To all tapsters and tiplers, And all ale house vitlers, Inne-keepers and cookes, That for pot-sale lookes, And will not giue measure, But at your owne pleasure, Contrary to law, Scant measure will draw In pot and in canne, To cozen a man Of his full quart a penny, Of you there’s to many: For in King Harry’s time, When I made this rime Of Elynor Rumming With her good ale tunning, Our pots were full quarted, We were not thus thwarted With froth-canne and nick-pot And such nimble quick shot, That a dowzen will score For twelue pints and no more. Full Winchester gage We had in that age; The Dutchmans strong beere Was not hopt ouer heere, To vs t’was unknowne: Bare ale of our owne In a bowle we might bring To welcome the king, And his grace to beseech, With, _Wassall my Leigh_.[270] Nor did that time know To puffe and to blow In a peece of white clay, As you doe at this day, With fier and coale, And a leafe in a hole; As my ghost hath late seene, As I walked betweene Westminster Hall And the church of Saint Paul, And so thorow the citie, Where I saw and did pitty My countrymen’s cases, With fiery-smoke faces, Sucking and drinking A filthie weede stinking, Was ne’re knowne before Till the deuill and the More In th’ Indies did meete, And each other there greete With a health they desire Of stinke, smoake, and fier. But who e’re doth abhorre it, The citie smoakes for it; Now full of fier-shops And fowle spitting chops, So neesing and coughing, That my ghost fell to scoffing, And to myselfe said, Here’s fylthie fumes made; Good physicke of force To cure a sicke horse. Nor had we such slops, And shagge-haire on our tops: At wearing long haire King Harry would sweare, And gaue a command With speede out of hand All heads should be powl’d, As well young as old, And his owne was first so, Good ensample to show. Y’are so out of fashion, I know not our nation; Your ruffes and your bands, And your cuffes at your hands; Your pipes and your smokes, And your short curtall clokes; Scarfes, feathers, and swerds, And thin bodkin beards; Your wastes a span long, Your knees with points hung, Like morrice-daunce bels; And many toyes els, Which much I distaste: But Skelton’s in haste. My masters, farewell; Reade ouer my Nell, And tell what you thinke Of her and her drinke: If shee had brew’d amisse, I had neuer wrote this.” [270] _Leigh_] Meant for “Liege.” At the end of the poem is, from the same hand, “_Skelton’s Ghost to the Reader._[271]