The _Poor man_ will praise it, so hath he good cause, That all the year eats neither _Partridge_ nor _Quaile_, But sets up his rest, and makes up his Feast, With a crust of _brown bread_, and a _pot of good ale_. The _Shepherd_, the _Sower_, the _Thresher_, the _Mower_, The one with his _Scythe_, the other with his _Flaile_, Take them out by the poll, on the peril of my soll, All will hold up their hands to a _pot of good ale_. The _Black-Smith_, whose bellows all Summer do blow, With the fire in his Face still, without e’re a vaile, Though his throat be full dry, he will tell you no lye, But where you may be sure of a _pot of good ale_. Who ever denies it, the Pris’ners will prayse it, That beg at [the] Grate, and lye in the _Goale_, For, even in their _fetters_ they thinke themselves better, May they get but a two-penny black _pot of Ale_. The begger, whose portion is alwayes his prayers, Not having a tatter to hang on his taile, Is rich in his rags, as the churle in his bags, If he once but shakes hands with a _pot of good ale_. It drives his poverty clean out of mind, Forgetting his _brown bread_, his _wallet_, and _maile_; He walks in the house like a _six footed Louse_, If he once be inricht with a _pot of good ale_. And he that doth _dig_ in the _ditches_ all day, And wearies himself quite at the _plough-taile_, Will speak no less things than of _Queens_ and of _Kings_, If he touch but the top of a _pot of good ale_. ’Tis like a Whetstone to a _blunt wit_, And makes a supply where Nature doth fail: The dullest wit soon will look quite through the Moon, If his temples be wet with a _pot of good ale_. Then DICK to his _Dearling_, full boldly dares speak, Though before (silly Fellow) his courage did quaile, He gives her the _smouch_, 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_ straight-way; With Rhetorical termes he will tell his tale; With _courtesies_ great store, and his Cap up before, Being school’d but a little with a _pot of good ale_. The _Old man_, whose tongue wags faster than his teeth, (For old age by Nature doth drivel and drale) Will frig and will fling, like a Dog in a string, If he warm his cold blood with a _pot of good ale_. And the good _Old Clarke_, whose sight waxeth dark, And ever he thinks the Print is to[o] small, He will see every Letter, and say Service better, If he glaze but his eyes with a _pot of good ale_. The _cheekes_ and the _jawes_ to commend it have cause; For where they were late but even wan and pale, They will get them a colour, no _crimson_ is fuller, By the true die and tincture of a _pot of good ale_.