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NED WARD The Delights of the Bottle: OR, the Compleat Vintner (1720) Canto IV - 'The Tavern Tormentors'
How blest might ev'ry Station be, Would Men love Peace and Amitie! How glib and easy would the Cares And Toils of our uncertain Years Go down, if no ill-natur'd Brothers Would pleasure take in plaguing others! But since the Fate of things are such, That some have little, some too much, And that Dame Fortune's Purseproud Darlings Will have their Humours and their Snarlings. The Vint'ner must himself surrender To ev'ry crossgrain'd Money-spender, And if he'd be accounted Civil, Cry, Sir, you're welcome, to the Devil; Submit to ev'ry Fool's Opinion, And Flatter like a Prince's Minion. But of all Hum'rists that delight To shew their Folly or their Spight, The following List are those that most Perplex each Bacchanalian Host, Tho' other Trades, as well as they, Have Teasers in a diff'rent way. Among this merry motly Race, The Bubble Upstarts claim a place, Grown Rich by fictious Stocks and Funds, As Asses thrive on barren Grounds, Each ravish'd with his wealthy Store, Like Danae with her Golden Show'r, Which from the distant Clouds descended; Just so our Bublers are befriended, Who growing proud and richer far, In fancy, than they really are, Assume too much where e'er they come, Except where known, and that's at home; Huff, strut and wrangle where they Dine, Reproach the Cook, dispraise the Wine, Dispute the Bill without a cause, And chatter worse than Pyes or Daws, Shewing they are not what they wou'd be, Nor can, or will be what they shou'd be. But curb, O Muse, thy forward Nature, All Jobbers merit not thy Satyr, Forget not honest Gouty John, Who with his Wealth more good has done, To Objects worthy of Compassion, Than half the Southeans in the Nation. For which may Providence relieve him, From all the pungent Pains that grieve him, Prolong his Days, encrease his Riches, And keep him from Podagric twitches. The Stingy Wrangler is the next, With whom the Vint'ner is perplex'd, Who neither goes, nor cares to stay, Delights to drink, but hates to pay, Is always running whilst he's sitting, Yet tarries with the least intreating, In hopes, if you presume to ask him, You'll, cost-free, Bottle him, or Flask him; But when the Reck'ning's call'd, and brought, And he's requir'd to pay his shot, He grumbles, fumbles, frets and vexes, Like Miser paying Parish-Taxes; And thus for half an Hour contends With Master, Drawer, and his Friends, About Tobacco, Bread and Cheese, Or some poor Trifles, such as these; Then in a Fury flinging down His Eighteen Pence for Half a Crown, He sneaks away, confus'd in Mind, Despis'd by those he leaves behind, The Dinner-Spungers next succeed, Who buy their Wine, but beg their Bread, Old Batchelors, untam'd by Woman, That keep no House, but live in common, Feed at some Tavern ev'ry Day, But nothing for their eating pay, Yet guttle more, where e'er they Dine, In Victuals, than they spend in Wine, And swallow, if they like the Joint, A Pound, before they drink a Pint; Not but a Cow-Heel, fry'd with Onions, Is exc'lent Fare, in their Opinions, For Spungers seldom have a loathing To any Food that costs them nothing, But, Miser-like, commend that Feast The most, at which they spend the least. To these we add a Race of Sots, W ho deal in Jills, or Quartern Pots, And think it an unchristian Crime To've more before 'em at one time. Old moody Knaves, that ne'er will spend One handsome Sixpence with a Friend, But loll beneath the Kitchen-Shelves, And drink, like Hangmen, by themselves, Till by repeated Jills they grow Half Fuddl'd, then they Pay and go, Not Home, but to some other Houses, Where they compleat their several Doses, And never stop their course, besure, Till slily Drunk in minuture. Thus Hypocrites delight to tipple, But fain would hide it from the People, And taking Pattern by the Godly, Drink much, but do it very odly. Next in the List appears a sett Of hungry Blades, that love to Whet, Altho' their Stomachs are indeed So sharp, that they no Whetting need; For if a cold Sirloin of Beef, Or Buttock, lies within the Safe, The Glass-Defence that stands before it, Will prove no Bulwark to secure it; For threat'ning Weapons soon appear, Drawn out from Pocket or the Bar, Then begging but a Bit, or so, They slice one half before they go, Each feasting at the slender Cost Of Sixpence for his Wine, at most. Rare Guests, as ever Fortune sent, T'enrich the Taverns they frequent, And raise our Vint'ners and their Spouses, To Coaches and their Country-Houses. Another sort of ill-bred Hogs There are, that act like Cats and Dogs, Who in some Kitchen-Box sit watching, To gratify themselves by snatching; If a fine Turkey's on the Spit, By stealth they seize the choicest Bit, Drink to the Cook, and whilst they give her A Glass, one sneaks away the Liver; The Wench she frets and fumes about it, They swear a Spaniel Dog run out w'it: The Master storms, the Cook is blam'd, The Mistress raves, the Dog is damn'd. The Guests resent the great abuse, The Drawer forms some good excuse: And thus the Mischief circles round, Occasion'd by one greedy Hound, If Sausages or Stakes are frying, Or Fowls before the Fire lying, A Frigacy of Rabbits dressing, Or any Dainty worth their tasting, Their Fish-hook Fingers will have share, In spight of all the Cookmaid's Care. Thus, Lady-like, they love what's nice, But steal their Prey like Rats and Mice. These are succeeded by a Clan, Call'd, Yeomen of the Dripping-Pan, Who beg their Bread, which first they bake, Till harder than a Bisket-Cake, Then in the Drippings of the Roast They mollify the crusty Toast, And often Breakfast, may be Dine, For only one poor Jill of Wine, Of three-pence Price, o'er which they swallow At least, a Pound of Bread and Tallow, And therefore at one Meal must grow More fat, than others do at two, That, would they gorge a Ball, or piece Of Cotten-Wick among their Grease, Their stinking Ends, both Night and Morning, Would mould ye Candles fit for burning. Others, who've neither Goods or Wives, Prove fatal Foes to Plates and Knives, Mercurial Blades, who cannot wait One flying Moment for their Meat, But some Experiment, tho' rude And mischievous, must be renew'd, One, Pewter turns on pointed Steel, And makes a Horizontal Wheel, Till by swift motion, and by weight, He bores a Hole quite thro' the Plate. Another takes a Knife and whittles The Table edge as if 'twas Vict'als, Else wanting thought of what to do, He stabs the Linen thro' and thro, And does more Damage in his Ayres, Than all he spends at twice, repairs. Thus careless Persons may oppress Their Neighbours, thro' forgetfulness; But when made conscious of the hurt, They ought to do 'em justice for't. But above all, the narrow Souls, That love their Bottles and their Bowls, No stingy Knave, no sorry Creature, Can fall below the Drawer-hiter, Who likes Collecting, for the sake Of keeping his own Reck'ning back: Or if there's any small remains For Tom, or Fenwick, in his hands, He'll stay the last, designing Man, To wrong the Draw'r, if he can, Tossing him Six-pence, as a blind, A nd keeps, perhaps, three more behind. Thus makes himself more base and little, Than a Church-ward'n that robs the Spittle, Or a Trustee that does oppress The Widow or the Fatherless. The last are sorry Knaves indeed, Who Pocket Spoons with which they feed, And often cause unjust Reflexions On Persons that abhor such Actions, Make Servants liable to Blame, Stain guiltless Honesty with Shame, And are, in short, worse Rogues than they That boldly rob in open Way, But these are Miscreants by Nature, Unworthy of the lowest Satyr, Therefore, as Scoundrels we'll reject 'em, And leave the Hangman to correct 'em.
CONCLUSION Since each kind Vint'ner, Minion-like, must bend To teasing Fops and Hum'rists they attend, The meanest Wretch with handsome Usage treat, Bow low to Upstarts, and to Scrubs submit, Let Men of Sense with Jolly Bacchus join, T'expel each noisy Wrangler from the Vine, And raise the ancient Dignity of Wine.
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