and ale,
With every sort of malt that is in use,
And every country’s generous produce. 
The ready (for here Christian faith is sick,
Which makes us seldom trespass upon tick)
Instantly brings the choicest liquors out,
Whether we ask for home-brew’d or for stout,
For mead or cider, or, with dainties fed,
Ring for a flask or two of white or red,
Such as the drawer will not fail to swear
Was drunk by Pilkington[3]when third time mayor. 
That name, methinks, so popularly known
For opposition to the church and crown,
Might make the Lusitanian grape to pass,
And almost give a sanction to the glass;
Especially with thee, whose hasty zeal
Against the late rejected commerce bill
Made thee rise up, like an audacious elf,
To do the speaker honour, not thyself. 
  But if thou soar’st above the common prices,
By virtue of subscription to thy Crisis,
And nothing can go down with thee but wines
Press’d from Burgundian and Campanian vines,
Bid them be brought; for, though I hate the French,
I love their liquors, as thou lovest a wench;
Else thou must humble thy expensive taste,
And, with us, hold contentment for a feast. 
  The fire’s already lighted; and the maid
Has a clean cloth upon the table laid,
Who never on a Saturday had struck,
But for thy entertainment, up a buck. 
Think of this act of grace, which by your leave
Susan would not have done on Easter Eve,
Had she not been inform’d over and over,
’Twas for th’ingenious author of The Lover.[4]
  Cease, therefore, to beguile thyself with hopes,
Which is no more than making sandy ropes,
And quit the vain pursuit of loud applause,
That must bewilder thee in faction’s cause. 
Pr’ythee what is’t to thee who guides the state? 
Why Dunkirk’s demolition is so late? 
Or why her majesty thinks fit to cease
The din of war, and hush the world to peace? 
The clergy too, without thy aid, can tell
What texts to choose, and on what topics dwell;
And, uninstructed by thy babbling, teach
Their flocks celestial happiness to reach. 
Rather let such poor souls as you and I,
Say that the holidays are drawing nigh,
And that to-morrow’s sun begins the week,
Which will abound with store of ale and cake,
With hams of bacon, and with powder’d beef,
Stuff d to give field-itinerants relief. 
  Then I, who have within these precincts kept,
And ne’er beyond the chimney-sweeper’s stept,
Will take a loose, and venture to be seen,
Since ’twill be Sunday, upon Shanks’s green;
There, with erected looks and phrase sublime,
To talk of unity of place and time,
And with much malice, mix’d with little satire,
Explode the wits on t’other side o’ th’ water. 
  Why has my Lord Godolphin’s special grace
Invested me with a queen’s waiter’s place,
If I, debarr’d of festival delights,
Am not allow’d to spend the perquisites?