And that, an’t please your Majesty, are grains.”
“Grains, grains,” said Majesty, “To fill their crops?
Grains? Grains?—that come from hops—yes, hops, hops, hops?”
Here was the King, like hounds sometimes at fault—
“Sire” cry’d the humble Brewer, “give me leave
Your sacred Majesty to undeceive:
Grains, Sire, are never made from hops, but malt.”
“True,” said the cautious Monarch, with a smile;
“From malt, malt, malt—I meant it all the while.”
“Yes,” with the sweetest bow, rejoined the Brewer.