hard-Drinkers
           ,
           whose
           Bodies
           and
           Consciences
           are
           equally
           Case-hardned
           ,
           whom
           no
           Wine
           can
           ever
           Intoxicate
           ,
           and
           who
           boast
           of
           their
           
             Knocking
             down
          
           (
           as
           't
           is
           call'd
           )
           so
           many
           of
           an
           Evening
           ;
           taking
           a
           Pride
           to
           Murder
           their
           Dearest
           Friends
           ,
           under
           the
           Disguise
           of
           a
           
             Civil
             Entertainment
          
           (
           for
           a
           Stab
           in
           the
           Mouth
           is
           oftentimes
           more
           dangerous
           ,
           than
           a
           Thrust
           through
           the
           
             Body
             :
          
           )
           As
           for
           these
           Men
           ,
           my
           Satyr
           has
           nothing
           to
           say
           to
           them
           ,
           since
           neither
           St.
           Paul
           ,
           nor
           Aristotle
           ,
           can
           ever
           convince
           them
           ,
           that
           
             Drinking
             to
             Excess
          
           is
           a
           Sin
           ,
           or
           ,
           to
           use
           their
           own
           Modish
           Phrase
           ,
           a
           Vice
           :
           No
           ,
           my
           Satyr
           would
           only
           instruct
           the
           
             Young
             Practitioners
          
           in
           Drinking
           ,
           who
           are
           not
           gone
           so
           far
           ,
           as
           to
           dare
           to
           venture
           upon
           the
           Second
           or
           
             Third
             Bottle
          
           ;
           I
           wish
           ,
           they
           may
           stop
           ,
           before
           the
           
             Feaver
             ,
             Gout
          
           ,
           or
           Consumption
           ,
           convinces
           them
           of
           their
           Folly
           ,
           and
           their
           Experience
           be
           not
           bought
           so
           Dear
           ,
           that
           they
           will
           never
           make
           their
           Money
           of
           it
           again
           ;
           for
           ,
           till
           I
           can
           find
           ,
           what
           Good
           either
           to
           
             Soul
             ,
             Body
             ,
             Reputation
          
           or
           
             Estate
             ,
             HARD
             DRINKING
          
           ever
           did
           to
           any
           Man
           ,
           the
           Satyr
           will
           stand
           Good
           in
           Law
           ;
           and
           when
           he
           is
           convinced
           to
           the
           contrary
           ,
           he
           will
           readily
           cry
           ,
           Peccavi
           .
        
      
       
         
           An
           ERRATA
           .
        
         
           PAge
           2.
           line
           ult
           .
           for
           Masters
           ,
           read
           Master
           ,
           p.
           9.
           l.
           9.
           f.
           Just
           ,
           r.
           Curst
           .
           ibid
           ,
           l.
           16.
           f.
           
             so
             well
             ,
             r.
             to
             sell
             ,
          
           p.
           10.
           l.
           8.
           f.
           tells
           ,
           r.
           tell
           ,
           p.
           13.
           l.
           10.
           f.
           Rut
           ,
           r.
           But
           ,
           ibid
           ,
           l.
           14.
           f.
           Paint
           ,
           r.
           Pain
           p.
           14.
           l.
           12.
           f.
           Year
           ,
           r.
           Years
           ,
           p.
           15.
           l.
           7.
           f.
           Jilt
           ,
           r.
           Jill
           .
           p.
           16.
           l.
           2.
           f.
           
             of
             his
          
           ,
           r.
           
             which
             this
          
           ,
           p
           25.
           l.
           17.
           f.
           he
           ,
           r.
           they
           .
           With
           several
           other
           Faults
           ,
           which
           the
           Reader
           is
           desired
           to
           Correct
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           THE
           
             Fatal
             Friendship
          
           ,
           &c.
           
        
         
           
             I.
             
          
           
             ENough
             ,
             Enough
             ;
             urge
             me
             no
             more
             my
             Friend
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             so
             you
             are
             ,
             or
             so
             at
             least
             pretend
             ;
             )
          
           
             I
             've
             drank
             enough
             to
             quench
             my
             thirst
             ;
             nay
             ,
             more
             ,
          
           
             I
             've
             took
             a
             Glass
             ,
             or
             two
             ,
             on
             pleasures
             Score
             ;
          
           
             And
             sure
             ,
             you
             cannot
             think
             it
             fit
             ,
          
           
             I
             drink
             beyond
             my
             
               Quantum
               sufficit
            
             ?
          
           
             Why
             will
             you
             tempt
             me
             thus
             ?
             —
             And
             with
             a
             Glass
             ,
          
           
             Fit
             by
             the
             Race
             of
             Gyants
             ,
             to
             be
             quaft
             :
          
           
             Think
             you
             a
             Pint
             can
             be
             a
             Friendly
             Draught
             ?
          
           
             For
             double
             
               Aqua
               Fortis
            
             has
          
           
             As
             many
             Charms
             as
             in
             that
             Bumper
             are
             ;
          
           
             Therefore
             ,
             my
             dearest
             Friend
             ,
             forbear
             ,
          
           
             And
             show
             the
             
               Fatal
               Glass
            
             no
             more
             ;
          
           
             Which
             not
             to
             Drink
             ,
             I
             to
             my self
             have
             swore
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             II.
             
          
           
             But
             yet
             I
             would
             not
             have
             you
             think
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             Humour
             makes
             me
             thus
             forbear
             to
             drink
             ;
          
           
             Or
             that
             some
             sullen
             Maggot
             of
             the
             Brain
             ,
          
           
             Makes
             me
             large
             Brimmers
             thus
             refrain
             .
          
           
             I
             ever
             lov'd
             my
             Friend
             ,
             and
             Scorn
             to
             be
          
           
             The
             Spoiler
             of
             good
             Company
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             I
             was
             ne're
             so
             Complaisant
             ,
          
           
             To
             pour
             down
             Drink
             to
             that
             Degree
             ,
          
           
             Till
             I
             could
             neither
             speak
             ,
             nor
             stand
             ,
             nor
             go
             ,
          
           
             Because
             my
             Company
             were
             so
             ;
          
           
             I
             hope
             ,
             that
             piece
             of
             Breeding
             I
             shall
             ever
             want
             .
          
           
             Some
             Irksom
             things
             one
             would
             for
             Friendship
             do
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             a
             Man's
             Health
             must
             be
             regarded
             too
             .
          
        
         
           
             III.
             
          
           
             I
             see
             your
             Friends
             are
             all
             uneasie
             grown
             ;
          
           
             And
             you
             your self
             must
             wish
             me
             gone
             ,
          
           
             Since
             now
             I
             can
             no
             longer
             be
             ,
          
           
             What
             by
             mistake
             is
             call'd
             
               Good
               Company
            
             :
          
           
             Pardon
             my
             Rudeness
             ,
             and
             believe
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             with
             Regret
             I
             take
             my
             Leave
             ;
          
           
             For
             I
             am
             very
             proud
             to
             be
          
           
             The
             Masters
             of
             my
             Health
             and
             Liberty
             ;
          
           
           
             Yet
             ,
             I
             confess
             ,
             I
             shall
             one
             Pleasure
             lose
             ,
          
           
             Which
             is
             ,
             the
             benefit
             of
             your
             Discourse
             ;
          
           
             Instead
             of
             which
             ,
             I
             'll
             walk
             the
             Groves
             and
             Fields
             ,
          
           
             And
             crop
             the
             sweets
             ,
             the
             lovely
             Garden
             yields
             ;
          
           
             Since
             various
             Men
             do
             various
             Pleasures
             choose
             ,
          
           
             If
             you
             'll
             not
             envy
             mine
             ,
             I
             ne're
             will
             envy
             yours
             .
          
        
         
           
             IV.
             
          
           
             Thus
             at
             a
             pleasant
             Seat
             of
             Country-Knight
             ,
          
           
             Adorn'd
             with
             every
             thing
             that
             can
             delight
             ,
          
           
             One
             day
             a
             mighty
             Company
             were
             met
             ,
          
           
             I
             ,
             'mongst
             the
             rest
             ,
             to
             share
             a
             noble
             Treat
             .
          
           
             Our
             Dinner
             done
             ,
             appears
             another
             Scene
             ,
          
           
             Bottles
             ,
             like
             Locusts
             ,
             to
             the
             Room
             swarm
             in
             ,
          
           
             Of
             several
             sorts
             of
             Wine
             ;
             nor
             must
             they
             need
             ,
          
           
             That
             Shoeing-horn
             ,
             to
             Drink
             the
             Indian
             Weed
             :
          
           
             Bottles
             and
             Pipes
             the
             Challenge
             give
             ,
          
           
             Which
             every
             one
             does
             there
             receive
             ;
          
           
             Healths
             are
             begun
             ,
             of
             which
             'bout
             Three
             or
             Four
          
           
             I
             drank
             ,
             and
             then
             resolv'd
             to
             drink
             no
             more
             ;
          
           
             But
             took
             my
             leave
             ,
             since
             I
             could
             plainly
             find
             ,
          
           
             Hard-Drinking
             was
             by
             all
             design'd
             ;
          
           
             I
             know
             ,
             that
             
               —
               Squeamish
               Fool
            
             ,
             and
             
               sober
               Sot
            
             ,
          
           
             Were
             Names
             ,
             which
             in
             my
             absence
             were
             my
             Lot
             ;
          
           
           
             But
             that
             no
             trouble
             was
             to
             me
             ,
          
           
             Since
             now
             in
             Air
             my
             Thoughts
             were
             free
             :
          
           
             In
             a
             thick
             Grove
             of
             Beech
             I
             walkt
             alone
             ,
          
           
             And
             thinking
             where
             I
             lately
             was
             ,
          
           
             And
             what
             was
             certain
             to
             be
             done
             ,
          
           
             When
             the
             concluding
             Punch-Bowl
             was
             in
             play
             ;
          
           
             Reflecting
             (
             as
             I
             ,
             'mongst
             the
             Trees
             ,
             did
             pass
             )
          
           
             Upon
             the
             Vice
             of
             Drinking
             ,
             there
             was
             brought
          
           
             A
             Thousand
             Notions
             to
             my
             Lab'ring
             Thought
             ,
          
           
             Which
             ,
             cloath'd
             in
             Words
             ,
             thus
             to
             my self
             did
             say
             .
          
        
         
           
             V.
             
          
           
             How
             in
             the
             name
             of
             Wonder
             hapned
             first
          
           
             That
             Vice
             ,
             above
             all
             other
             Vices
             curst
             ,
          
           
             Call'd
             ,
             Drunkenness
             ,
             such
             vast
             esteem
             to
             find
             ,
          
           
             Amongst
             the
             Race
             of
             Human
             kind
             .
          
           
             The
             Patriarchs
             ,
             who
             liv'd
             before
             the
             Flood
             ,
          
           
             No
             Drink
             ,
             but
             that
             of
             Water
             understood
             ;
          
           
             Till
             Noah
             planted
             an
             unlucky
             Vine
             ,
          
           
             And
             was
             the
             first
             Example
             of
             the
             force
             of
             Wine
             ;
          
           
             But
             too
             too
             soon
             the
             Vice
             familiar
             grew
             ,
          
           
             And
             when
             the
             Cups
             went
             briskly
             round
             ,
          
           
             
               The
               little
               World
            
             ,
             call'd
             Man
             ,
             again
             was
             drown'd
             ,
          
           
             They
             laught
             at
             all
             the
             
               Sober
               Few
            
             ,
          
           
           
             Who
             would
             refuse
             to
             wash
             their
             Souls
             with
             Wine
             ,
          
           
             Or
             not
             with
             them
             in
             Lewd
             Excesses
             joyn
             ;
          
           
             This
             truth
             ,
             Old
             Pious
             Lot
             too
             plainly
             knew
             ,
          
           
             When
             from
             the
             Drunken
             Sodomitish
             Crew
             ,
          
           
             With
             's
             Wife
             and
             Daughters
             he
             withdrew
             ,
          
           
             But
             in
             a
             Cave
             the
             Girls
             contriv'd
             a
             Plot
             ,
          
           
             By
             pushing
             on
             the
             well-fill'd
             Bowl
             ,
          
           
             To
             warm
             their
             Father's
             aged
             Soul
             :
          
           
             And
             when
             the
             now
             no
             longer
             Pious
             Lot
             ,
          
           
             His
             Dose
             had
             plentifully
             got
             ,
          
           
             His
             Wife
             of
             Salt
             ,
             and
             Sodom's
             Flames
             ,
             were
             both
             forgot
             :
          
           
             The
             Heat
             of
             Wine
             ,
             the
             Heat
             of
             Lust
             inspires
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             old
             Man
             now
             burns
             with
             youthful
             Fires
             ;
          
           
             Incest
             he
             thinks
             no
             Crime
             ,
             and
             now
             no
             more
          
           
             Rememb'ring
             what
             his
             Neighbours
             suff'red
             for
             ;
          
           
             Forgetting
             what
             is
             Lawful
             ,
             Good
             and
             Just
             ,
          
           
             Adds
             Sin
             to
             Sin
             ,
             and
             his
             two
             Daughters
             must
          
           
             By
             turns
             inflame
             ,
             by
             turns
             allay
             his
             Lust.
             
          
        
         
           
             VI.
             
          
           
             Parent
             of
             Vices
             ,
             Drinking
             ,
             sure
             thou
             art
             ,
          
           
             Under
             thy
             Wing
             they
             all
             ptotection
             find
             ;
          
           
             For
             he
             that
             is
             to
             Drunkenness
             inclin'd
             ,
          
           
             Will
             in
             no
             Sin
             refuse
             to
             bear
             a
             part
             ,
          
           
           
             Must
             there
             a
             House
             be
             fir'd
             ,
             or
             tender
             Maid
          
           
             Be
             to
             the
             Arms
             of
             Ravishers
             betray'd
             ;
          
           
             A
             Person
             to
             be
             robb'd
             ,
             nay
             ,
             Murdered
             too
             ,
          
           
             All
             this
             a
             Drunkard
             is
             prepared
             to
             do
             ;
          
           
             His
             Reason
             ,
             in
             a
             Sea
             of
             Liquor
             ,
             drown'd
             ,
          
           
             To
             guide
             his
             Thoughts
             ,
             no
             Pilot
             can
             be
             found
             ,
          
           
             But
             to
             and
             fro
             his
             Passions
             Fluctuate
             ,
          
           
             Ready
             for
             Villany
             at
             any
             Rate
             :
          
           
             But
             oft
             a
             sad
             Repentance
             is
             his
             Lot
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             Lewd
             Frolicks
             of
             a
             Drunken
             Sot
             ,
          
           
             End
             with
             a
             Halter
             ,
             and
             a
             Psalm
             ,
          
           
             If
             drunk
             you
             kill
             ,
             you
             must
             be
             hang'd
             when
             Calm
             ;
          
           
             But
             Newgate's
             Annals
             ,
             Tyburn's
             Chronicle
             ,
          
           
             Of
             this
             sad
             Truth
             can
             various
             Stories
             tell
             .
          
        
         
           
             VII
             .
          
           
             Oft
             to
             a
             Tavern
             have
             I
             known
             go
             in
             ,
          
           
             A
             knot
             of
             Friends
             to
             drink
             a
             Glass
             of
             Wine
             ,
          
           
             In
             Love
             and
             Unity
             they
             all
             sit
             down
             ,
          
           
             Now
             doubly
             welcome
             to
             each
             other
             grown
             ;
          
           
             To
             each
             Man's
             Health
             the
             Glass
             goes
             briskly
             round
             ,
          
           
             And
             nought
             but
             Mirth
             and
             Jollity
             is
             found
             ;
          
           
             But
             when
             one
             Bottle
             ushers
             in
             another
             ,
          
           
             And
             this
             Half
             Flask
             brings
             in
             his
             younger
             Brother
             :
          
           
           
             A
             Scene
             quite
             different
             appears
             ,
          
           
             For
             now
             with
             Wine
             inflam'd
             each
             petty
             Jar
             ,
          
           
             Will
             'mongst
             these
             Friends
             create
             a
             Civil
             War
             ;
          
           
             Wine
             spilt
             by
             accident
             ,
             an
             Health
             forgot
             ,
          
           
             Or
             a
             Glass
             fill'd
             too
             full
             upon
             the
             Spot
             ,
          
           
             Can
             set
             'em
             altogether
             by
             the
             Ears
             ;
          
           
             Rascal
             ,
             and
             Rogue
             ,
             are
             words
             they
             use
             by
             turns
             ,
          
           
             And
             each
             with
             Wine
             and
             Fury
             doubly
             burns
             ;
          
           
             Which
             ,
             if
             too
             high
             wound
             up
             ,
             perhaps
             proceeds
             ,
          
           
             To
             throwing
             Bottles
             at
             each
             others
             Heads
             ;
          
           
             Then
             Swords
             from
             Scabbards
             are
             lugg'd
             out
             .
          
           
             And
             now
             begins
             the
             dismal
             Rout.
          
           
             All
             Friendship
             is
             forgot
             ,
             and
             each
             one
             wou'd
          
           
             Be
             glad
             to
             bathe
             his
             Sword
             in
             t'other's
             Blood.
          
           
             Thus
             in
             the
             Fury
             of
             this
             Brutal
             Wrath
             ,
          
           
             Murder
             ensues
             on
             One
             ,
             or
             Both
             ;
          
           
             And
             they
             ,
             who
             were
             such
             Friends
             before
             ,
          
           
             By
             Wines
             most
             powerful
             Operation
             ,
          
           
             Cancel
             the
             Friendship
             which
             they
             bore
             ;
          
           
             And
             he
             who
             does
             in
             such
             a
             Quarrel
             fall
             ,
          
           
             With
             highest
             Justice
             we
             may
             call
             ,
          
           
             A
             Sacrifice
             to
             VVine
             ,
             and
             sudden
             Passion
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             VIII
             .
          
           
             Late
             from
             the
             Tavern
             ,
             Reeling
             drunk
             ,
          
           
             A
             Gentleman
             (
             well
             bred
             ,
             and
             nobly
             born
             ,
          
           
             Who
             sober
             ,
             would
             such
             Actions
             scorn
             )
          
           
             Perhaps
             shall
             seize
             upon
             a
             stroling
             Punk
             ;
          
           
             She
             likes
             her
             Prize
             ,
             for
             well
             those
             Vermin
             know
             ,
          
           
             What
             with
             a
             Drunken
             Man
             to
             do
             :
          
           
             But
             while
             ,
             as
             by
             her
             side
             he
             walks
             ,
          
           
             And
             of
             his
             Love
             in
             broken
             English
             talks
             ,
          
           
             A
             Man
             more
             drunk
             he
             meets
             ,
          
           
             Who
             has
             resolv'd
             to
             scour
             the
             Streets
             ;
          
           
             He
             asks
             no
             leave
             ,
             but
             boldly
             on
             does
             fall
             ,
          
           
             And
             quarrels
             with
             him
             both
             for
             Punk
             and
             Wall
             :
          
           
             This
             he
             a
             great
             affront
             does
             think
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             Men
             are
             Valiant
             in
             their
             Drink
             )
          
           
             Both
             draw
             ,
             and
             aukard
             pushes
             make
             ;
          
           
             And
             though
             they
             both
             may
             know
             the
             Art
             ,
          
           
             They
             thrust
             not
             now
             in
             Teirce
             or
             Cart
             ;
          
           
             But
             blindly
             fighting
             in
             the
             Dark
             ,
          
           
             By
             a
             chance
             Pass
             falls
             one
             ,
             or
             t'other
             Spark
             ,
          
           
           
             Unless
             the
             Watch
             ,
             or
             some
             by-Standers
             may
          
           
             Be
             near
             ,
             to
             part
             the
             sudden
             Fray.
          
           
             Thus
             Quarrels
             too
             too
             oft
             arise
             ,
          
           
             And
             precious
             Life
             is
             laid
             at
             stake
             ,
          
           
             For
             the
             good
             Favours
             of
             a
             taudry
             Crack
             ,
          
           
             And
             doubly
             curst
             is
             he
             that
             wins
             the
             Prize
             .
          
        
         
           
             IX
             .
          
           
             But
             without
             any
             hindrance
             ,
             now
             suppose
             ,
          
           
             He
             with
             his
             Phillis
             to
             some
             Tavern
             goes
             ;
          
           
             For
             Taverns
             now
             ,
             't
             is
             known
             ,
             are
             doubly
             just
             ,
          
           
             First
             ,
             they
             inflame
             ,
             and
             then
             they
             wink
             at
             Lust
             ;
          
           
             Here
             from
             warm
             touches
             ,
             and
             such
             wanton
             Toys
             ,
          
           
             Which
             she
             permits
             as
             fine
             Decoys
             ,
          
           
             To
             draw
             him
             on
             ,
             to
             taste
             her
             further
             Joys
             ,
          
           
             He
             ventures
             ,
             and
             by
             Money
             thrown
             in
             Lap
             ,
          
           
             Gives
             solid
             Earnest
             for
             a
             swinging
             Clap.
          
           
             For
             now
             the
             Jilts
             ,
             so
             well
             their
             Flesh
             are
             known
             ,
          
           
             As
             Butchers
             do
             their
             Meat
             by
             Pound
             or
             Stone
             :
          
           
             But
             though
             the
             Whore
             with
             open
             Hand
             receives
             ,
          
           
             What
             he
             for
             Fatal
             Pleasures
             gives
             ,
          
           
             Not
             satisfied
             ,
             she
             to
             his
             Pocket
             dives
             .
          
           
           
             From
             whence
             ,
             by
             slight
             of
             Hand
             ,
             with
             Fingers
             steady
             ,
          
           
             By
             nimble
             Art
             ,
             she
             picks
             out
             all
             his
             Ready
             ;
          
           
             And
             if
             Tobacco-Box
             ,
             or
             Watch
             be
             nigh
             ,
          
           
             They
             shall
             not
             fail
             to
             keep
             it
             Company
             :
          
           
             Then
             she
             troops
             of
             ,
             and
             leaves
             him
             with
             the
             Curse
          
           
             Of
             a
             burnt
             Tail
             ,
             and
             quite
             exhausted
             Purse
             ;
          
           
             Homeward
             't
             is
             time
             ,
             that
             now
             he
             reels
             ,
          
           
             Insensible
             as
             yet
             ,
             but
             who
             can
             tell
             's
          
           
             The
             Pangs
             his
             serious
             Thoughts
             next
             Morning
             feels
             ,
          
           
             When
             he
             considers
             what
             th'
             effects
             may
             be
          
           
             Of
             his
             last
             Nights
             Vain
             ,
             Sinful
             Jolity
             .
          
        
         
           
             X.
             
          
           
             Blessed
             Effects
             of
             Drinking
             to
             Excess
             ;
          
           
             But
             this
             does
             antient
             Proverb
             cross
             ,
          
           
             That
             Drunken
             Men
             ne're
             come
             to
             harm
             or
             loss
             ;
          
           
             No
             ,
             Heaven
             o're
             them
             has
             a
             peculiar
             care
             ,
          
           
             Not
             minding
             how
             the
             Sober
             fare
             ;
          
           
             From
             Horse
             they
             never
             fall
             ,
             nor
             by
             Mistake
             ,
          
           
             Ride
             into
             Ponds
             ,
             a
             liquid
             Exit
             make
             ;
          
           
           
             All
             Stairs
             to
             them
             ,
             like
             
               Terra
               firma
            
             ,
             seem
             ,
          
           
             From
             whence
             ,
             by
             falling
             ,
             none
             e're
             broke
             a
             Limb
             ;
          
           
             They
             never
             meet
             with
             Quarrel
             ,
             Blow
             ,
             nor
             Wound
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             Dead
             i'
             th'
             Street
             ,
             o'recome
             with
             Liquor
             found
             .
          
           
             No
             ,
             no
             ,
             —
             This
             Truth
             they
             joyntly
             all
             confess
             ,
          
           
             Or
             Day
             ,
             or
             Night
             ,
             when
             they
             from
             Drinking
             come
             ,
          
           
             Tho'
             they
             want
             Legs
             and
             Eyes
             ,
             they
             get
             securely
             home
             .
          
        
         
           
             XI
             .
          
           
             Like
             wretched
             losing
             Gamesters
             thus
             ,
          
           
             Rather
             than
             they
             the
             Game
             will
             loose
             ,
          
           
             Heav'n
             shall
             be
             call'd
             ,
             the
             sinking
             Cause
             t'efpouse
             :
          
           
             But
             can
             we
             be
             so
             impious
             ,
             as
             to
             think
             ,
          
           
             That
             Providence
             o're
             Men
             in
             Drink
             ,
          
           
             With
             greater
             care
             looks
             down
             ,
             than
             on
          
           
             Those
             who
             are
             always
             sober
             known
             .
          
           
             This
             were
             to
             set
             up
             Vice
             ,
             and
             put
             fair
             Vertue
             down
             .
          
           
             "
             But
             you
             will
             tell
             us
             ,
             that
             the
             sober
             may
          
           
             "
             Be
             kill'd
             ,
             or
             wounded
             in
             a
             Fray
             ,
          
           
             "
             May
             break
             their
             Necks
             ,
             be
             Drown'd
             ,
             or
             lye
          
           
             "
             Wrackt
             with
             the
             Gout
             ,
             or
             in
             a
             Feaver
             dye
             ;
          
           
           
             "
             How
             then
             with
             Justice
             can
             you
             e're
             pretend
             ,
          
           
             That
             Heav'n
             is
             theirs
             ,
             more
             than
             the
             Drunkards
             Friend
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             true
             ,
             these
             Mischiefs
             on
             the
             good
             may
             fall
             ,
          
           
             But
             yet
             to
             them
             they
             are
             no
             ills
             at
             all
             ;
          
           
             The
             forest
             of
             them
             Providence
             ne're
             sent
          
           
             In
             Anger
             ,
             as
             a
             Punishment
             :
          
           
             Th'
             Appearance
             ,
             ev'n
             of
             ill
             they
             all
             eschew
             ,
          
           
             Not
             seek
             the
             Causes
             as
             the
             Drunkards
             do
             :
          
           
             No
             wonder
             then
             ,
             so
             oft
             they
             Dangers
             meet
             ,
          
           
             When
             they
             will
             Court
             'em
             in
             the
             Road
             or
             Street
             ;
          
           
             Leaving
             their
             Arguments
             ,
             as
             vain
             and
             false
             ,
          
           
             Since
             now
             another
             way
             my
             Fancy
             calls
             :
          
           
             Of
             Melancholory
             Scenes
             now
             take
             a
             View
             ,
          
           
             And
             tell
             me
             then
             if
             Drink
             can
             Mischief
             do
             .
          
        
         
           
             XII
             .
          
           
             See
             here
             a
             moving
             
               Tun
               of
               Drink
            
             ,
          
           
             Whos
             's
             Paunch
             in
             State
             before
             him
             walks
             ,
          
           
             While
             his
             Two
             Gouty
             Leggs
             come
             Limping
             after
             ,
          
           
             A
             Sight
             ,
             will
             move
             our
             pitty
             ,
             and
             our
             Laughter
             ,
          
           
             With
             pace
             uncertain
             ,
             how
             he
             Stalks
             ;
          
           
           
             Salt's
             Rheums
             in
             's
             Eyes
             ,
             with
             Face
             as
             Scarlet
             Red
             ,
          
           
             Tho'
             parcht
             his
             Lips
             ,
             as
             ne're
             with
             Moisture
             fed
             .
          
           
             This
             Sea
             of
             Liquor
             yet
             will
             never
             shrink
             ,
          
           
             But
             freely
             takes
             his
             Brimmers
             off
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             the
             latest
             stoutly
             quaff
             :
          
           
             Nay
             ,
             for
             his
             Drinking
             he
             has
             this
             pretence
             ,
          
           
             Sobriety
             would
             be
             the
             Death
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             Claret
             :
             that
             preserves
             his
             Breath
             ;
          
           
             So
             drink
             he
             must
             ,
             ev'n
             in
             his
             own
             Defence
             :
          
           
             Rut
             whether
             do
             these
             Courses
             tend
             ,
          
           
             Nature
             at
             last
             beneath
             the
             Load
             must
             bend
             ;
          
           
             Excessive
             heats
             put
             out
             her
             kinder
             Fires
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             wrapt
             up
             in
             Drink
             ,
             the
             Wretch
             expires
             .
          
        
         
           
             XIII
             .
          
           
             Another
             with
             the
             Gout
             such
             Paint
             does
             feel
             ,
          
           
             As
             almost
             equals
             those
             upon
             the
             Wheel
             ;
          
           
             Oyls
             ,
             Oyntments
             ,
             Plaisters
             still
             are
             us'd
             in
             vain
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             can
             the
             Velvet
             Cusheon
             ease
             the
             Pain
             ;
          
           
             Either
             like
             strickt
             Carthusian
             now
             he
             lives
             ,
          
           
             And
             meanest
             Foods
             ,
             and
             smallest
             Drink
             receives
             ;
          
           
           
             (
             A
             dismal
             Penance
             for
             a
             past
             Life
             ,
             spent
          
           
             In
             Frolicks
             ,
             and
             high
             Drinking
             ,
             Merriment
             )
          
           
             Or
             else
             he
             huggs
             the
             cause
             of
             all
             his
             Pains
             ,
          
           
             And
             Wine
             alone
             his
             Palate
             entertains
             ;
          
           
             And
             when
             in
             Toe
             the
             wracking
             twitch
             comes
             on
             ,
          
           
             To
             ease
             the
             pain
             ,
             he
             throws
             a
             Brimmer
             down
             :
          
           
             All
             Doctors
             Slops
             he
             hates
             ,
             and
             cannot
             think
          
           
             There
             can
             be
             any
             Opiate
             like
             Drink
             ;
          
           
             And
             that
             good
             Claret
             ,
             or
             some
             other
             Wine
             ,
          
           
             Sooner
             and
             better
             does
             to
             rest
             incline
             ,
          
           
             Then
             Laudanum
             ,
             or
             other
             Anodyne
             :
          
           
             Thus
             ,
             thus
             ,
             he
             lives
             —
             and
             tedious
             year
             spins
             out
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             Death
             is
             seldom
             hastned
             by
             the
             
               Gout
               ;
            
             )
          
           
             And
             frequent
             in
             his
             Mouth
             this
             Maxims
             known
             ,
          
           
             
               Drink
               Wine
            
             ,
             and
             have
             the
             Gout
             ;
             and
             when
             that
             's
             done
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Gout
             will
             pain
             you
             ,
             tho'you
             should
             drink
             none
             .
          
        
         
           
             XIV
             .
          
           
             Now
             a
             Consumptive
             walking
             Ghost
             appears
             ,
          
           
             Stooping
             to
             Earth
             before
             th'
             appointed
             Years
             ;
          
           
           
             Who
             ,
             when
             of
             Phlegm
             ,
             he
             would
             his
             Stomach
             ease
             ,
          
           
             Does
             of
             himself
             each
             time
             spit
             up
             a
             piece
             :
          
           
             A
             Hectick
             Feaver
             does
             his
             Strength
             consume
             ,
          
           
             And
             he
             's
             a
             perfect
             Skeleton
             become
             ;
          
           
             So
             Pale
             and
             Wan
             ,
             that
             every
             one
             almost
          
           
             Would
             swear
             he
             did
             
               not
               seem
            
             ,
             but
             was
             a
             Ghost
             .
          
           
             Yet
             to
             the
             Tavern
             ,
             for
             a
             sober
             Jilt
             ,
          
           
             Or
             a
             half
             Pint
             at
             most
             ,
             he
             ventures
             still
             ;
          
           
             So
             willing
             is
             the
             Wretch
             to
             live
             ,
             altho'
          
           
             He
             cannot
             one
             of
             Life's
             Contentments
             know
             :
          
           
             He
             sees
             the
             Men
             of
             Health
             the
             Bottles
             troul
             ,
          
           
             And
             drink
             large
             Bumpers
             from
             the
             Deep
             mouth'd
             Bowl
             ;
          
           
             While
             he
             ,
             with
             little
             Knipperkin
             ,
             by
             's
             side
             ,
          
           
             Observes
             the
             Ebbs
             and
             Flows
             of
             th'
             Bottles
             Tide
             ,
          
           
             With
             such
             Delight
             ,
             as
             old
             Men
             when
             they
             view
             ,
          
           
             What
             Am'rous
             Thyrsis
             and
             Dorinda
             do
             ,
          
           
             When
             on
             a
             Rosie
             Bank
             ,
             at
             Dawn
             of
             Day
             ,
          
           
             They
             sit
             and
             kiss
             ,
             and
             play
             the
             time
             away
             :
          
           
             Yet
             the
             pin'd
             Creature
             ,
             Drinking
             now
             forbid
             ,
          
           
             (
             Not
             able
             to
             perform
             what
             once
             he
             did
             )
          
           
             Yet
             pleads
             ,
             that
             little
             Wine
             he
             sipt
             up
             now
             ,
          
           
             To
             's
             wasted
             Lungs
             ,
             does
             as
             a
             Cordial
             go
             ;
          
           
             And
             who
             would
             that
             Assistance
             disallow
             ?
          
        
         
           
           
             XV.
             
          
           
             These
             are
             some
             few
             of
             that
             most
             mighty
             Train
             ,
          
           
             Of
             his
             hard
             Drinking
             ,
             brings
             on
             wretched
             Man
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             in
             the
             Case
             it
             is
             but
             plain
             and
             Clear
             ,
          
           
             The
             Body
             is
             the
             smallest
             Sufferer
             :
          
           
             Too
             often
             the
             Estate
             the
             Damage
             feels
             ,
          
           
             And
             a
             House
             totters
             while
             its
             Master
             reels
             ;
          
           
             Hang
             lousie
             Mannours
             ,
             what
             are
             Musty
             Farms
             ,
          
           
             In
             Ballance
             put
             with
             Wines
             Diviner
             Charms
             :
          
           
             Thus
             Timon-like
             ,
             our
             Spark
             treats
             on
             ,
             and
             Drinks
             ,
          
           
             But
             how
             's
             Estate
             declines
             ,
             he
             never
             thinks
             ,
          
           
             Till
             Duns
             on
             ev'ry
             side
             attack
             him
             so
             ,
          
           
             He
             must
             for
             safety
             to
             Alsatia
             go
             ;
          
           
             Where
             ,
             while
             his
             Money
             lasts
             he
             shall
             not
             want
             ,
          
           
             Companions
             who
             will
             with
             him
             Drink
             and
             Rant
             ;
          
           
             But
             that
             once
             gon
             ,
             his
             Person
             they
             refuse
             ,
          
           
             As
             Rats
             by
             Instinkt
             leave
             a
             falling
             House
             ;
          
           
             Pensive
             he
             walks
             ,
             and
             knows
             not
             what
             to
             do
             ,
          
           
             Since
             Poverty
             has
             made
             the
             World
             his
             Foe
             ;
          
           
           
             And
             he
             who
             once
             esteem'd
             no
             Wines
             too
             dear
             ,
          
           
             Now
             wets
             his
             Throat
             with
             Penitent
             small
             Beer
             ;
          
           
             Though
             't
             is
             a
             Change
             ,
             few
             Men
             can
             ere
             endure
             ,
          
           
             To
             be
             a
             Stoick
             from
             an
             Epicure
             ;
          
           
             No
             Character
             does
             such
             a
             Man
             deserve
             ,
          
           
             (
             By
             his
             Excesses
             almost
             doom'd
             to
             starve
             )
          
           
             But
             this
             ,
             —
             A
             good
             Estate
             to
             's
             Lot
             did
             fall
             ,
          
           
             Which
             folilshly
             he
             pist
             against
             the
             Wall.
             
          
        
         
           
             XVI
             .
          
           
             But
             ,
             what
             does
             most
             of
             all
             our
             wonder
             raise
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             Astonishment
             our
             Reason
             strike
             ,
          
           
             Is
             ,
             that
             this
             Vice
             they
             will
             as
             Vertue
             praise
             ,
          
           
             And
             that
             no
             Friendship
             ever
             can
             be
             like
          
           
             To
             that
             ,
             which
             o're
             a
             Bottle
             can
             be
             made
             :
          
           
             So
             strong
             a
             Cement's
             Wine
             ,
             it
             will
             engage
             ,
          
           
             Men
             shall
             continue
             Friends
             an
             Age.
          
           
             Tho
             the
             Acquaintance
             first
             they
             had
             ,
          
           
             At
             a
             lewd
             
               Drinking
               Match
            
             ,
             where
             each
             one
             vow'd
             ,
          
           
             That
             he
             would
             Spend
             his
             dearest
             Blood
             ;
          
           
           
             Go
             for
             his
             Friend
             ,
             through
             Water
             ,
             Fire
             ,
             all
          
           
             The
             Dangers
             can
             on
             Mankind
             fall
             ;
          
           
             Tho
             of
             all
             this
             a
             Word
             's
             not
             understood
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             they
             will
             hug
             and
             flabber
             one
             another
             ;
          
           
             The
             Old
             they
             Father
             call
             ,
             the
             Young
             their
             Brother
             .
          
           
             Their
             Friendship
             ,
             thus
             by
             Wine
             begun
             ,
          
           
             Must
             by
             the
             same
             be
             carried
             on
             ;
          
           
             And
             if
             by
             accident
             ,
             one
             meets
          
           
             His
             Brother
             Red-Nose
             in
             the
             Streets
             ;
          
           
             They
             ,
             with
             dry
             Lips
             ,
             no
             more
             can
             part
             ,
          
           
             Than
             can
             a
             Parent
             from
             his
             Son
             in
             Cart
             ,
          
           
             Refrain
             from
             Tears
             .
             —
             Old
             Customs
             they
             'll
             not
             break
             ,
          
           
             Each
             in
             a
             Glass
             must
             dip
             his
             Beak
             ;
          
           
             With
             
               modest
               Pints
            
             ,
             they
             first
             begin
             ,
          
           
             And
             that
             the
             Tall-boy
             ushers
             in
             ;
          
           
             Then
             ,
             in
             large
             Brimmers
             ,
             all
             their
             Cares
             they
             drown
             ,
          
           
             And
             useless
             Reason
             tumbles
             down
             :
          
           
             Yet
             they
             are
             Friends
             ,
             most
             mighty
             Friends
             ,
             indeed
             ,
          
           
             And
             for
             each
             other
             ,
             both
             their
             Purses
             bleed
             ;
          
           
             So
             long
             ,
             till
             one
             does
             a
             Consumption
             find
             ,
          
           
             And
             when
             that
             's
             gone
             ,
             —
             Where
             will
             you
             find
             the
             Friend
             ?
          
        
         
           
           
             XVII
             .
          
           
             But
             ,
             which
             is
             worst
             of
             all
             ,
             our
             Gentry
             now
             ,
          
           
             Make
             Drinking
             —
             Friendship
             ,
             and
             their
             Glory
             ,
             too
             ;
          
           
             And
             him
             the
             bravest
             Man
             they
             reckon
             ,
             who
          
           
             Can
             his
             large
             Bumpers
             stifly
             quaff
             ,
          
           
             And
             carry
             half
             a
             Score
             of
             Bottles
             off
             ;
          
           
             And
             him
             unfit
             for
             Conversation
             think
             ,
          
           
             Who
             boggles
             with
             the
             Glass
             ,
             and
             will
             not
             drink
             :
          
           
             If
             I
             ,
             quite
             weary
             of
             the
             nauseous
             Town
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             an
             honest
             Country
             Friend
             ,
             go
             down
             ;
          
           
             I
             am
             received
             with
             all
             the
             kind
             Address
             ,
          
           
             That
             un-disguised
             Friendship
             can
             express
             ;
          
           
             With
             wonder
             ,
             I
             behold
             his
             plenteous
             Board
             ,
          
           
             With
             what
             ev'n
             Luxury
             could
             wish-for
             stor'd
             ;
          
           
             And
             when
             ,
             with
             choicest
             Foods
             ,
             I
             have
          
           
             Giv'n
             Nature
             the
             Refreshment
             she
             did
             crave
             ;
          
           
             Taking
             my
             Glass
             ,
             in
             order
             ,
             as
             it
             came
             ,
          
           
             Gently
             to
             stir
             the
             Vital
             Flame
             ,
          
           
             I
             thought
             ,
             that
             then
             some
             respite
             was
             allow'd
             ,
          
           
             To
             sit
             a
             while
             ,
             and
             talk
             ,
             or
             chew
             the
             Cudd.
          
           
           
             But
             ,
             ah
             !
             no
             sooner
             was
             the
             Voider
             gone
             ,
          
           
             But
             Bottles
             came
             in
             Clusters
             on
             .
          
           
             Now
             I
             've
             a
             doubtful
             Task
             to
             chuse
             ,
          
           
             Either
             to
             Drink
             ,
             or
             else
             refuse
             :
          
           
             If
             I
             through
             easiness
             comply
             ,
          
           
             (
             And
             Men
             sometimes
             want
             power
             for
             to
             deny
             )
          
           
             I
             must
             resolve
             with
             Reason
             to
             shake
             Hands
             ,
          
           
             And
             represent
             the
             Brute
             ,
             in
             shape
             of
             Man
             ,
          
           
             While
             pretious
             Health
             ,
             in
             doubtful
             posture
             ,
             stands
             ;
          
           
             For
             who
             can
             tell
             ,
             how
             much
             I
             may
             oppress
          
           
             The
             Vital
             Heat
             ,
             by
             such
             a
             Grand
             Excess
             ;
          
           
             And
             the
             firm
             strength
             ,
             which
             now
             I
             'm
             sure
             is
             mine
             ;
          
           
             This
             (
             Friendly
             kind
             )
             Debauch
             may
             undermine
             ,
          
           
             And
             shorten
             Life
             t'an
             Inch
             ,
             which
             Nature
             made
             a
             Span
             ?
          
           
             If
             I
             refuse
             ,
             and
             no
             Perswasions
             can
          
           
             Tempt
             me
             to
             stay
             ,
             and
             drink
             like
             them
             ,
          
           
             Me
             ,
             as
             an
             ill
             bred
             Fool
             ,
             they
             then
             condemn
             ;
          
           
             But
             Heav'n
             be
             praised
             ,
             these
             Scandals
             wound
             not
             deep
             ;
          
           
             Let
             them
             rail
             on
             ,
             while
             Life's
             chief
             Blessing
             ,
             Health
             I
             keep
             .
          
        
         
           
           
             XVIII
             .
          
           
             And
             this
             ,
             d'
             ye
             Friendship
             call
             ,
             as
             well
             you
             may
             ,
          
           
             Call
             an
             Italian
             Friend
             ,
             who
             can
             convey
          
           
             A
             secret
             Poyson
             to
             your
             Heart
             ,
          
           
             Prepar'd
             with
             so
             much
             curious
             Art
             ,
          
           
             Which
             shall
             most
             certainly
             ,
             or
             soon
             ,
             or
             late
             ,
          
           
             Close
             up
             your
             Eyes
             ,
             and
             Seal
             your
             Fate
             :
          
           
             But
             our
             bold
             Sons
             of
             Bacchus
             ,
             here
             ,
          
           
             Do
             in
             their
             practice
             openly
             appear
             ;
          
           
             Who
             ,
             on
             you
             ,
             when
             they
             force
             the
             Glass
             ,
             or
             Cup
             ,
          
           
             Pale
             Poyson
             ,
             in
             Disguise
             of
             Wine
             you
             sup
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             think
             not
             Poyson
             from
             the
             Grape
             they
             press
             ;
          
           
             No
             ,
             Wine
             's
             a
             Cordial
             ,
             till
             by
             lewd
             Excess
             ,
          
           
             It
             does
             its
             kind
             refreshing
             Nature
             lose
             ,
          
           
             And
             Death
             lies
             lurking
             in
             the
             noble
             Juyce
             :
          
           
             And
             can
             that
             Man
             be
             then
             my
             Friend
             ,
          
           
             Who
             ,
             because
             ,
             Mithridates-like
             ,
          
           
             He
             Poysons
             can
             digest
             (
             for
             Wine
             's
             no
             less
             ,
          
           
             When
             swallow'd
             to
             a
             vast
             Excess
             )
          
           
             Will
             unto
             me
             the
             fatal
             Draught
             commend
             .
          
           
           
             Nay
             ,
             force
             it
             too
             :
             —
             If
             this
             be
             Friendship
             then
             ,
          
           
             Its
             Sail
             let
             Sence
             and
             Breeding
             strike
          
           
             To
             Savages
             ,
             and
             Indians
             ,
             who
          
           
             European
             Vices
             never
             knew
             ,
          
           
             For
             ,
             if
             not
             Christians
             ,
             yet
             't
             is
             own'd
             they
             're
             Men.
             
          
        
         
           
             XIX
             .
          
           
             Alas
             !
             What
             Pleasure
             can
             there
             be
          
           
             In
             an
             half
             Fluster'd
             
               -
               Company
            
             :
          
           
             One
             while
             ,
             like
             Dover-Court
             ,
             't
             appears
             ,
          
           
             All
             Men
             have
             Tongues
             ,
             but
             none
             have
             Ears
             ;
          
           
             Another
             time
             they
             will
             be
             Sitting
             ,
          
           
             As
             mute
             ,
             as
             Quaker's
             silent
             Meeting
             ;
          
           
             Till
             one
             more
             ,
             Witty
             than
             the
             rest
             ,
          
           
             Tells
             'em
             a
             sad
             insipid
             Jest
             ;
          
           
             And
             then
             they
             laugh
             at
             such
             a
             rate
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             scarcely
             one
             can
             tell
             for
             what
             :
          
           
             Here
             one
             ,
             with
             Secret
             ,
             hard
             in
             Labour
             ,
          
           
             Delivers
             it
             in
             Ear
             of
             Neighbour
             ;
          
           
             Which
             ,
             from
             his
             Breast
             ,
             had
             never
             broke
             ,
          
           
             Had
             not
             Wine
             slily
             pickt
             the
             Lock
             .
          
           
           
             Another
             tells
             ,
             what
             Punks
             of
             late
             ,
          
           
             And
             sort
             of
             Oaths
             are
             out
             of
             date
             ;
          
           
             And
             what
             new
             Faces
             daily
             meet
             ,
          
           
             At
             Famous
             House
             of
             Chacolett
             :
          
           
             One
             ,
             in
             the
             Story
             of
             's
             Mishaps
             ,
          
           
             Forgets
             not
             to
             relate
             his
             Claps
             ;
          
           
             At
             which
             ,
             his
             Neighbour
             laughs
             ,
             and
             tells
             him
             ,
          
           
             Such
             Ills
             far
             oftner
             have
             befel
             him
             ,
          
           
             One
             to
             the
             Chimney-corner
             creeps
             ,
          
           
             And
             there
             ,
             in
             quiet
             ,
             fairly
             sleeps
             ;
          
           
             Another
             does
             ,
             by
             's
             Spewing
             ,
             tell
             us
             ,
          
           
             Something
             in
             's
             Stomach's
             grown
             Rebellious
             :
          
           
             One
             Sings
             ;
             at
             which
             another
             Bawls
             ,
          
           
             And
             vows
             he
             only
             Catterwawls
             :
          
           
             Thus
             ,
             in
             a
             Scene
             of
             Noise
             and
             Strife
             ,
          
           
             They
             waste
             the
             pretious
             Hours
             of
             Life
             ;
          
           
             Till
             Death
             shall
             let
             the
             Curtain
             drop
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             their
             Game
             of
             Folly's
             up
             .
          
        
         
           
             XX.
             
          
           
             Though
             Heaven
             ordain'd
             ,
             that
             Man
             should
             be
          
           
             A
             Creature
             ,
             sitted
             for
             Society
             ;
          
           
           
             Yet
             he
             must
             be
             Apollo
             ,
             that
             can
             find
          
           
             What
             Benefit
             to
             Body
             ,
             or
             to
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             Can
             e're
             accrue
             from
             a
             wild
             Friendship
             ,
             where
          
           
             No
             other
             Entertainments
             found
             ,
          
           
             But
             still
             to
             see
             the
             Bottle
             keeps
             its
             round
             ;
          
           
             All
             sober-thinking
             they
             abhor
             ,
          
           
             And
             Learned
             Talking
             is
             kickt
             out
             of
             Doors
             :
          
           
             But
             if
             of
             Dogs
             and
             Horses
             —
          
        
         
           
             XXI
             .
          
           
             —
             And
             here
             the
             Chain
             of
             Thought
          
           
             In
             Meditation
             ,
             to
             an
             end
             was
             brought
             :
          
           
             Occasion'd
             by
             a
             mighty
             Noise
             ,
             which
             came
             .
          
           
             From
             the
             same
             House
             ,
             from
             whence
             I
             lately
             went
             ,
          
           
             The
             Penance
             of
             Hard-Drinking
             to
             prevent
             ;
          
           
             Thither
             I
             hastned
             ,
             and
             was
             struck
             to
             see
          
           
             Their
             pleasant
             Scence
             of
             Mirth
             and
             Jollity
             ,
          
           
             Now
             turned
             to
             Blood
             ,
             and
             Wounds
             ,
             and
             Tragedy
             .
          
           
             The
             Foolish
             Fray
             was
             hardly
             over
             ,
          
           
             When
             in
             the
             Room
             I
             did
             my self
             discover
             ;
          
           
           
             For
             a
             full
             Bottle
             brusht
             against
             my
             Arm
             ,
          
           
             Then
             flew
             through
             th'
             Window
             ,
             without
             further
             harm
             ;
          
           
             (
             Yet
             ,
             in
             that
             number
             ,
             there
             were
             only
             Two
             ,
          
           
             Who
             me
             again
             distinctly
             knew
             ;
             )
          
           
             The
             Noble
             Knight
             ,
             strove
             by
             all
             means
             he
             cou'd
             ,
          
           
             To
             hinder
             spilling
             Christian
             Blood
             ;
          
           
             For
             Wine
             ,
             and
             Passion
             ,
             put
             'em
             in
             a
             flame
             ,
          
           
             Not
             quickly
             to
             be
             Quencht
             ,
             —
             but
             yet
             ,
             at
             last
             ,
          
           
             Each
             quietly
             sat
             down
             ,
             as
             no
             such
             thing
             had
             past
             .
          
        
         
           
             XXII
             .
          
           
             Then
             of
             the
             sob'rest
             in
             the
             Room
             ,
          
           
             (
             Tho'
             ev'ry
             Man
             was
             purely
             overcome
             ,
             )
          
           
             I
             askt
             th'
             occasion
             ,
             how
             this
             Quarrel
             rose
             ?
          
           
             Who
             told
             me
             ,
             That
             a
             Spark
             would
             needs
             impose
          
           
             A
             Health
             on
             's
             Friend
             ,
             which
             he
             point
             blank
             refus'd
             ;
          
           
             At
             which
             ,
             in
             's
             Face
             ,
             a
             Glass
             of
             Wine
             he
             threw
             ;
          
           
             And
             after
             that
             ,
             his
             Tilter
             drew
             ,
          
           
             And
             swore
             ,
             that
             he
             that
             would
             not
             pledge
             that
             Health
             ,
          
           
             Were
             Sons
             of
             Whores
             ,
             and
             lov'd
             a
             Common-Wealth
             :
          
           
           
             At
             which
             ,
             the
             Company
             divided
             stood
             ,
          
           
             And
             Swords
             were
             ready
             drawn
             for
             Blood
             ;
          
           
             But
             after
             some
             few
             angry
             Passes
             made
             ,
          
           
             One
             prickt
             i'
             th
             Arm
             ,
             and
             to
             then
             cut
             on
             the
             Head.
          
           
             Slight
             
               Wounds
               :
            
             —
             But
             ,
             after
             much
             Perswasions
             us'd
             ,
          
           
             As
             fresh
             they
             to
             their
             Drinking
             fall
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             they
             had
             not
             drank
             at
             all
             ;
          
           
             To
             see
             the
             up-shot
             on
             't
             ,
             I
             would
             not
             stay
             ,
          
           
             But
             thus
             reflected
             in
             my
             homeward
             way
             ;
          
           
             That
             though
             to
             chuse
             our
             Fortunes
             ,
             Heav'n
             will
             not
          
           
             Allow
             ;
             yet
             were
             this
             double
             Choice
             my
             lot
             ,
          
           
             I
             'd
             rather
             be
             an
             Hermit
             ,
             than
             a
             Sot.
             
          
        
         
           FINIS
        
         
      
    
     
  

