That though the ale be great, the pots be small. At _Highgate_ Hill to a strange house I went, And saw the people were to eating bent, In either borrowed, craved, asked, begged, or bought, But most laborious with my teeth I wrought. I did not this, 'cause meat or drink was scant, But I did practise thus before my want; Like to a Tilter that would win the prize, Before the day he'll often exercise. So I began to put in use, at first These principles 'gainst hunger, 'gainst thirst. Close to the Gate,[4] there dwelt a worthy man, That well could take his whiff, and quaff his can, Right Robin Good-fellow, but humours evil, Do call him _Robin Pluto_, or the devil. But finding him a devil, freely hearted, With friendly farewells I took leave and parted, And as alongst I did my journey take, I drank at _Broom's well_, for pure fashion's sake, Two miles I travelled then without a bait, The Saracen's Head at _Whetstone_ entering straight, I found an host, that might lead an host of men, Exceeding fat, yet named _Lean_, and _Fen_.[5] And though we make small reckoning of him here, He's known to be a very great man there. There I took leave of all my company, Bade all farewell, yet spake to _No-body_. Good reader think not strange, what I compile, For _No-body_ was with me all this while. And _No-body_ did drink, and, wink, and scink, And on occasion freely spent his chink. If anyone desire to know the man, Walk, stumble, _Trundle_, but in _Barbican_. There's as good beer and ale as ever twang'd, And in that street kind _No-body_[6] is hanged. But leaving him unto his matchless fame, I to St. _Albans_ in the evening came, Where Master _Taylor_, at the Saracen's Head, Unasked (unpaid for) me both lodged and fed. The tapsters, hostlers, chamberlains, and all, Saved me a labour, that I need not call, The jugs were filled and filled, the cups went round, And in a word great kindness there I found, For which both to my cousin, and his men, I'll still be thankful in word, deed, and pen. Till Thursday morning there I made my stay, And then I went plain _Dunstable_ highway. My very heart with drought methought did shrink, I went twelve miles, and no one bade me drink. Which made me call to mind, that instant time, That drunkenness was a most sinful crime. When _Puddle-hill_ I footed down, and past A mile from thence, I found a hedge at last. There stroke we sail, our bacon, cheese, and bread, We drew like fiddlers, and like farmers fed. And whilst two hours we there did take our ease, My nag made shift to mump green pulse[7] and peas. Thus we our hungry stomachs did supply, And drank the water of a brook hard by. Away toward _Hockley_ in the Hole, we make, When straight a horseman did me overtake, Who knew me, and would fain have given me coin,