A Description of a Quakers Tavern in Finch-Lane. the Quakers Method of Drinking. A Song. A Charact­er of the Vintner. The Spy and his Friend go to the Angel in Fanchurch-street; from whence they were Committed to the Poultry Counter; which the Spy Describes. Their Examination before a Justice. A Po­etical Curse on the Constable. Remarks on Bow-Church Steeple. The Giants in Guild-Hall. The Sheriffs Court. The Court of Conscience, The Pictures of the Judges. On an Old Man with a great Nose. A Man that goes half Naked. Upon one in St. Pauls Church-Yard.

BEING now well tired with the days Fatigue, our thirsty Veins and drooping Spirits call’d for the assistance of a Cordial Flask. In order to gratifie our craving Appetites with this Refreshment, we stood a while debating what Tavern we should chuse to enrich our Minds with unadulterated Juice. My Friend recollected a little Sanctified Aminadab in Finch-Lane, whose Purple Nectar had acquir’d a Singular Reputa­tion amongst the Staggering Zealots of the Sober Fra­ternity, who are allow’d of late to be as good Judges of the Comfortable Creature, as a Protestant Priest, or a Latitudinarian Fuddle-cap, who (as Rooks play) drink Wine on Sundays.


To this Salutiferous Fountain of Nature’s choicest Juleps, our inclinations led us, tho’ we knew the lit­tle Ruler of the Mansion intended it chiefly for Wa­tering the Lambs of Grace, and not to succour the E­vil off-spring of a Reprobate Generation.

When we had entred our Land of Promise, which overflow’d with more Healthful Riches than either Milk or Honey, we found all things were as silent as the Mourning Attendants at a Rich Mans Funeral; no ringing of Bar-Bell, bawling of Drawers, or ratling of Pot-lids; But a general hush ordered to be kept thro’ the whole Family, as a warning to all Tiplers at their entrance, how they make a Noise to awake the Spirit, lest it move the Masters and Drawers to stand still when you call ’em; and refuse to draw you any more Wine, for fear the inward Man should break out into open disorder.

In the Entry we met two or three blushing Saints, who had been holding forth so long over the Glass, that had it not been for their flapping Umbrella’s, Pu­ritanical Coats, and diminutive Cravats, shap’d like the Rose of a Parsons Hat-band, I should have taken them by their Scarlet Faces, to be good Christians. They pass’d by us as upright and as stiff, as so many Figures in a Raree-show; as if a touch of the Hat, had been committing of Sacriledge; or Ceremonious Nod, a rank Idolatry.

A Drunken-look’d Drawer, disguis’d in a Sober-Garb, like a Wolf in Sheeps Cloathing, or the Devil in a Fryars Habit, shew’d us into the Kitchen, where we told him we were desirous of being, as Crickets covet Ovens, for the sake of their warmth: Several of Father Ramseys slouching Disciples sat hovering over their Half-pints, like so many Coy Gossips over their Quarterns of Brandy, as if they were afraid any body should see ’em; they cast as many froward looks upon us Swords-men, as so many Misers would be apt to do upon a