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In Commendation of York-shire Ale.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


72

In Commendation of York-shire Ale.

Woman be nimble, and let's see thy craft,
My early stomack craves a Mornings draft.
Bring me that Indian pot, whence I may sip
Nectar, and balm from Cleopatra's lip.
That Marrow of Malt, where the Nut brown Toast
Smiles in the Flowery Ale, whose mirthful coast
Makes me turn Marriner, and hither sail,
To Court the confines of this famous Ale,
This noble Ale, this most substantial liquor,
That chears the Blade, & makes the Genius quicker.
Ideots a ship-board sick accuse the Seas,
When their own foul stomacks are the Disease.
So fools pick quarrel with pure cleansing Ale,
Because it doth Sir reverence wring their tale.
But these are such as never understood
The Aliment of Ale, or their own good.
Would but good Fellows meet, wee'd daily club,
And act the Sisters at the Danaan tub?

73

But I have done, lest while I Idolize
The shrine of Ale, I but enhaunce the price;
Be therefore this sufficient to be said
Alive 'tis Ale, and Aquæ vitæ, dead.