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Английская поэзия XIV–XX веков в современных русских переводахEdward (Ned) Ward (1667–1731). A Satyr upon Derby-Ale
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Edward (Ned) Ward (1667–1731). A Satyr upon Derby-Ale
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Base and Ignoble Flegm, dull Derby-Ale,

Thou canst o’er none but Brainless Sots prevail;

Chokes them if New, and Sour art if Stale.

Thou drown’st no Care, or dost thou Elevate;

Instead of quenching Drouth, dost Drouth create,

Makes us dull Sots at an expensive rate.

Old English Ale, which Upstart Fops disdain,

Brew’d by our Grandsires, Chear’d the Heart of Man,

Quench’d Drouth with pleasure, and prolong’d their Span.

But thou! Poor Slime, thou art not Ale, for why?

Thou neither Chears the Heart, or Brisks the Eye;

The more we Drink the more we still are Dry.

Rare Fat’ning Swill, to Belly up Lean Guest,

It feeds a Man in six Months to a Beast,

And gives him bulk, for a Church-Ward’n at least.

Puff’d up with thee, Dispirited, Debas’d,

We into Gray’s-Inn reel (O Pump be prais’d)

There Quench that Drouth thy Treacly Dregs have rais’d.

One hearty Draught prepares for Pipe of Funk,

Three Tankards whets my Appetite for Punk,

Four makes me Sick, but Ten won’t make me Drunk.

O’er Nipperkins of thee six Hours I sit,

Till spent my Total, and benum’d my Wit,

Thus nothing have, and just for nothing fit.

Our Wits, or Thoughts, thou never canst advance

Above the Affairs of Poland, or of France:

Wounds, thou’rt a Booby to a Cup of Nantes.

Thou’rt fit for those who are from Troubles free,

Thou Cur’st no Spleen, thou art unfit for me,

I’d’s live almost drink Adam’s Ale as thee.

Thou mak’st us Fat in little time ’tis true,

The same will Swines-Flesh and Potatoes do;

They covet Flesh, not Brains, that follow you.

Thou Noble Ale! Mere Caudle, and unfit

For Men of Care to drink, or Men of Wit;

Poor English Coffee for a plodding Cit.

Guzzle for Carmen, Foggy and unfine,

For nothing fit but to Exhaust our Coin;

Water to Brandy, and small Beer to Wine.

Forgive my drowsy Muse where e’er she nods;

She’s not inspir’d or Tutor’d by the Gods;

She Rhimes o’er Ale, others o’er Wine; that’s odds.

What if you say she’s dull, it’s no great matter,

Gross Muddy Ale’s a heavy Theam for Satyr.

Tom Brown be judge, or honest Ben Bridgwater.

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