The paradice of pleasure, or, An encomium upon Darby-ale in answer to a scurrilous lampoon call'd Scott's paradice, or, A satyr against Darby-ale.

AN ENCOMIUM UPON DARBY-ALE.

LET other Bards the help of Phaebus ask, When they assume some high Poetick task; I crave no Aid, nor will invoke his Fire, 'Tis Darby-Ale alone shall me Inspire; My Pen engag'd on its transporting Theme, I beg no other Hellyconian Stream; A Dose of this transcends that Fictious Name. Nought else my daring Muses Flight shall raise, Then quaff her Liquor whilst I sing its praise; And if she sicken in this noble Race, Reviving Cups shall cheer her drooping Pace.

Methinks I feel her struggling in my Breast, Like Delphick Priests, with Oracles oppress'd, To give her vent's to calm her into Rest.

Dictate great Soul of Mirth, thou Darby-Ale, For thou can'st best thy hidden Charms Reveal; When sluggish Years have drain'd our Strength away, Thou giv'st new Fires to old Promethean Clay: Thy sacred Juice does break old Age's Chains, And make new Blood, come Dancing through the Veins; Eighty Reverse into his Twenty's Prime, And dost unbarr the Iron Gates of Time: Had that sage Sorceress known thee heretofore, When drooping AEson's Life she did restore, With this Elixir, he had dy'd no more.

In vain let Chymists their dark Arts Exalt, They're all Chimaera's to the Darby-Malt; For that alone which from thy Grain Distils, We find to be the Lethe of our Ills. Let Alchymists some curs'd Mishap bemoan; And waste their Substance for a Fictious Stone, When its possession lies in thee alone: In this rich Juice, colour and taste unite, To charm the Sence, and please the Appetite; The Glasses Grown'd, 'tis Rapture to behold The lively Attome, Dance in Liquid Gold.

In dusky AEgypt, where no Worship Reigns, but what the Error of their Fancy frames; Did they to this bright Liquor bend their Knee, There were pretence for their Idolatry: Had Epicurus, when he Bliss defin'd, But tasted thee, thou'dst Extafied his Mind, To thee alone he'd Happiness confin'd.

When Clouds of Grief hang hov'ring round the Soul, Those Foggs are scatter'd by a Lucid Bowl; Harrast with Care, with Troubles when oppres'd, It quells the raging Passions of our Breast; The Wealthy Merchant's Loss it does Restore, His Ills are lull'd, and he Repines no more: Wrecks nor Misfortunes can his Rest destroy, He drowns his Losses in a Flood of Joy.

The Brawny Priest, who Scripture has perplex'd, For Darby-Ale, forsakes his Pray'rs and Text; Warm'd with some healing Quarte, he talks more Sense Than from his Pulpit e'er he did dispence. Each sparkling Glass does sparkling Wit excite, And makes the Poet, in a Rapture write: If the transporting thoughts, that charm the Mind, Are only Pellets of the Blood Refin'd,

To this rich Juice, we should our homage pay, That does the Spirits to the Brain convey. Let other Coxcombs to their Bags be Slaves, And, as they purchase Wealth, be prick'd for Knaves, Grant me of this transparent Liquor store, I'll thank the Gods, and ask 'em for no more: On some tall Butt (with more triumphant Pride) With Glasses Crown'd, I'de rather sit astride, Than the vast Ocean's Admiral to Ride; Cou'd I like Midas in my wish avail, I'de Metamorphize all to Darby-Ale; The Silver Thames shou'd change its Christal hue, And Ships shou'd in that noblest Liquor Plow; Or cou'd I higher but the grant obtain, The Fleecy Clouds shou'd sparkling Darby Rain.

Blest be the Soul who this great Art first sound, In high Elogius may his Name be Crown'd, Inscrib'd on Parian Marble, let it shine, Myriads of Years, in spice of mould'ring Time. When Wine bore sway, the Nation's greatest Curse, This Art appear'd, and stem'd its Conquering Course; For when to this great Project he gave Birth, He taught at once, Frugality and Mirth;

When costly Wines (it cannot be deny'd) Had almost Bankrupt Cornhill and Cheapside.

Bandy and Annice, with that fatal train, Destroy the Land, and ought no longer Reign; They Fire the Brain, and all the Vitals Burn, And, into Embers, do the Entrails turn; Perpetual Burnings prey upon the Heart, And we possess hot AEtna's in each part; For Sots alone such burning Cups are fit, Not for the gen'rous Souls of Mirth and Wit, But Stroling Carmen, or the plodding Fool, That take delight in being Drunk and Dull.

Iove as he lately in the Divan Sate, Musing how Mortals posted to their Fate, Order'd some Gods the Matter to Debate: From the Illustrious House; they strait withdrew, Apollo, Regnant of the Sacred Crew: The Matter weigh'd, that Peer of Heaven's High Court, From the Committee, Thus made his Report; Wonder not, Ruler of the spang'led Sky, That Souls throng Styx, and to Olympus Fly, When Wine, the Brittish Nation's chiefest good, Is turn'd distemper'd, and corrupts the Blood;

Ty'd to a Chain of Plagues, poor Mortals groan Under Consumptions, Tysicks, and the Stone; Tyr'd with Diseases, they their Lives resign, And owe their Deaths to noxious Fumes of Wine: Others by Dropsies to a Bulk are blown, Resembling those, who wou'd have Storm'd thy Throne: This is the Grand Result of our Debate, They'll faster dye, if Wine not Abdicate; Let Bacchus tear the Grapes from off his Brow; and mission him to's Bacchanals below; With no full Bowls of Wine let him appear, But Darby-Ale, Transparent, Lucid, Clear; Tell 'em the Gods to Pity are inclin'd, And sent this Cordial, to Revive Mankind, Who other Liquor Drinks, breaks the Decree, Pass'd by this House, and Ratify'd by Thee; As quick Infection, order they decline That Door they see encircl'd with a Vine; If this, by Bacchus, with all speed be done, Mortals a longer Race of Years shall Run: Thus Ceas'd great Phaebus, and all prais'd the God, And mighty Iove gave his assenting Nod.

From this Decree great London is grown wise, Claret's condemn'd, and Darby-Ale we prize; Each separate Street in different Signs do show, That happy Nectar is contain'd below: But—As Planets borrow from the Orb of Light, So other Darby-Houses may shine Bright, By the Reflexion of Thy Sun, Great White: * 1.1 Such plenteous Stores do guild thy Sun with Beams, Thine is the Fountain, theirs the lesser Streams. 'Tis Extasie to see thy Cellar grac'd With well pil'd Butts, in noble order plac'd; Such high carv'd Hogsheads all around we see, That sure on Earth thou'rt Bacchus Deputy; Thy Trade's no wonder, where shou'd Crowds resort, But where the God of Drinking keeps his Court? As far as English Banners are display'd, Thy Name's Ador'd, and potent Ale convey'd; Not to our Isle alone, thy Fame is known, But where the Winds do Course, or Ships are Blown; The rough unpollish'd Indian-Planters own More Influence from Thy Sun, than from their own; Thy Butts Unlading, they Rejoyce and Smile, Blessing the bounteous product of our Isle;

Thy Liquid Cargo does contain such Joys, That they their Gold and Country's growth despise, And for it Barter costly Gems as Toys. As long as this Rich Juice distill'd shall be, Thy Name's consign'd to all Posterity.

The next to thee, Watt's Renown soars high, Whose Stock Inferiour Houses does supply; * 1.2 Each Rank, each Order, daily grace his House, And at throng'd Tables roundly do Carouse; From his great Room vast flakes of Smoak arise, And Pipes, like Stars, do shine in gloomy Skies; In chatting Clubs your Polititians sit, And as they Drink; they more refine their Wit: The Harrast Warriour there forgets his Toyls, In plund'ring Pints he finds more glorious Spoils. Uxorious Cit, whose greatest Plague's a Wife, Forgets his ills, and drowns Domestick Strife: To thee he comes to meliorate his Pains, His Cares are hush'd, and lively Pleasure Reigns.

To Iackson's Mansion there's some Honour due, * 1.3 Whose Complaisance attracts a generous Crew; Each rowling Night his Rooms to Wit give Birth, His House the Body Politick of Mirth.

Antaeus seated at one Board we see, Flush'd with the Juice (from all Example free) And setting up for Popularity; When num'rous Cups have wrought upon his Brain, His Sence he by his Courage does maintain: Antaeus like, he'd Hercules Assail, Nor can the Liquor o'er his Strength prevail, But from each blow that Hercules does make, Touching the Cup, he does fresh vigour take.

When Pints Replete, do Malpas Spirits raise, He tunes his Viol to harmonious Lays; His chanting sounds do on my Sences rowl, Dissolve my Frame, and wanton in my Soul: Had Orpheus known to strike his Lire so well, He'd brought his Wife a second time from Hell.

When healing Draughts Lycurgus Blood do warm, His Thoughts surprize us, and his Words do charm; In pointed Satyr, wisely he displays The Senceless Coxcomb, and the Fool Pourtrays; And there lets fall as much Extemp're Wit As in some Plays of two Years growth is Writ.

The Artful Albus hither does repair, Whose Carriage is Genteely Debonair;

To fleeting Time his Works shall wing his Fame, When Dykes shall Dye, and Titian want a Name.

No Satyr center'd in Cratena's Face, His Eyes dart Love, and Smiles his Brows do grace; With Pint and Pipe sagiciously he'll sit Remarking those that do engender Wit; To ev'ry Query makes his pat Replys, And when the Clock strikes Ten, he pays, and flys.

Honesto here his transient hours beguiles With serious Glasses, recreates his Toils, He Drinks and Talks, and as he Smoaks, he Smiles. Decrepid Gulpo, of the Hobbian Race, Who owns no God, and Scripture does deface; His Worship lies lock'd up in Error's Vail, And if he Bows to ought,—'tis Darby-Ale.

Melinthus (inoffensive in his way) Sits list'ning, pleas'd with what the Wits do say; Silent and unconcern'd he takes their hints, And adds the Pleasure to succeeding Pints.

With rueful Phiz, Cornutus takes his place, His Brows are branch'd, and Care o'erwelms his Face, Till Iackson's Ale his sinking Spirit buoys, More than the Common's Court, or Proctor's noise;

With many more, too tedious to rehearse, Beneath a Rhime or dignity of Verse.

To Fullwood's-Rents my Muse might take her flight; To praise those blissful Cellars of Delight; But Grays-Inn Sparks can best defend the Cause, And prove this Ale the Key to all the Laws.

Curse on the Scribler who with dearth of Sence, Dares to prophane its Soveraign Excellence; May he capacious Hogsheads round him spy, Like Tantalus, in Plenty still be Dry; And from his Thirst such Torture may he feel, Worse Racks than e'er Ixion from his Wheel, Let strange Chimera's dance before his Sight, And shock his trembling Sences all the Night; Obsequious Catchpoles wait him as he Rise, And be upon his haunts the London Spies; Till he be left both Penyless and Poor, To drag a hated Life from Door and Door: And and may his Doggrel Muse ne'er meet Success, But damn'd to keep Employ'd some Grubstreet Press.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 1.1

  The Sign of the Sun in Golden-Lane.
• * 1.2

  In St. James's-Market.
• * 1.3

  In Hide∣street, Blooms∣bury.