I’ll spend a farthing, muse; a watry verse
Will serve the turn to cast upon his herse.
If any cannot weep amongst us here,
Take off his cup, and so squeeze out a tear.
Weep, O ye barrels! let your drippings fall
In trickling streams; make waste more prodigal
Than when our beer was good, that John may float
To Styx in beer, and lift up Charons boat
With wholsome waves: and, as the conduits ran
With claret at the Coronation,