Pills to Purge Melancholly
[p. 1.]
The Ex-Ale-tation of Ale
Not drunken, nor sober, but neighbour to both,
I met with a friend in Ales-bury Vale;
He saw by my Face, that I was in the Case
To speak no great harm of a Pot of good Ale.
Then did he me greet, and said, since we meet
(And he put me in mind of the name of the Dale)
For Ales-burys sake some pains I would take,
And not bury the praise of a Pot of good Ale.
The more to procure me, then he did adjure me
If the Ale I drank last were nappy and stale,
To do it its right, and stir up my sprite,
And fall to commend a pot [of good ale]. [passim.]
Quoth I, To commend it I dare not begin,
Lest therein my Credit might happen to fail;
For, many men now do count it a sin,
But once to look toward a pot of good ale.
Yet I care not a pin, For I see no such sin,
Nor any thing else my courage to quail:
For, this we do find, that take it in kind,
Much vertue there is in a pot of good ale.
And I mean not to taste, though thereby much grac’t,
Nor the Merry-go-down without pull or hale,
Perfuming the throat, when the stomack’s afloat,
With the Fragrant sweet scent of a pot of good ale.
Nor yet the delight that comes to the Sight
To see how it flowers and mantles in graile,
As green as a Leeke, with a smile in the cheek,
The true Orient colour of a pot of good ale.
But I mean the Mind, and the good it doth find,
Not onely the Body so feeble and fraile;
For, Body and Soul may blesse the black bowle,
Since both are beholden to a Pot of good ale.
For, when heavinesse the mind doth oppresse,
And sorrow and grief the heart do assaile,
No remedy quicker than to take off your Liquor,
And to wash away cares with a pot of good ale.
The Widow that buried her Husband of late,
Will soon have forgotten to weep and to waile,
And think every day twain, till she marry again,
If she read the contents of a pot of good ale.
It is like a belly-blast to a cold heart,
And warms and engenders the spirits vitale:
To keep them from domage all sp’rits owe their homage
To the Sp’rite of the buttery, a pot of good ale.
And down to the legs the vertue doth go,
And to a bad Foot-man is as good as a saile:
When it fill the Veins, and makes light the Brains,
No Lackey so nimble as a pot of good ale.
The naked complains not for want of a coat,
Nor on the cold weather will once turn his taile;
All the way as he goes, he cuts the wind with his Nose,
If he be but well wrapt in a pot of good ale.
The hungry man takes no thought for his meat,
Though his stomack would brook a ten-penny naile;
He quite forgets hunger, thinks on it no longer,
If he touch but the sparks of a pot of good ale.
The Poor man will praise it, so hath he good cause,
That all the year eats neither Partridge nor Quaile,
But sets up his rest, and makes up his Feast,
With a crust of brown bread, and a pot of good ale.
The Shepherd, the Sower, the Thresher, the Mower,
The one with his Scythe, the other with his Flaile,
Take them out by the poll, on the peril of my soll,
All will hold up their hands to a pot of good ale.
The Black-Smith, whose bellows all Summer do blow,
With the fire in his Face still, without e’re a vaile,
Though his throat be full dry, he will tell you no lye,
But where you may be sure of a pot of good ale.
Who ever denies it, the Pris’ners will prayse it,
That beg at [the] Grate, and lye in the Goale,
For, even in their fetters they thinke themselves better,
May they get but a two-penny black pot of Ale.
The begger, whose portion is alwayes his prayers,
Not having a tatter to hang on his taile,
Is rich in his rags, as the churle in his bags,
If he once but shakes hands with a pot of good ale.
It drives his poverty clean out of mind,
Forgetting his brown bread, his wallet, and maile;
He walks in the house like a six footed Louse,
If he once be inricht with a pot of good ale.
And he that doth dig in the ditches all day,
And wearies himself quite at the plough-taile,
Will speak no less things than of Queens and of Kings,
If he touch but the top of a pot of good ale.
’Tis like a Whetstone to a blunt wit,
And makes a supply where Nature doth fail:
The dullest wit soon will look quite through the Moon,
If his temples be wet with a pot of good ale.
Then Dick to his Dearling, full boldly dares speak,
Though before (silly Fellow) his courage did quaile,
He gives her the smouch, with his hand on his pouch,
If he meet by the way with a pot of good ale.
And it makes the Carter a Courtier straight-way;
With Rhetorical termes he will tell his tale;
With courtesies great store, and his Cap up before,
Being school’d but a little with a pot of good ale.
The Old man, whose tongue wags faster than his teeth,
(For old age by Nature doth drivel and drale)
Will frig and will fling, like a Dog in a string,
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,
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
With the Caballine Spring of a pot of good ale. [? Castalian]
And the Musician of any condition,
It will make him reach to the top of his Scale:
It will clear his pipes, and moisten his lights,
If he drink alternatim a pot of good ale.
The Poet Divine, that cannot reach Wine,
Because that his money doth many times faile,
Will hit on the vein to make a good strain,
If he be but inspir’d with a pot of good ale.
For ballads Elderton never had Peer;
How went his wit in them, with how merry a Gale,
And with all the Sails up, had he been at the Cup,
And washed his beard with a pot of good ale.
And the power of it showes, no whit less in Prose,
It will file one’s Phrase, and set forth his Tale:
Fill him but a Bowle, it will make his Tongue troul,
For flowing speech flows from a pot of good ale.
And Master Philosopher, if he drink his part,
Will not trifle his time in the huske or the shale,
But go to the kernell by the depth of his Art,
To be found in the bottom of a pot of good ale.
Give a Scholar of Oxford a pot of Sixteen,
And put him to prove that an Ape hath no taile,
And sixteen times better his wit will be seen,
If you fetch him from Botley a pot of good ale.
Thus it helps Speech and Wit: and it hurts not a whit,
But rather doth further the Virtues Morale;
Then think it not much if a little I touch
The good moral parts of a pot of good ale.
To the Church and Religion it is a good Friend,
Or else our Fore-Fathers their wisedome did faile,
That at every mile, next to the Church stile,
Set a consecrate house to a pot of good ale.
But now, as they say, Beer bears it away;
The more is the pity, if right might prevaile:
For, with this same Beer, came up Heresie here,
The old Catholicke drink is a pot of good ale.
The Churches much ow[e], as we all do know,
For when they be drooping and ready to fall,
By a Whitson or Church-ale, up again they shall go,
And owe their repairing to a pot of good ale.
Truth will do it right, it brings Truth to light,
And many bad matters it helps to reveal:
For, they that will drink, will speak what they think:
Tom tell-troth lies hid in a pot of good ale.
It is Justices Friend, she will it commend,
For all is here served by measure and tale;
Now, true-tale and good measure are Justices treasure,
And much to the praise of a pot of good ale.
And next I alledge, it is Fortitudes edge[,]
For a very Cow-heard, that shrinks like a Snaile,
Will swear and will swagger, and out goes his Dagger,
If he be but arm’d with a pot of good ale.
Yea, ale hath her Knights and Squires of Degree,
That never wore Corslet, nor yet shirts of Maile,
But have fought their fights all, twixt the pot and the wall,
When once they were dub’d with a pot of good ale.
And sure it will make a man suddenly wise,
Er’e-while was scarce able to tell a right tale:
It will open his jaw, he will tell you the Law,
As make a right Bencher of a pot of good ale.
Or he that will make a bargain to gain,
In buying or setting his goods forth to sale,
Must not plod in the mire, but sit by the fire,
And seale up his Match with a pot of good ale.
But for Soberness, needs must I confess,
The matter goes hard; and few do prevaile
Not to go too deep, but temper to keep,
Such is the Attractive of a pot of good ale.
But here’s an amends, which will make all Friends,
And ever doth tend to the best availe:
If you take it too deep, it will make you but sleep;
So comes no great harm of a pot of good ale.
If (reeling) they happen to fall to the ground,
The fall is not great, they may hold by the Raile:
If into the water, they cannot be drown’d,
For that gift is given to a pot of good ale.
If drinking about they chance to fall out,
Fear not that Alarm, though flesh be but fraile;
It will prove but some blowes, or at most a bloody nose,
And Friends again straight with a pot of good ale.
And Physic will favour ale, as it is bound,
And be against Beere both tooth and naile;
They send up and down, all over the town
To get for their Patients a pot of good ale.
Their Ale-berries, cawdles, and Possets each one,
And Syllabubs made at the Milking-pale,
Although they be many, Beere comes not in any,
But all are composed with a pot of good ale.
And in very deed the Hop’s but a Weed,
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,
To hold the Assize of a pot of good ale.
And though there lie Writs from the Courts Paramount,
To stay the proceedings of Courts Paravaile;
Law favours it so, you may come, you may go,
There lies no Prohibition to a pot of good ale.
They talk much of State, both early and late,
But if Gascoign and Spain their Wine should but faile,
No remedy then, with us Englishmen,
But the State it must stand by a pot of good ale.
And they that sit by it are good men and quiet,
No dangerous Plotters in the Common-weale
Of Treason and Murder: For they never go further
Than to call for, and pay for a pot of good ale.
To the praise of Gambrivius that good Brittish King
That devis’d for his Nation (by the Welshmen’s tale)
Seventeen hundred years before Christ did spring,
The happy invention of a pot of good ale.
The North they will praise it, and praise with passion,
Where every River gives name to a Dale:
There men are yet living that are of th’ old fashion,
No Nectar they know but a pot of good ale.
The Picts and the Scots for ale were at lots,
So high was the skill, and so kept under seale;
The Picts were undone, slain each mothers son,
For not teaching the Scots to make Hether Eale.
But hither or thither, it skils not much whether:
For Drink must be had, men live not by Keale,
Not by Havor-bannocks nor by Havor-jannocks,
The thing the Scots live on is a pot of good ale.
Now, if ye will say it, I will not denay it,
That many a man it brings to his bale:
Yet what fairer end can one wish to his Friend,
Th an to dye by the part of a pot of good ale.
Yet let not the innocent bear any blame,
It is their own doings to break o’re the pale:
And neither the Malt, nor the good wife in fault,
If any be potted with a pot of good ale.
They tell whom it kills, but say not a word,
How many a man liveth both sound and hale,
Though he drink no Beer any day in the year,
By the Radical humour of a pot of good ale.
But to speak of Killing, that am I not willing,
For that in a manner were but to raile:
But Beer hath its name, ’cause it brings to the Biere,
Therefore well-fare, say I, to a pot of good ale.
Too many (I wis) with their deaths proved this,
And, therefore (if ancient Records do not faile),
He that first brew’d the Hop was rewarded with a rope,
And found his Beer far more bitter than Ale.
O Ale[!] ab alendo, the Liquor of Life,
That I had but a mouth as big as a Whale!
For mine is too little to touch the least tittle
That belongs to the praise of a pot of good ale.
Thus (I trow) some Vertues I have mark’d you out,
And never a Vice in all this long traile,
But that after the Pot there cometh the Shot,
And that’s th’ onely blot of a pot of good ale.—
With that my Friend said, that blot will I bear,
You have done very well, it is time to strike saile,
Wee’l have six pots more, though I dye on the score,
To make all this good of a Pot of good ALE.
[Followed by Ben Jonson’s Cook Lorrel, and by The Blacksmith: for which see Merry Drollery, Complete, pp. 214-17, 225-30.]
[p. 14.]