Men run on the score, and little they paid, Which made the poor Smith be greatly dismaied, And bonny _Besse_ though she were not slack To welcome her guesse, yet things went to wrack; For she would exchange a pot for a kisse, Which any fellow should seldom times misse. But quoth the good Wife, sweet hart do not rayl, These things must be if we sell Ale. The Smith went abroad, at length hee came home, And found his maid and man in a room, Both drinking together foot to foot, To speak unto them he thought was no boot: For they were both drunk and could not reply, To make an excuse as big as a lye. But quoth the good wife, sweet hart do not rayl, These things must be if we sell Ale. He came home again and there he did see His Wife kindly sitting on a man's knee, And though he said little, yet he thought the more, And who can blame the poor Wittall therfore. He hug'd her and kist her though Vulcan stood by, Which made him to grumble, and look all awry. But quoth the good wife, sweet hart do not rayl, These things must be, if we sell Ale. A Sort of Saylers were drinking one night, And when they were drunk began for to fight, The Smith came to part them, as some do report, And for his good will was beat in such sort That he could not lift his arms to his head, Nor yet very hardly creep up to his bed. But quoth the good wife, sweet hart do not rayl, These things must be if we sell Ale. The Smith by chance a good fellow had met, That for strong Ale was much in his debt, He ask't him for money; quoth he, by your leave, I owe you no money, nor none you shall have. I owe to your wife, and her I will pay; The Smith he was vext and departed away. Alas who can blame him, if now he do rayl, For these things must be if we sell Ale. * * * * * A flock of good fellows, all Smiths by their trade, Within a while after a holiday made, Unto the Smith's house they came then with speed, And there they were wondrous merry indeed, With my pot and thy pot to make the score hier, Mine Host was so drunk he fell in the fire. But quoth the good Wife, sweet hart do not rayl, These things must be if we sell Ale. * * * * * But men ran so much with him on the score, That Vulcan at last grew wondrous poor, He owed the Brewer and Baker so much, They thretned to arrest him, his case it was such; He went to his Anvill, to my pot and thine, He turn'd out his Maid, he pul'd down his Signe, But O (quoth the good Wife) why should we fail, These things should not be, if we sell Ale.