To the Common Drunkard, Falsely Called a Good Fellow by Thomas Washbourne [1606-1687]
Cannot friends meet but they must drink t’ excess?
Must all your mirth conclude in drunkenness?
Accurst be he brought it in fashion first;
Before ye were content to quench your thirst,
And not exceed three or four cups at most;
Now you carouse till all your reason’s lost,
And like to over-heated Dutch-men, yee
Drink till ye fight, and fall to snicker-snee.
He that invites his friend t’ a drunken feast,
Keeps out the man and entertains the beast:
A feast ’tis not, but a base Bacchanal,
Where the beast man, a. sacrifice doth fall.
Worse then a beaste he is, for no beast will
Be made to drink a drop more then his fill.
But man his belly makes a tun, his brain
A bog, and drinks till up he comes again.
Vile man, whom God next t’ angels did create.
Below a bruit thus to degenerate!
For shame give o’re this most unmanlike sin,
Which too long hath thy daily practise bin,
Redeem thine honour drown’d in ale and wine,
And thy soul settled on the lees, refine:
When thy debauched life thou shalt correct.
Thou happier dales in England maist expect.
Take care and keep laughing!