Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE HIGH AND MIGHTY COMMENDATION OF THE VIRTUE OF A POT OF GOOD ALE, by THOMAS RANDOLPH



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE HIGH AND MIGHTY COMMENDATION OF THE VIRTUE OF A POT OF GOOD ALE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Not drunken nor sober (but neighbour to both
Last Line: To make all this good of a pot of good ale.
Subject(s): Beer; Drinks & Drinking; Ale; Wine


NOT drunken nor sober (but neighbour to both),
I met with a friend in Aylesbury Vale:
He saw by my face that I was in the case
To speak no great harm of a pot of good ale.

And as we did meet, and friendly did greet,
He put me in mind of the name of the Dale
That, for Aylesbury's sake, some pains I would take,
And not bury the praise of a pot of good ale.

The more to procure me, then did he adjure me
(If the ale I drank last were nappy and stale),
To do it its right, and stir up my spite,
And fall to commend a pot of good ale.

Quoth I, to commend it I dare not begin,
Lest therein my cunning might happen to fail;
For many there be that count it a sin
But once to look towards a pot of good ale.

Yet I care not a pin, for I see no such sin,
Nor any else that my courage may quail:
For this I do find, being taken in kind,
Much virtue there is in a pot of good ale.

When heaviness the mind doth oppress,
And sorrow and grief the heart doth assail,
No remedy quicker, but take up your liquor,
And wash away care with a pot of good ale.

The priest and the clerk, whose sights are {but} dark,
And the print of the letter doth seem too small,
They will con every letter, and read service better,
If they glaze but their eyes with a pot of good ale.

The poet divine, that cannot reach wine,
Because that his money doth oftentimes fail,
Will hit on the vein, and reach the high strain,
If he be but inspir'd with a pot of good ale.

All writers of ballads for such whose mishap
From Newgate up Holborn to Tyburn do sail,
Shall have sudden expression of all their confession,
If the muse be but dew'd with a pot of good ale.

The prisoner that is enclos'd in the grate,
Will shake off remembrance of bondage and jail,
Of hunger or cold, of fetters or fate,
If he pickle himself with a pot of good ale.

The salamander blacksmith, that lives by the fire,
Whilst his bellows are puffing a blustering gale,
Will shake off his full can, and swear each true Vulcan
Will hazard his wits for a pot of good ale.

The wooer that feareth his suit to begin,
And blushes and simpers, and often looks pale,
Though he miss in his speech, and his heart were at his breech,
If he liquor his tongue with a pot of good ale.

The widow that buried her husband of late
Will soon have forgotten to weep and to wail,
And think every day twain till she marry again,
If she read the contents of a pot of good ale.

The ploughman and carter that toils all the day,
And tires himself quite at the plough-tail,
Will speak no less things than of queens and of kings,
If he do but make bold with a pot of good ale.

And indeed it will make a man suddenly wise,
Erewhile was scarce able to tell a right tale:
It will open his jaw, he will tell you the law,
And straight be a bencher with a pot of good ale.

I do further allege, it is fortitude's edge;
For a very coward that shrinks like a snail
Will swear and will swagger, and out goes his dagger,
If he be but well-armed with a pot of good ale.

The naked man taketh no care for a coat,
Nor on the cold weather will once turn his tail,
All the way as he goes, cut the wind with his nose,
If he be but well-lin'd with a pot of good ale.

The hungry man seldom can mind his meat
(Though his stomach could brook a tenpenny nail);
He quite forgets hunger, thinks of it no longer,
If his guts be but sous'd with a pot of good ale.

The reaper, the mower, the thresher, the sower,
The one with his scythe, and the other with's flail,
Pull 'em out by the poll -- on the peril of my soul,
They will hold up their caps at a pot of good ale.

The beggar, whose portion is always his prayer,
Not having a tatter to hang at his tail,
Is as rich in his rags as a churl with his bags,
If he be but enrich'd with a pot of good ale.

It puts his poverty out of his mind;
Forgetting his brown bread, his wallet, his mail,
He walks in the house like a six-footed louse,
If he be but well-drench'd with a pot of good ale.

The soldier, the sailor, the true man, the tailor,
The lawyer, that sells words by weight and by tale,
Take them all as they are, for the war or the bar,
They all will approve of a pot of good ale.

The church and religion to love it have cause
(Or else our forefathers their wisdoms did fail),
For at every mile, close at the church-stile,
A house is ordain'd for a pot of good ale.

And physic will favour ale (as it is bound)
And stand against beer both tooth and nail,
They send up and down, all over the town,
To get for their patients a pot of good ale.

Your ale-berries, caudles, and possets each one,
And sillabubs made at the milking-pail,
Although they be many, beer comes not in any,
But all are compos'd with a pot of good ale.

And, in very deed, the hop's but a weed,
Brought o'er against law, and here set to sale:
He that first brought the hop had reward with a rope,
And found that his beer was more bitter than ale.

The ancient tales that my grannam hath told
Of the mirth she hath had in parlour and hall:
How in Christmas-time they would dance, sing, and rhyme,
As if they were mad, with a pot of good ale.

Beer is a stranger, a Dutch upstart, come,
Whose credit with us sometimes is but small;
But in the records of the Empire of Rome,
The old Catholic drink is a pot of good ale.

To the praise of Gambinius, that old British king,
Who 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!

But he was a pagan, and ale then was rife;
But after Christ came, and bade us, All hail!
Saint Tavy was neffer trink peer in her life,
Put awl Callywhiblin and excellent ale.

All religions and nations, their humours and fashions,
Rich or poor, knave or whore, dwarfish or tall,
Sheep or shrew, I'll avow, well I know all will bow,
If they be but well-steep'd with a pot of good ale.

O ale, ab alendo, thou liquor of life!
I wish that my mouth were as big as a whale;
But then 'twere too little to reach the least tittle
That belongs to the praise of a pot of good ale.

Thus many a virtue to you I have showed,
And not any vice in all this long tale;
But after the pot there cometh a shot,
And that is the blot of a pot of good ale.

Well said, my friend, that blot I will bear;
You have done very well, it is time to strike sail;
We'll have six pots more, though we die on the score,
To make all this good of a pot of good ale.





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