The Salamander Blacksmith that lives by the fire, While his Bellowes are puffing a blustring gale, Will shake off his full Kan, and sweare each true Vulcan, Will Hazzard his witts for a Pot of Good Ale. {322}
The woer that feareth his suit to begin, And blushes, and simpers, and often looks pale, Thogh he miss in his speech and his heart were at his breech, If he liquors his tongue: with a Pot of Good Ale.
The Widdow, that buried her husband of late, Will soon have forgotten to weep and to waile; And think every day twaine, till she marry againe, If she read the contents of a Pot of Good Ale.
The Plowman and Carter that toyles all the day, And tires himself quite at the Plough-taile, Will speak no lesse things, than of Queens and Kings, If he do but make bold with a Pot of Good Ale.
And indeed it will make a man suddenly wise, Ere while was scarce able to tell a right tale, It will open his Jaw, he will tell you the Law, And straight be a Bencher with a Pot of Good Ale.
I doe further alledge, it is fortitudes edge, For a very Coward that shrinks like a Snaile, Will sweare and will swagger, and out goes his Dagger, If he be but well arm’d with a Pot of Good Ale.
The naked man taketh no care for a coat, Nor on the cold weather will once turne his taile, All the way as he goes, cut the wind with his nose, If he be but well lin’d with a Pot of Good Ale.
The hungrie man seldome can mind his meat, (Though his Stomach could brook a Ten Penny Nail,) He quite forgets hunger, thinks of it no longer, If his guts be but sows’d with a Pot of Good Ale.
The Reaper, the Mower, the Thresher, the Sower, The one with his Sithe, and the other with his flaille, Pull ’em out by the pole, on the perill of my sole, They will hold up their caps at a Pot of Good Ale. {323}
The Beggar, whose portion is alwayes his Prayer, Not having a tatter, to hang at his taille, Is as rich in his rags, as a Churle with his bags, If he be but entic’d with a Pot of Good Ale.