Taken from Dr. Everard's The Vertue of Tobacco, a collection,
published in 1672, that also contains four pieces written against the
use of tobacco, and a treatise against drunkeness.
Coffee, a kind of Turkish
Renegade
Has late a match with Christian water made;
At first between them happen'd a Demur
Yet joyn'd they were, but not without great stir;
For both so cold were and so faintly meet,
The Turkish Hymen in his Turbant swet.
Coffee was cold as Earth, Water as Thames,
And stood in need of recommending Flames;
For each of them steers a contrary course,
And of themselves they sue out a Divorce.
Coffee so brown as berry does appear,
Too swarthy for a Nymph so fair, so clear:
And yet his sails he did for England hoist,
Though cold and dry to court the cold and moist;
If there be ought we can, as love admit;
Tis a hot love and lasteth but a fit
For this indeed the course is of their story,
Newcastle's bowels warmer are than they.
The melting Nymph distils herself to do't,
Whilst the Slave Coffee must be beaten to't:
Incorporate him close as close may be,
Pause but a while, and he is none of he;
Which for a truth, and not a story tells,
No faith is to be kept with Infidels.
Sure he suspects, and shuns her as a Whore,
And loves, and kills, like the Venitian Moor;
Bold Asian Brat! with speed our confines flee;
Water, though common is too good for thee.
Sure Coffee's vext he has the breeches lost,
For she's above and she lies undermost;
What shall I add but this? (and sure 'tis right)
The Groom is heavy, 'cause the bride is light.
This canting Coffee has his crew inricht,
And both the Water and the Men bewictht.
A Coachman was the first (here) Coffee made,
And ever since the rest drive on the trade;
Me no good Engalash! and sure enough,
He plaid the Quack to salve his Stygian stuff;
Ver boon for de stomach, de cough, de Ptisick,
And I believe him, for it looks like Physick.
Coffee a crust is charkt into a coal,
The smell and taste of the Mock China bowl;
Where huff and puff,they labour out their Lungs,
Lest Dives-like they should bewail their Tongues.
And yet they tell ye that it will not burn,
Though on the Jury Blisters you return:
Whose furious heat does make the water rise,
And still through the Alembicks of your eyes,
Dread and desire, ye fall to't snap by snap,
As hungry Dogs, do scalding porrige lap.
But to cure Drunkards, it has got great Fame;
Posset or Porrige, will't not do the same?
Confusion huddles all into one scene,
Like Noah's Ark, the clean and the unclean.
But now, alas! the Drench has credit got,
And he's no Gentleman that drinks it not;
That such a Dwarf should rise to such a stature!
But Custom is but a remove from Nature.
A little Dish, and a large Coffee-House
What is it, but a Mountain and a Mouse?
Mens humana novitatis avidissima