Brought o’re against Law, and here set to sale:
Would the Law were renew’d, and no more Beer brew’d,
But all men betake them to a Pot of good ale.
The Law that will take it under his wing,
For, at every Law-day, or Moot of the hale,
One is sworn to serve our Soveraigne the King,
In the ancient Office of a conner of ale.
There’s never a Lord of Mannor or of a Town,
By strand or by land, by hill or by dale,
But thinks it a Franchise, and a Flow’r of the Crown,