"Ah noo! a noo! Unless when I be vorced, By rason, Dactor zaith, my stommirk ba’in exhaust." "And what was it the doctor said to you, Mr. Dawe?" I asked, perceiving that he courted inquiry. He fixed his eyes upon me, with a searching look; eager, as it seemed, yet fearing to believe that he had found at last a generous sympathy. "’Twas more nor dree months zince ai titched a drap, When ai was compelled to consult the Dactor chap; He zaith, zaith he, ’’tain’t no good now this here, Oh, Ebenezer Dawe, you must tak beer.’" These words he repeated with impressive earnestness, shaking his head and sighing, as if in deprecation of so sad a remedy. Yet the subject possessed perhaps a melancholy charm, and his voice relented to a pensive unctuousness, as he concluded. "’Tak beer!’ I zays, ’Lor, I dunnow the way!’ ’Then you must larn,’ zays he, ’this blessed day: You’m got,’ he zays, ’a daungerous zinking here, Your constitooshun do requaire beer.’" "Thee wasn’ long avore thee tried it, I’ll warr’n," said the farmer, "tache the calf the wai to the coo!" Scorning this vile insinuation, Mr. Dawe continued thus: "Wull, after that, mayhap a month or zo, I was gooin home, the zame as maight be noo: I had zawed a hellum up for Varmer Yeo, And a velt my stommick gooin turble low, Her cried and skooned, like a chield left in the dark, And a maze laike in my head, and a maundering in my barck. Zo whun ai coom to the voot of Breakneck hill, I zeed the public kept by Pewter Will: The virelight showed the glasses in the bar, And ’um danced and twinkled like the avening star." Here he paused, overcome by his own description. "Wull," said the farmer, brightening with fellow-feeling, for he liked his glass, "Wull, thee toorned in and had a drap, laike a man, and not be shamed of it nother. And how did her tast? A must have been nation good, after so long a drouth!" "Coom’d down my drort, like the Quane and Princess Royal, The very sa-am as a drap of oi-al!" "The very sa-am, the very sa-am," he repeated with an extrametrical smack of his lips, which he wiped with the back of his hand, and cast a meaning glance towards the cellar. The farmer rose, and took from the dresser a heavy quart cup made of pewter. With this he went to the cellar, whence issued presently a trickling and frothing sound, which thrilled to the sensitive heart of Mr. Dawe. The tankard of ale, with a crown of white foam, was presented to the thirsty bard by his host, who did not, however, relinquish his grasp upon the vessel; but imposed (like Pluto to Orpheus) a stern condition. "Now, Beany Dawe, thee shan’t have none, unless thee can zay zummut without no poetry in it."