A Catch
23. Good Symon, how comes it your Nose looks so red,
And your cheeks and lips look so pale?
Sure the heat of the tost your Nose did so rost,
When they were both sous’t in Ale.
It showes like the Spire of Pauls steeple on fire,
Each Ruby darts forth (such lightning) Flashes,
While your face looks as dead, as if it were Lead
And cover’d all over with ashes.
Now to heighten his colour, yet fill his pot fuller
And nick it not so with froth,
Gra-mercy, mine Host! it shall save the[e] a Toast
Sup Simon, for here is good broth.