I’s not come here to tauke of _Prut_, From whence the _Welse_ dos take hur root; Nor tell long Pedegree of Prince _Camber_, Whose linage would fill full a Chamber, Nor sing the deeds of ould Saint _Davie_, The Ursip of which would fill a Navie, But hark me now for a liddell tales Sall make a great deal to the creddit of _Wales_: For her will tudge your eares, With the praise of hur thirteen Seers, And make you as clad and merry, As fourteen pot of Perry. ’Tis true, was wear him Sherkin freize, But what is that? we have store of seize, [_i.e._ cheese,] And Got is plenty of Goats milk That[,] sell him well[,] will buy him silk Inough, to make him fine to quarrell At _Herford_ Sizes in new apparrell; And get him as much green Melmet perhap, Sall give it a face to his Monmouth Cap. But then the ore of _Lemster_; Py Cot is uver a Sempster; That when he is spun, or did[,] Yet match him with hir thrid. Aull this the backs now, let us tell yee, Of some provision for the belly: As Kid and Goat, and great Goats Mother, And Runt and Cow, and good Cows uther. And once but tast on the Welse Mutton, Your _Englis_ Seeps not worth a button. And then for your Fisse, shall choose it your disse, Look but about, and there is a Trout, A Salmon, Cot, or Chevin, Will feed you six or seven, As taull man as ever swagger With _Welse_ Club, and long dagger. But all this while, was never think A word in praise of our _Welse_ drink: And yet for aull that, is a Cup of _Bragat_, Aull _England_ Seer may cast his Cap at. And what say you to Ale of _Webly_[?], Toudge him as well, you’ll praise him trebly, As well as _Metheglin_, or _Syder_, or _Meath_, Sall sake it your dagger quite out o’ th seath. And Oat-Cake of _Guarthenion_, With a goodly Leek or Onion, To give as sweet a rellis As e’r did Harper _Ellis_. And yet is nothing now all this, If our Musicks we do misse; Both Harps, and Pipes too; and the Crowd Must aull come in, and tauk aloud, As lowd as _Bangu_, _Davies_ Bell, Of which is no doubt you have hear tell: As well as our lowder _Wrexam_ Organ, And rumbling Rocks in the Seer of _Glamorgan_; Where look but in the ground there, And you sall see a sound there: That put her all to gedder, Is sweet as measure pedder. [Followed, in _An Antidote_, by the excellent poems, The Cavalier’s Complaint; to the tune of (Suckling’s) _I’le tell thee, Dick, &c._, with The Answer. For these, see _Merry Drollery, Compleat_, pp. 52-56, and 367.]: [p. 52.] _On a Pint of SACK._ Old poets Hipocrin admire, And pray to water to inspire Their wit and Muse with heavenly fire; Had they this Heav’nly Fountain seen, Sack both their Well and Muse had been, And this Pint-pot their Hipocrin.