The woer that feareth his suit to begin, And blushes, and simpers, and often looks pale, Thogh he miss in his speech and his heart were at his breech, If he liquors his tongue: with a Pot of Good Ale. The Widdow, that buried her husband of late, Will soon have forgotten to weep and to waile; And think every day twaine, till she marry againe, If she read the contents of a Pot of Good Ale. The Plowman and Carter that toyles all the day, And tires himself quite at the Plough-taile, Will speak no lesse things, than of Queens and Kings, If he do but make bold with a Pot of Good Ale. And indeed it will make a man suddenly wise, Ere while was scarce able to tell a right tale, It will open his Jaw, he will tell you the Law, And straight be a Bencher with a Pot of Good Ale. I doe further alledge, it is fortitudes edge, For a very Coward that shrinks like a Snaile, Will sweare and will swagger, and out goes his Dagger, If he be but well arm’d with a Pot of Good Ale. The naked man taketh no care for a coat, Nor on the cold weather will once turne his taile, All the way as he goes, cut the wind with his nose, If he be but well lin’d with a Pot of Good Ale. The hungrie man seldome can mind his meat, (Though his Stomach could brook a Ten Penny Nail,) He quite forgets hunger, thinks of it no longer, If his guts be but sows’d with a Pot of Good Ale. The Reaper, the Mower, the Thresher, the Sower, The one with his Sithe, and the other with his flaille, Pull ’em out by the pole, on the perill of my sole, They will hold up their caps at a Pot of Good Ale. {323} The Beggar, whose portion is alwayes his Prayer, Not having a tatter, to hang at his taille, Is as rich in his rags, as a Churle with his bags, If he be but entic’d with a Pot of Good Ale. It puts his povertie out of his mind, Forgetting his browne bread, his wallet, his maile, He walks in the house like a six footed Lowse, If he be but well drench’d with a Pot of Good Ale. The Souldier, the Saylor, the true man, the Taylor, The Lawyer that sels words by weight and by tale, Take them all as they are, for the War or the Bar, They all will approve of a Pot of Good Ale. The Church and Religion to love it hath cause, (Or else our Fore-fathers, their wisdomes did faile,) For at every mile, close at the Church stile, An house is ordain’d for a Pot of Good Ale. And Physick will flavour _Ale_ (as it is bound) And stand against Beere both tooth and naile, They send up and downe, all over the towne, To get for their Patients a Pot of Good Ale. Your Ale-berries, Cawdles, and Possets each one, And sullabubs made at the milking pale, Although they be many, Beere comes not in any, But all are compos’d with a Pot of Good Ale. And in very deed, the Hop’s but a weed, Brought o’re ’gainst law, and here set to sale; He that first brought the Hop, had reward with a rope, And found that his Beere was bitter than ale.