Bon. Not in my life, sir; I have fed purely upon ale: I have eat my ale, drank my ale, and I always sleep upon ale.
Enter Tapster, with a Tankard.
Now, sir, you shall see: your worship's health: ha! delicious, delicious——fancy it Burgundy, only fancy it, and 'tis worth ten shillings a quart.
Aim. [Drinks.] 'Tis confounded strong.
Bon. Strong! it must be so; or how would we be strong that drink it?
Aim. And have you lived so long upon this ale, landlord?
Bon. Eight and fifty years, upon my credit, sir; but it killed my wife, poor woman, as the saying is.
Aim. How came that to pass?
Bon. I don't know how, sir; she would not let the ale take its natural course, sir: she was for qualifying it every now and then with a dram, as the saying is, and an honest gentleman, that came this way from Ireland, made her a present of a dozen bottles of Usquebaugh——but the poor woman was never well after; but, however, I was obliged to the gentleman, you know.
Aim. Why, was it the Usquebaugh that killed her?