The old renowned Ipocrist and Raspie doth excell, But neuer any wine could yet my honour please to swell, The Rhenish wine or Muskadine, sweet Malmsie is too fulsome No giue me a cup of Barlie broth, for that is very wholesome,
’Twill make me sing, I cannot, &c.
Hot waters ar to me as death, and soone the head oreturneth, And Nectar hath so strong a breath Canary when it burneth, It cures no paine but breaks the braine, and raps out oaths and curses, And makes men part with heauiy heart, but light it makes their purses, I cannot go home, &c. {319}
Some say Metheglin beares the name, with Perry and sweet Sider, ’Twill bring the body out of frame, and reach the belly wider Which to preuent I am content with ale that’s good and nappie, And when thereof I haue enough I thinke myself most happy. I cannot go home, &c.
All sorts of men when they do meet both trade and occupation, With curtesie each other greet, and kinde humiliation; A good coale fire is their desire, whereby to sit and parly Theyle drink their ale and tell a tale, and go home in the morning early. I cannot go home, &c.
Your domineering swaggering blades, and caualiers that flashes, That throw the Jugs against the walls and break in peeces glasses When Bacchus round cannot be found they will in merriment Drinke ale and beere and cast of care and sing with one consent I cannot goe home, &c.
The title-page of the following poem tells its history:—
THE HIGH AND MIGHTIE COMMENDATION OF THE VERTUE OF A POT OF GOOD ALE.
Full of wit without offence, of mirth without obscenities, of pleasure without scurrelitie and of good content without distaste