Sot's paradise, or, The humours of a Derby-ale-house with a satyr upon the ale.

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 'tis 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.