His Lordship’s honour—not his beer—
The motive of their revelry.
Forth flowed the ale. Ye know not its
Peculiar virtues, O ye cits,
’Twould beat e’en Burton tap to fits,
Though Bass be its auxiliary.
And hours that amber stream shall flow,
And men shall come and scorn to go,
The thirsty souls shall thirstier grow,
Though quarts it empties rapidly.