The mysteries of love & eloquence, or, The arts of wooing and complementing as they are manag'd in the Spring Garden, Hide Park, the New Exchange, and other eminent places : a work in which is drawn to the life the deportments of the most accomplisht persons, the mode of their courtly entertainments, treatments of their ladies at balls, their accustom'd sports, drolls and fancies, the witchcrafts of their perswasive language in their approaches, or other more secret dispatches ...

New Song. In Defiance of Drinking-sack

WHat a Devil ail our Poets all, For drink, for drink thus always to call? And nothing goes down but drink, Friends, whether are your stomachs flown? That you the noble food disown, That better deserves your ink.

Food! I there is a substantial word, And it beget a substantial turd, That breeds grass for Cows and Sheep: The Countrey-bumpkin he comes for it, And at night it rideth in a Charret, When all men are asleep.

Alass! for drink, 'tis not worth your meeter, Drink maketh Piss, and piss makes Salt-peeter, That kills and blows up the people. You may drink Clarret, and have the gout, Ile eat, and drink little, and go without, And laugh at the drunken Cripple.

Let Lady's the Exchanges range, The Shambles shall be my Exchange, Which I count a noble place:

What do I care for pins or points, Let me behold the solid joynts, That keep up humane race.

The noble Sirloins there doth lie, A Joynt well known to satisfie, Though you feed ne're so fiercely: And there you may see the glorious Buttocks Of many a Cow, and many a fat Ox; Oh how they taste with Parseley;

The Brisket must not be forgot, 'Tts meat for a Prince, while it is hot, If Cabbage do attend it; Though if the Turneps be of Hackney, I will not covet any Sack nigh, To inspire me to commend it.

Nor must we pass the Leg of Mutton, Tis a noble Dish for any Glutton, Although he rul'd an Empire: Whether a Sea of Anchovies sawce, Like Delas Isle, do it imbrace, or serv'd with Capers and Sampire.

Your Venson Pasty, if well soakt, If not, I wish the Cook were choakt, What say you to such meat? Capons refus'd, to let it go down, It wisdom gives to the man o'th Gown, Who will feed on't till he sweat.

Who will not commend the high-soaring Larks, Or a Pidgeon-pye, worth three or four Marks, With Rabbets all butter'd about? The Woodcock, Partridge, and the Teal, The Pheasant and Turky, which the Commonweal could never be without.

There be your Hashes, and Fricasses Which are contemn'd by none but Asses,

And mushroms no meat for Carters; With a thousand more so long to recount, 'Twould make my Song for to surmount The three great Books of Martyrs

Nor would I now advise any man, For to extol the glass or can, Least he receive the foil; Should we compare them with pot or kettle, Or ladle, or skimmer of as good mettle, Or grid-iron fit to broil;

Or with the spit much us'd at court, Which Vulcan found out, heaven bless him for't, As sing the learned Atticks: And for the Jack, there is no watch, Was ever able for to match The Turn-spit Mathematicks.

Nor let the men that drink Paris Wine, Or Sack, which I take to be more Divine, Plead wit, or inspirations; Meat has a more large prerogative, For by it all Professions live, And it multiplies the Nations.

The man that drinketh all his life, What can he do unto his wife? Poor soul she lives in quiet? But such a restless quiet 'tis, That never ends, till she doth kiss The man that eats good dyet.

The crafty Polititian, Who with his acts doth all he can, The Cellar dores to shut; Must have his boil'd, his bak'd, his rost, Nor will he spare for any cost, To cram his lawless gut.

The serious Lawyer, who doth firk Out of his pate full many a quirk,

Refuses all strong liquor; Yet cause his commons are but short, A Clients feast does him no hurt, It will make them talk the quicker.

Peace therefore, Broom, for liquor so fierce, The Cooks are angry at thy verse, And ha'sworn the Fidlers to cripple; If against next Term they ha' ne're a new song, Which may to the praise of Meat belong, As well as to that of Tipple.