Whoever denies it, the pris'ners will praise it, For even in their fetters, they think themselves better, The beggar whofe portion is always his prayers, Is as rich in his rags as the churl in his bags, If he once but shakes hands with a tankard of ale. It drives his poverty clean out of mind, Forgetting his brown bread, his wallet and mail, And he that doth dig in the ditches all day, And wearies himself quite at the plough-tail, 'Tis like a whetstone to a blunt wit, And makes a fupply where nature doth fail; Then Dick to his dearling full boldly dares speak, Though before (filly fellow) his courage did quail, He gives her the fmouch, with his hand on his pouch, If he meet by the way with a pot of good ale. And it makes the carter a courtier straitway, With rhetorical terms he will tell his tale, The The old man whose tongue wags fafter than his teeth, (For old age by nature doth drivel and drale) Will frig and will fling like a dog in a ftring, If he warm his cold blood with a pot of good ale. And the good old clerk whofe fight waxeth dark, The cheeks and the jaws to commend it have caufe; Mark her enemies, though they think themselves wise, And now that the grains do work in my brains, That flow to mankind from a pot of good ale. The Mufes would mufe any fhould it mifufe: For it makes them to fing like a nightingale, With a lofty trim note, having washed their throat, With the Caballine fpring of a pot of good ale. And the musician of any condition, It will make him reach to the top of his scale; The The poet divine that cannot reach wine, If he be but infpir'd with a pot of good ale. For ballads Elderton never had beer, How went his wit in them, with how merry a gale; And the power of it shows, no whit lefs in prose, And mafter philofopher, if he drink his part, Give a scholar of Oxford a pot of fixteen, And put him to prove that an ape hath no tail, And fixteen times better his wit will be seen, If you fetch him from Botley a pot of good ale. Thus it helps fpeech and wit, and it hurts not a whit, Then think it not much if a little I touch, To the church and religion it is a good friend, 5 But But now, as they fay, beer bears it away; The more is the pity, if right might prevail ; For with this fame beer, came up herefy here, The old catholic drink is a pot of good ale. The churches much owe, as we all do know, Truth will do it right, it brings truth to light, For they that will drink, will speak what they think : It is Juftices friend, fhe will it commend, For all is here ferved by measure and tale; And next I alledge it is Fortitudes edge, For a very cow-herd, that fhrinks like a fnail, Will fwear and will fwagger, and out goes his dagger, If he be but arm'd with a pot of good ale. Yea ale hath her knights and fquires of degree, That never wore corflet, nor yet shirt of mail, But have fought their fights all, 'twixt the pot and the wall, And fure it will make a man fuddenly wife, As made a right bencher of a pot of good ale. Or Or he that will make a bargain to gain, In buying or fetting his goods forth to fale, Must not plod in the mire, but fit by the fire, And feal up his match with a pot of good ale. But for foberness needs muft I confefs, The matter goes hard; and few do prevail Not to go too deep, but temper to keep, Such is the attractive of a pot of good ale. But here's an amends, which will make all friends, If you take it too deep it will make you but fleep; If, reeling, they happen to fall to the ground, For that gift is given to a pot of good ale. If drinking about they chance to fall out, Fear not that alarm, though flesh be but frail, And phyfic will favour ale as it is bound, Their ale-berries, caudles, and poffets each one, F And |