 | Satires and miscellaneous poetry and prose |  |
146
TO THOMAS ------
Thomas, thou art so great a Drunkard,Th' art able to o'relay a Dung-cart.
Thomas thou art all Ale, thy Skin
Hath nothing else but ale therein.
That Scull of thine, instead of Braines,
Is Stuft with half a Peck of Graines,
[Thy] Heart, thy liver, and thy Lungs,
Is made of that, that stoppeth Bungs;
Thou dost not drink at any club
But tun Ale int' another Tub
Which Learned Brewers call a Fat,
And none can say but thou art that;
Thence it Run's out at a Small Tap,
That ha's indured man' a Clap;
But now 'tis safe enough, No whore
Can ever hurt it any more,
Unless she could shoot Pox at distance
A Furlung of[f], for such Resistance
Thy Belly makes—Belly said I?
No, Thomas, I confess I ly.
It was a Belly once, but now
It is a Tun, and like to grow
As mighty, if our hopes it answer,
As that at Heidleburg, thy Grandsire.
| Satires and miscellaneous poetry and prose | |