If he warm his cold blood with a pot of good ale.
And the good Old Clarke, whose sight waxeth dark,
And ever he thinks the Print is to[o] small,
He will see every Letter, and say Service better,
If he glaze but his eyes with a pot of good ale.
The cheekes and the jawes to commend it have cause;
For where they were late but even wan and pale,
They will get them a colour, no crimson is fuller,
By the true die and tincture of a pot of good ale.
Mark her Enemies, though they think themselves wise,