Sits (studying) _a spruce youngster_, (one Who doth conceipt himself fully witty, And's counted _one o' th' wits o' th' City_,) Till by him (with a stately grace,) A Spanish _Don_ himself doth place. Then (cap in hand) a brisk _Monsieur_ He takes his seat, and crowds as near As possibly that he can come. Then next a _Dutchman_ takes his room. The Wits glib tongue begins to chatter, Though't utters more of noise than matter, Yet 'cause they seem to mind his words, His lungs more battle still affords At last says he to _Don_, I trow You understand me? _Sennor no_ Says th' other. Here the Wit doth pause A little while, then opes his jaws, And says to _Monsieur_, you enjoy Our tongue I hope? _Non par ma foy_, Replies the _Frenchman_: nor you, Sir? Says he to th' _Dutchman, Neen mynheer_, With that he's gone, and cries, why sho'd He stay where _wit's_ not understood? There in a place of his own chusing (Alone) some _lover_ sits a musing, With arms across, and's eyes up lift, As if he were of sence bereft. Till sometimes to himself he's speaking, Then sighs as if his heart were breaking. Here in a corner sits a _Phrantick_, And there stands by a frisking Antick, Of all sorts some and all conditions Even _Vintners_, _Surgeons_ and _Physicians_. The _blind_, the _deaf_, and _aged cripple_ Do here resort and Coffee tipple. Now here (perhaps) you may expect My _Muse_ some trophies should erect In high flown verse, for to set forth The _noble praises_ of its _worth_. Truth is, _old Poets_ beat their brains To find out high and lofty strains To praise the (now too frequent) use Of the bewitching _grapes strong juice_, Some have strain'd hard for to exalt The _liquor_ of our _English Mault_ Nay _Don_ has almost crackt his _nodle_ Enough t'applaud his _Caaco Caudle_. The _Germans Mum_, _Teag's Usquebagh_, (Made him so well defend _Tredagh_,) _Metheglin_, which the _Brittains_ tope, Hot _Brandy_ wine, the _Hogans_ hope. Stout _Meade_ which makes the _Russ_ to laugh, Spic'd _Punch_ (in bowls) the _Indians quaff_. All these have had their pens to raise Them _Monuments_ of lasting praise, Onely poor _Coffee_ seems to me No subject fit for _Poetry_ At least 'tis one that none of mine is, So I do wave 't, and here write-- FINIS. [Illustration: A BROAD-SIDE OF 1667] _News from the Coffe House; in which is shewn their several sorts of Passions_ appeared in 1667. It was reprinted in 1672 as _The Coffee House or News-mongers' Hall_.