Page:The Pennyles Pilgrimage.djvu/25

Yet this I note, my nag, through stones and dirt,
Did shift shoes twice, ere I did shift one shirt:
Can these kind things be in oblivion hid?
No, Master Prestwitch, this and much more did,
His friendship did command and freely gave
All before writ, and more than I durst crave.
But leaving him a little, I must tell,
How men of Manchester did use me well,
Their loves they on the tenter-hooks did rack,
Roast, boiled, baked, too — too— much, white, claret, sack,
Nothing they thought too heavy or too hot,
Can followed can, and pot succeeded pot,
That what they could do, all they thought too little,
Striving in love the traveller to whittle.
We went into the house of one John Pinners,
A man that lives amongst a crew of sinners)
And there eight several sorts of ale we had,
All able to make one stark drunk or mad.
But I with courage bravely flinched not,
And gave the town leave to discharge the shot.
We had at one time set upon the table,
Good ale of hyssop, 'twas no Æsop-fable:
Then had we ale of sage, and ale of malt,
And ale of wormwood, that could make one halt,
With ale of rosemary, and betony,
And two ales more, or else I needs must lie.
But to conclude this drinking aley-tale,