While I’m at the Tavern quaffing, Well disposed for t’other quart, Come’s my wife to spoil my laughing, Telling me ’tis time to part: Words I knew, were unavailing, Yet I sternly answered, no! ’Till from motives more prevailing, Sitting down she treads my toe: Such kind tokens to my thinking, Most emphatically prove That the joys that flow from drinking, Are averse to those of love. Farewell friends and t’other bottle, Since I can no longer stay, Love more learn’d than Aristotle, Has, to move me, found the way. Many a tale is told of wordy passages of arms between travellers and innkeepers. Dame Halders, of Norwich, was a stingy ale-wife. Upon one occasion a passing pedlar begged of her a mug of water. “You had better,” said she, “have a jug of my home-brewed.” The pedlar complied and paid for it, remarking after tasting it that it was a very satisfying tipple. “Yes,” rejoined the dame, pleased at the supposed compliment uttered in the hearing of her country customers, “it’s my own brewing—nothing but malt and hops.” “Indeed,” exclaimed the pedlar; “what!—no water?” “O yes,” cried the dame, “I forgot the water.” “No,” quickly added the pedlar, “I’m d—d if you did.” “I say,” a wag asked of a publican, “if we were to have a Coroner’s Inquest on your beer, what verdict should we arrive at?” “Give it up,” said Boniface. “Found drowned,” was the cruel reply. “Have you a pair of steps?” asked a customer of an ale-wife, who was notorious for giving short measure. “Yes; what do you want it for?” {193} inquired the woman. “To go down and get at this ale,” was the reply pointing to the half-filled pewter.