Fact is, I hardly know which way to steer.
Mer. Oh, ho! I see King Lager’s been with you,
And on his beer you’re settled fast and true.
He is the Dutchman’s idol, and he puffs
In shape as monstrous as Jack Falstaff’s stuffs.
His throne’s a monstrous cask of his own brew,
With courtiers drawing him by two and two.
His crown Dutch cheese, his sceptre’s a Bologna.
His subjects—well, they’re mustered in Verona.
His drink is Bock, his food is sour krout,