If he once be inricht with a pot of good ale.
And he that doth dig in the ditches all day,
And wearies himself quite at the plough-taile,
Will speak no less things than of Queens and of Kings,
If he touch but the top of a pot of good ale.
’Tis like a Whetstone to a blunt wit,
And makes a supply where Nature doth fail:
The dullest wit soon will look quite through the Moon,
If his temples be wet with a pot of good ale.
Then Dick to his Dearling, full boldly dares speak,