Sot's paradise, or, The humours of a Derby-ale-house with a satyr upon the ale.
Ward, Edward, 1667-1731.
1698
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Sot's paradise, or, The humours of a Derby-ale-house with a satyr upon the ale.
Ward, Edward, 1667-1731.
16 p.
[s.n.],
London :
1698.
Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
A satyr Derby-ale: p. 14-15.
In verse.
Attributed to Edward Ward. cf. BM.
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eng
Ale -- Anecdotes
Drinking of alcoholic beverages -- Anecdotes
Hotels -- England -- Derbyshire -- Anecdotes
Bars (Drinking establishments) -- England -- Derbyshire -- Anecdotes
Taverns (Inns) -- England -- Derbyshire -- Anecdotes
2003-02 TCP
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Sot's
Paradise
:
OR
,
The
HUMOURS
of
a
Derby-Ale-House
:
WITH
A
SATYR
UPON
THE
ALE.
LONDON
,
Printed
in
the
Year
,
1698.
THE
PRINTER
TO
THE
READER
REader
,
what
e'er
the
Author
truly
meant
I
know
not
,
but
he
told
me
his
intent
Was
not
to
Lampoon
,
or
Reflect
on
any
;
But
thro'
Necessity
he
writ
,
like
many
,
In
Pinch-Gut
Times
,
to
get
the
Ready
Penny.
Suppose
(
said
I
)
you
've
anger'd
some
Bravado
,
I
hate
the
standing
of
a
Bastinado
?
Poh
,
poh
,
said
he
,
such
Dangers
never
heed
,
I
'de
such
a
Cockscomb
Redicule
indeed
,
Each
Sentence
should
have
Gaul
and
Venom
in
't
,
Which
you
,
to
recompence
your
Drubs
,
shall
Print
:
Mortals
have
oft
,
to
their
destruction
,
found
,
Poets
,
like
Gods
,
can
at
a
distance
Wound
.
I
thank
you
Sir
(
said
I
)
such
Verse
,
I
doubt
,
S'But
a
poor
Plaster
for
a
batter'd
Snout
.
He
prest
the
Copy
forward
,
I
seem'd
shye
,
Till
by
these
words
he
brought
me
to
comply
.
The
Characters
are
random
writ
,
God
knows
,
Slightly
dispatch'd
;
design'd
,
like
Salesmens
Cloaths
,
For
no
one
in
particular
,
but
where
They
best
by
chance
shall
fit
,
for
them
to
wear
Nay
then
,
said
I
,
if
any
Sot
can
find
His
Picture
here
,
and
not
as
his
design'd
,
And
Angry
be
,
I
'll
hire
the
Author
then
,
To
whet
his
Wits
,
and
Write
as
Keen
again
:
Since
I
can
justly
say
(
to
save
my
Bacon
)
I
no
Offence
intend
,
I
pray
let
none
be
taken
.
Sot's
Paradise
:
OR
,
The
HUMOURS
of
a
Derby-Ale-House
.
WHEN
anxious
Thoughts
my
troubled
Brains
possest
,
And
the
wild
Hag
rid
straddling
o'er
my
Breast
,
Loaded
with
Sorrow
,
I
pursu'd
my
rest
.
My
Pockets
far
too
empty
were
for
Wine
,
That
Noble
Juice
!
That
Cordial
of
the
Vine
!
By
Humane
Race
so
justly
held
Divine
.
To
ease
my
Cares
I
stumbl'd
into
R
—
's
,
Sots
Paradise
,
so
Fam'd
of
latter
days
For
Derby-Ale
,
it
bears
away
the
Bays
.
Thro'
Entry
dark
I
th'
Tippling
Mansion
saught
,
Whose
close
Dimensions
rais'd
a
Jealous
thought
I
'd
been
Trappan'd
,
and
in
a
Mouse-Trap
caught
.
Like
Weesel
thro'
a
Cranny
thus
I
crept
;
And
as
he
Screams
,
so
I
a
Murm'ring
kept
;
Now
Paus'd
and
Swore
,
then
Gropt
and
forward
step'd
.
Through
stumbling
craggy
Ways
the
Godly
steal
To
Heaven
,
whence
I
concluded
,
without
fail
,
This
narrow
Path
must
lead
to
Heavenly
Ale.
But
in
this
Pot-gun
Passage
did
I
meet
A
bulky
Sot
,
who
forc'd
me
to
Retreat
;
And
shot
me
,
like
a
Pellat
,
to
the
Street
.
I
gain'd
the
Barr
by
several
Essays
,
Where
mourning
Widow
sat
with
dolful
Face
;
And
on
each
Hand
a
Room
,
but
ne'er
a
Place
.
I
turn'd
to
th'
Left
,
and
did
amongst
them
squeese
,
There
heard
some
Belsh
,
some
Fart
,
and
others
Sneeze
;
Buzzing
and
Humming
like
a
Hive
of
Bees
.
This
Room
I
did
for
Ease
and
Cleanness
chuse
,
The
Chappel
call'd
,
from
having
Seats
like
Pews
,
Where
grizled
Sots
sit
nodding
o'er
the
News
.
With
painful
jostling
I
a
Place
possest
,
Sat
down
,
then
Belch'd
and
Farted
like
the
rest
,
Thump'd
with
my
Fist
,
and
cry'd
I
broke
a
Jest.
In
comes
a
Female
Tapstriss
,
Pale
and
Wan
,
Sod'n
with
the
fumes
of
what
she's
Drank
and
Drawn
,
Looks
worse
than
the
green
Girl
who
wants
a
Man.
Sir
do
you
pleafe
,
I
pray
,
to
have
your
Ale
Drawn
New
,
or
with
a
little
dash
of
Stale
:
I
gave
her
answer
,
and
she
soon
turn'd
Tail.
One
sage
old
Bard
next
Chimney
Nook
was
got
,
Fix'd
as
a
Statue
,
motionless
he
sat
,
His
Eyes
regarding
neither
Who
nor
What.
This
speechless
Image
most
I
did
admire
,
No
Derby
could
this
Mortal
Lump
Inspire
,
Who
like
Old
Puss
,
sat
Purring
o'er
the
Fire
.
One
whim
he
had
was
often
put
in
play
,
By
Name
salute
this
Monumental
Clay
,
He
Huffs
and
Puffs
,
starts
up
and
runs
away
.
Then
in
thrusts
one
,
strives
hard
to
get
a
Place
;
Witty
in
Words
,
and
Satyr
in
his
Face
,
Thus
boldly
speaks
in
Dearby-Ales
disgrace
.
Pox
on
't
,
said
he
,
I
Yesterday
stept
in
,
And
drank
Nine
Tankards
to
divert
my
Spleen
,
It
fail'd
,
and
now
I
'm
come
to
drink
Ninteen
.
At
Squire
's
I
heard
a
Beaux
so
Dant
and
Sink
it
,
Four
Tankards
numb'd
his
Wits
,
you
won'd
not
think
it
;
He
swore
we
all
are
Clod-skul'd
Sots
who
drink
it
.
This
much
disgruntl'd
all
the
swilling
Herd
,
Who
grin'd
,
and
at
him
enviously
star'd
,
In
answer
not
a
Mortal
wag'd
his
Beard
.
One
Gapes
,
a
second
Nods
,
a
third
he
Winks
,
A
fourth
he
Smoaks
,
a
fifth
blows
Pipe
and
Drinks
,
Not
One
in
Ten
that
either
Talks
or
Thinks
.
Thus
seldom
Speak
,
unless
't
is
to
complain
Of
Ptisick
,
Stone
,
the
Gout
,
or
fome
old
Pain
That
grieves
them
sorely
,
when
the
Moon
's
i'
th'
Wain
.
Here
worn-out
Sinners
at
their
Ailes
repine
,
.
(
The
Herd
thus
sympathetically
join
)
All
Grunting
o'er
their
Hogwash-Ale
like
Swine
.
Up
rises
now
and
then
,
a
brawny
Sot
,
Before
the
Fire
he
turns
his
Ars
about
,
Hauks
up
his
Flegm
,
then
Spitting
staggers
out
.
With
me
this
smoky
Clime
did
not
agree
,
These
Sots
too
Grave
were
,
that
's
too
Dull
,
for
me
;
No
Talk
is
worse
than
much
Loquacity
.
Willing
to
take
a
General
Survey
,
T'
observe
the
Difference
in
Mortal
Clay
,
I
stole
from
thence
,
to
the
next
Room
made
way
.
This
call'd
the
Bear-Garden
,
where
at
a
Table
I
heard
,
amongst
a
wild
Promiscuous
Rabble
,
More
Tongues
confus'd
then
ere
were
known
at
Babel
.
A
Beaux
repeating
to
his
friend
a
Novel
,
Two
Lawyers
in
Dispute
began
to
Cavel
,
A
fifth
,
with
Chalk
,
was
scoring
out
an
Oval
.
And
,
being
as
cunning
as
a
Hocus
Pocus
,
Had
laid
a
Wager
with
a
John
a
Nokus
,
He
'd
with
a
Thred
and
Pins
find
out
the
Focus
.
A
Scholar
,
next
,
of
Batchelor's
Degree
,
Standing
four
Years
at
Universitie
,
Rose
up
and
flung
a
Witticism
at
me
.
I
lik'd
the
Sport
,
and
did
retort
the
same
.
I
hit
him
Home
according
to
my
Aim
;
But
could
not
get
his
Hair
Brain'd
fury
tame
So
Learn'd
he
seem'd
,
so
Witty
in
Discourse
,
He
'd
hold
me
all
the
Money
in
his
Purse
,
Tho'I
seem'd
Man
he
'd
prove
me
but
a
Horse
.
I
gravely
said
it
did
his
Skill
surpass
,
And
,
in
return
,
I
instanc'd
him
a
Case
Wherein
a
Scholar
prov'd
himself
an
Ass.
He
smelt
a
Rat
and
found
he
was
mistaken
,
Shut
up
his
Brains
,
true
knowledge
had
forsaken
,
And
dwindl'd
into
News
to
save
his
Bacon
.
A
little
Captain
,
tho'
of
great
Renown
,
Cock'd
up
his
Hat
swore
Zoons
and
then
sate
down
,
Out-chatter'd
all
the
Magpies
in
the
Town
.
He
talk'd
of
Heros
,
Hectors
,
and
Bravadoes
,
Of
Gashes
,
Slashes
,
Cuts
,
and
Carbanadoes
,
Of
Cannons
,
Mortars
,
Bombs
and
Hand
Granadoes
.
The
Valiant
Pigmy
,
eagar
to
declare
His
Broils
in
Taverns
,
not
Exploits
in
War
,
Teas'd
me
with
Nonsence
more
than
I
could
bear
.
The
Dilect
he
retain'd
he
learn'd
at
Nurse
,
And
that
his
Words
might
be
of
greater
force
;
He
tagg'd
Each
Sentence
with
an
Oath
or
Curse
.
A
Dapper
Blade
was
Squeez'd
among
the
rest
,
Who
would
have
made
each
Word
he
spoke
a
Jest
Aim'd
at
much
Witt
but
little
he
possest
.
Like
Ill
Rung
Bells
he
did
Confus'dly
Nock
His
Ill
Tun'd
Words
to
hammer
out
a
Joak
,
Whose
Tongue
out
run
the
Larum
of
a
Clock
.
This
Mortal
prov'd
a
Midnight
Magistrate
,
Who
ask's
us
,
Why
so
dunk
,
and
why
so
late
?
Little
in
Person
,
tho'
in
Office
Great
.
He
Huckles
much
,
tho'
what
by
that
he
means
,
Let
Oldish
,
Shirley
,
or
such
Learned
Brains
T'
inform
the
World
,
imploy
their
Skilful
Pens
.
Next
sat
a
Drone
,
whose
Wits
had
but
a
Dull-Edge
,
His
Gravity
,
and
nice
Grammatick
Knowledge
,
Spoke
him
some
Senior
Cockscomb
of
a
Colledge
.
He
Learned
Reasons
offer'd
unto
some
,
Why
Gerounds
end
in
di
,
in
do
,
or
dum
,
Then
grave
attention
gave
,
and
sat
hum
Drum.
Next
him
a
Spark
bedawb'd
with
Golden
Twine
,
So
very
Grave
,
and
eke
so
very
Fine
,
I
took
him
for
some
Statesman
on
Design
.
Some
humble
Lord
,
so
generously
free
,
Seeking
Applause
and
Popularity
,
Came
here
to
Court
the
good
Mobility
.
I
turn'd
about
,
and
view'd
him
for
a
space
,
No
Sword
he
'd
on
,
and
in
his
Meen
no
Grace
,
Dulness
instead
of
Grandure
in
his
Face
.
My
Judgment
er'd
,
I
quickly
found
its
faillure
,
No
Honour
in
his
Speech
,
in
's
Looks
no
Valour
,
A
Lord
,
thought
I
,
wounds
this
must
be
a
Taylor
.
When
e'er
he
spoke
it
matter
was
of
fact
,
So
Emphattical
his
Words
and
so
compact
,
No
Strowling
Player
could
be
more
exact
.
Against
him
Teague
,
an
Irish
Barber
sat
,
Who
has
a
Thousand
Whimsies
in
his
Pate
,
Makes
Wigs
,
tunes
Bagpipes
,
does
the
Lord
knows
what
.
By
chance
,
said
I
,
What
is
't
a
Clock
I
Pray
?
After
some
time
he
'd
studdy'd
what
to
say
,
He
Answer'd
,
By
me
Shoul
't's
Shaterday
.
Each
loving
each
,
as
truly
as
a
Brother
,
In
all
things
act
alike
,
Speak
,
Drink
and
Smother
,
Delight
,
as
Monkeys
,
to
Buffon
each
other
.
Like
the
Twin-stars
,
these
two
United
are
.
It
's
no
great
matter
whether
both
appear
,
If
you
see
one
,
in
him
the
other's
there
.
The
Ale
at
last
to
these
weak
Noddles
stole
,
Supply'd
the
want
of
Brains
in
every
Skull
,
And
made
them
Merry
,
tho'
it
made
me
Dull
.
The
Taylor
begg'd
of
his
Reverse
a
Tune
,
Teague
for
his
Bagpipes
sent
,
and
fix'd
his
Drone
,
Then
Play'd
Dundee's
Farwel
,
and
Sung
O
hone
.
This
pleas'd
the
Mob
,
and
made
them
hoop
and
hollow
,
As
when
the
Brindled
Dog
against
the
Fallow
Pins
down
the
Bull
,
and
makes
him
Roar
and
Bellow
.
I
Teas'd
and
Tir'd
with
this
Bear-Garden
Play
,
In
doleful
dumps
did
for
Ten
Tankards
Pay
,
And
Sick
,
not
Drunk
,
I
homwards
steer'd
my
way
.
A
SATYR
UPON
Derby-Ale
.
BASE
and
Ignoble
Flegm
,
dull
DERBY
-
ALE
,
Thou
canst
o'er
none
but
Brainless
Sots
prevail
;
Chokes
them
if
New
,
and
Soure
art
if
Stale
.
Thou
drownst
no
Care
,
or
do'st
thou
Elevate
;
In
stead
of
quenching
Drouth
,
do'st
Drouth
create
,
Makes
us
dull
Sots
at
an
expensive
rate
.
Old
English
Ale
,
which
Upstart
Fops
disdain
,
Brew'd
by
our
Grandsiers
,
Chear'd
the
Heart
of
Man
,
Quench'd
Drouth
with
pleasure
,
and
prolong'd
their
Span.
But
thou
!
Poor
Slime
,
thou
art
not
Ale
,
for
why
?
Thou
neither
Cheares
the
Heart
,
or
Brisks
the
Eye
;
The
more
we
Drink
the
more
we
still
are
Dry.
Rare
Fat'ning
Swill
,
to
Belly
up
Lean
Guest
,
It
feeds
a
Man
in
six
Months
to
a
Beast
,
And
gives
him
bulk
,
for
a
Church-Ward'n
at
least
.
Puff'd
up
with
thee
,
Dispirited
,
Debas'd
,
We
into
Gray's-Inn
reel
(
O
Pump
be
prais'd
)
There
Quench
that
Drouth
thy
Treacly
Dregs
have
rais'd
.
One
hearty
Draught
prepares
for
Pipe
of
Funk
,
Three
Tankards
whets
my
Appetite
for
Punk
,
Four
makes
me
Sick
,
but
Ten
wont
make
make
me
Drunk
.
O'er
Nipperkins
of
thee
six
Hours
I
sit
,
Till
spent
my
Total
,
and
benum'd
my
Wit
,
Thus
nothing
have
,
and
just
for
nothing
fit
.
Our
Wits
,
or
Thoughts
,
thou
never
canst
advance
Above
th'
Affairs
of
Poland
,
or
of
France
,
Wounds
,
thou'
rt
a
Booby
to
a
Cup
of
Nantes
.
Thou'
rt
fit
for
those
who
are
from
Troubles
free
,
Thou
Cur'st
no
Spleen
,
thou
art
unfit
for
me
,
I'd's
live
,
almost
,
drink
Adam's
Ale
as
thee
.
Thou
mak'st
us
Fat
in
little
time
't
is
true
,
The
same
will
Swins-Flesh
and
Potatoes
do
;
They
covet
Flesh
,
not
Brains
,
that
follow
you
.
Thou
Noble
Ale
!
Mere
Caudle
,
and
unfit
For
Men
of
Care
to
drink
,
or
Men
of
Wit
,
Poor
English
Coffee
for
a
plodding
Cit.
Guzzle
for
Carmen
,
Foggy
and
Unfine
,
For
nothing
fit
but
to
Exhaust
our
Coin
;
Water
to
Brandy
,
and
Small-Beer
to
Wine
.
Forgive
my
drowsy
Muse
where
e'er
she
nods
,
She
's
not
Inspir'd
or
Tutor'd
by
the
Gods
,
She
Rimes
o'er
Ale
,
others
o'er
Wine
,
that
's
odds
.
What
if
you
say
she
's
Dull
,
it
's
no
great
matter
,
Gross
Muddy
Ale
's
a
heavy
Theam
for
Satyr
,
Tom
Brown
be
judge
,
or
honest
Ben
Bridgwater
.
FINIS
.