A collection of the choicest epigrams and characters of Richard Flecknoe being rather a new work, then [sic] a new impression of the old.

In Small-Beer.

HOw cold am I? with Drinking of this Small- Beer we may well the Devils Julip call; Distill'd from Lembeck of some Lapland Witch, With North-winds 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 'th' morning, who were drunk o'er night. Sure 'twas the poyson Antiquaries think They g••ve condemned Socrates to drink: Or that the Macedonian drank so cold, As nothing but an Asses Hoeff would hold. We are deceiv'd it was not Neobe's moan, But drinking Small-Beer turn'd her unto stone. And that infa••libly, which since has made All Charity so cold, and th'World so bad. If then Divines wou d mend it, let them Preach 'Gainst Small-Beer onely, and no doctrine Teach; But Drinking Wine, and then we soon shou'd see All in Religion eas'ly would agree; There wou'd be no dispute, nor factious Brother, To rail against the State, and damn each other. This were a l••bor, worthy of their heat, And furious beating th' Pulpit till they sweat.