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A quart of ale is a dish for a king.
I will give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.
Foamed forth in floods the nut-brownale.
The troubles of our proud and angry dust Are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale
Back and side go bare, go bare:
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.
Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no
more cakes and ale?
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.