That beg at [the] Grate, and lye in the Goale,
For, even in their fetters they thinke themselves better,
May they get but a two-penny black pot of Ale.
The begger, whose portion is alwayes his prayers,
Not having a tatter to hang on his taile,
Is rich in his rags, as the churle in his bags,
If he once but shakes hands with a pot of good ale.
It drives his poverty clean out of mind,
Forgetting his brown bread, his wallet, and maile;
He walks in the house like a six footed Louse,