How meager they look, with how low a waile,
How their cheeks do fall, without sp’rits at all,
That alien their minds from a pot of good ale.
And now that the grains do work in my brains,
Me thinks I were able to give by retaile
Commodities store, a dozen and more,
That flow to Mankind from a pot of good ale.
The Muses would muse any should it misuse:
For it makes them to sing like a Nightingale,
With a lofty trim note, having washed their throat