Straight So be it he cryes, and calls for beer.
Much good may doe you Sir.
Now then, like Scanderbeg he falls to work,
And hews the Pudding as he hew’d the Turk.
How he plough’d up the Beefe like Forrest-land,
And fum’d, because the bones his wrath withstand?
Upon the Mutton he fell not like a Lamb,
But rather like a Wolfe he tore the same.
At first a Sister helpt him, but this Elfe sir,
Wearying her out, she cryes, Pray help your self sir!