Nor on the cold weather will once turn his taile;
All the way as he goes, he cuts the wind with his Nose,
If he be but well wrapt in a pot of good ale.
The hungry man takes no thought for his meat,
Though his stomack would brook a ten-penny naile;
He quite forgets hunger, thinks on it no longer,
If he touch but the sparks of a pot of good ale.
The Poor man will praise it, so hath he good cause,
That all the year eats neither Partridge nor Quaile,
But sets up his rest, and makes up his Feast,