Epigrams of all sorts, made at divers times on several occasions by Richard Flecknoe.

In small-Beer.

NOw pox & plague to boot on this same small- Beer, we may well the Divels Iulip call: Distill'd from Lembeck of some Lapland witch, With Northwinds- bellows blowing in her breech; Or stale of some cold Hag o'th' Marshes, who Than water never better Liquor knew: A penitential drink for none by right, But those i'th' morning, who were drunk o'er night: Sure 'twas the poyson (as the Learned think) They gave condemned Socrates to drink: Or that, the Macedonian drank, so cold, As nothing but an Asses houff coud hold. They were deceiv'd, it was not Niobes moan, But drinking small-Beer, turnd her unto stone. And 'tis that infallibly which now has made All Charity so cold, and th' World so bad.

If then Divines woud mend it, let them preach 'Gainst small-Beer onely, and no Doctrine teach; But drinking wine, and then you soon shud see, All in Religion easily woud agree. This were a Doctrine worthy of their heat And furious beating th' Pulpit till they swear.