Pills to Purge Melancholly. [p. 1.] _The Ex-Ale-tation of ALE._ Not drunken, nor sober, but neighbour to both, I met with a friend in _Ales-bury_ Vale; He saw by my Face, that I was in the Case To speak no great harm of a _Pot of good Ale_. Then did he me greet, and said, since we meet (And he put me in mind of the name of the Dale) For _Ales-burys_ sake some pains I would take, And not _bury_ the praise of a _Pot of good Ale_. The more to procure me, then he did adjure me If the _Ale_ I drank last were nappy and stale, To do it its right, and stir up my sprite, And fall to commend a _pot_ [_of good ale_]. [_passim._] Quoth I, To commend it I dare not begin, Lest therein my Credit might happen to fail; For, many men now do count it a sin, But once to look toward a _pot of good ale_. Yet I care not a pin, For I see no such sin, Nor any thing else my courage to quail: For, this we do find, that take it in kind, Much vertue there is in a _pot of good ale_. And I mean not to taste, though thereby much grac’t, Nor the _Merry-go-down_ without pull or hale, Perfuming the throat, when the stomack’s afloat, With the Fragrant sweet scent of a _pot of good ale_. Nor yet the delight that comes to the _Sight_ To see how it flowers and mantles in graile, As green as a _Leeke_, with a smile in the cheek, The true Orient colour of a _pot of good ale_. But I mean the _Mind_, and the good it doth find, Not onely the _Body_ so feeble and fraile; For, _Body_ and _Soul_ may blesse the _black bowle_, Since both are beholden to a _Pot of good ale_. For, when _heavinesse_ the mind doth oppresse, And _sorrow_ and _grief_ the heart do assaile, No remedy quicker than to take off your Liquor, And to wash away _cares_ with a _pot of good ale_. The _Widow_ that buried her Husband of late, Will soon have forgotten to weep and to waile, And think every day twain, till she marry again, If she read the contents of a _pot of good ale_. It is like a _belly-blast_ to a _cold heart_, And warms and engenders the _spirits vitale_: To keep them from domage all sp’rits owe their homage To the _Sp’rite of the buttery_, a _pot of good ale_. And down to the _legs_ the vertue doth go, And to a bad _Foot-man_ is as good as a _saile_: When it fill the Veins, and makes light the Brains, No _Lackey_ so nimble as a _pot of good ale_. The naked complains not for want of a coat, Nor on the cold weather will once turn his taile; All the way as he goes, he cuts the wind with his Nose, If he be but well wrapt in a _pot of good ale_. The hungry man takes no thought for his meat, Though his stomack would brook a _ten-penny_ naile; He quite forgets hunger, thinks on it no longer, If he touch but the sparks of a _pot of good ale_.