Besides, quoth he, they have a cunning sleight,
In selling out their meate by pinching weight,
To make us pay sixpence a pound for Beefe,
To a poor Souldier, is no little grief.
Their Bread is small, their Cheese is markt by th’ Inch,
And to speak the Truth, they’re all upon the pinch.
As for their Liquor, drink it but at Leazure,
And you shall ne’re be drunk with over measure.
But leave them now because Tattoo has beat
And fairly to our tents let us retreat,