A drunken clergy and a swearing bench Has given the Reformation such a drench, As wise men think there is some cause to doubt Will purge good manners and religion out. Nor do the poor alone their liquor prize; The sages join in this great sacrifice; The learned men who study Aristotle, Correct him with an explanation bottle; Praise Epicurus rather than Lysander, And Aristippus[20] more than Alexander. The doctors, too, their Galen here resign, And generally prescribe specific wine; The graduate’s study’s grown an easier task, While for the urinal they toss the flask; The surgeon’s art grows plainer every hour, And wine’s the balm which into wounds they pour. Poets long since Parnassus have forsaken, And say the ancient bards were all mistaken. Apollo’s lately abdicate and fled, And good King Bacchus governs in his stead; He does the chaos of the head refine, And atom-thoughts jump into words by wine: The inspirations of a finer nature, As wine must needs excel Parnassus’ water. Statesmen their weighty politics refine, And soldiers raise their courages by wine; Cecilia gives her choristers their choice, And lets them all drink wine to clear their voice. Some think the clergy first found out the way, And wine’s the only spirit by which they pray; But others, less profane than so, agree It clears the lungs and helps the memory; And therefore all of them divinely think, Instead of study, ’tis as well to drink. And here I would be very glad to know Whether our Asgilites may drink or no; Th’ enlight’ning fumes of wine would certainly Assist them much when they begin to fly; Or if a fiery chariot should appear, Inflamed by wine, they’d have the less to fear. Even the gods themselves, as mortals say, Were they on earth, would be as drunk as they; Nectar would be no more celestial drink, They’d all take wine, to teach them how to think. But English drunkards gods and men outdo, Drink their estates away, and money too. Colon’s in debt, and if his friends should fail To help him out, must die at at last in gaol; His wealthy uncle sent a hundred nobles To pay his trifles off, and rid him of his troubles; But Colon, like a true-born Englishman, Drank all the money out in bright champagne, And Colon does in custody remain. Drunk’ness has been the darling of this realm E’er since a drunken pilot had the helm. In their religion they are so uneven, That each man goes his own by-way to Heaven, Tenacious of mistakes to that degree That ev’ry man pursues it separately, And fancies none can find the way but he: So shy of one another they are grown, As if they strove to get to Heaven alone. Rigid and zealous, positive and grave, And ev’ry grace but Charity they have. This makes them so ill-natured and uncivil, That all men think an Englishman the devil. Surly to strangers, froward to their friend; Submit to love with a reluctant mind. Resolved to be ungrateful and unkind, If by necessity reduced to ask, The giver has the difficultest task;