Upon the Pasty though he fell anon,
As if ’t had been the walls of Babylon.
Like a Cathedrall downe he throwes that stuffe,
Why, Sisters, saith he, I am pepper-proofe.
Then down he powres the Claret, and down again,
And would the French King were a Puritan
He cryes: swills up the Sack, and I’le be sworn
Christian forgivenesse.
Quoth he, Spaine’s King is not the Popes tenth horne.
By this his tearing hunger doth abate,