It's all for your Froth and your Nick (you slaves)
And tell you no more than is true.
If in a cold Morning we chance to come,
And bid a Good Morrow, my Host,
And call for some Ale, you will bring us black Pots
Yet scarce will afford us a Toast.
For those yt drink Beer, 'tis true as i'me here,
Your Counterfeit Flaggons you have,
Which holds not a Quart, scarce by a third part,