The industrious Smith wherin showne,
How plain dealing is overthrown,
That let a man do the best that he may,
An idle huswife will work his decay,
Yet art is no burthen; though ill we may speed,
Our labour will help us in time of our need;
To the tune of yong man remember delights are but vain.
Quem rion▪
Huc, huc pierides.
Castalius or Vinum Hispanense
THere was a poor Smith liv'd in a poor town,
That had a loving wife bonny and brown,
And though he were very discréet and wise,
Yet would he do nothing without her advise,
His stock it grew low, full well he did know,
He told his wife what he intended to do,
Quoth he, swéet wife, if I can prevail,
I will shoo horses, and thou shalt sell Ale.
I sée by my labour but little I thrive,
And that against the stream I do strive,
By selling of Ale some mony is got,
If every man honestly pay for his pot:
By this may we kéep the Wolf from the door,
And live in good fashion though now we live poor,
If we have good custome we shal have quick sale,
So may we live bravely by selling of Ale.
Kind husband, quoth she, let be as you said,
It is the best motion that ever you made,
A Stan of good Ale, let me have in,
A dozen of good white bread in my Bin,
Tobacco It be wise we must not forget,
Men will call for it, when malt's above wheat.
When once it is known, then ore hill and dale,
Men will come flocking to taste of our Ale.
They sent for a wench, her name it was Besse,
And her they hired to welcome their ghesse,
They took in good Ale and many things me,
The Smith had got him two strings to his bow,
Good fellows come in, and began for to rore,
The Smith he was never so troubled before,
But quoth the good wife, swéet hart do not rayl,
These things must be if we sell Ale.
The Smith went to his work every day,
But still one or other would call him away.
For now he had got him the name of an Host,
It cost him many a pot and a toste,
Besides much precious time he now lost,
And thus the poor Smith was every day crost,
But, quoth the good wife, swéet hart do not rayl,
These things must be if we sell Ale.
Men run on the score and little they paid
Which made the poor Smith be greatly dismaid
And bonny Bisse though she were not slack,
To welcom her guesse, yet things went to wrack
For the would exchange a pot for a kisse,
Which any fellow should seldom times misse.
But quoth the good wife, swéet hart do not rayl,
These things must be if we sell Ale.
The Smith went abroad, at length her came
And found his maid, and man in a room, home
Both drinking together foot to foot,
To speak unto them he thought twas no boot,
For they were both drunk and could not reply,
To make an excuse as big as a lye.
But quoth the good wife, sweet hart do not rayl,
These things must be if we sell Ale.
He came home again and there he did sée
His Wife kindly sitting on a mans knee,
And though he said litle, yet he thought the more
And who could blame the poore Witt all therfore,
He hugd her & kist her though Vulan stood by,
Which made him to grumble, and look all awry.
But quoth the good wife, swéet hart do not rapl,
These things must he if we sell Ale.
The second part
to the same tune.
A Sort of Saylers were drinking one night,
And when they were drunk began for to fight
The Smith came to part them, as some do report,
And for his good will was beat in such sort,
That he could not lift his arms to his head,
Nor yet very hardly créep up to his bed.
But quoth the good Wife, swéet hart do not rayl,
These things must be if we sell Ale.
The Smith by chance a good fellow had met,
That for strong Ale was much in his debt,
He askt him for mony, quoth he, by your leave,
I owe you no mony nor none you shall have,
I owe to your wife and her I will pay,
The Smith he was vext and departed away.
Alas, who could blame him if now he do rayl.
These things should not be though they sold Ale.
Old debts must be paid, O why should they not,
The fellow wont home to pay the old shot,
The Smith followed after and they sell at strife,
For he found this fellow in bed with his Wife,
He fretted and fumed, he curst, and he swore,
Quoth she, he is come to pay the old score.
And still she cryde, good swéet hart do not rayl,
For these things must be if we sell Ale.
A flock of good fellows all Smiths by their trade,
Within a while after a holiday made,
Vnto the Smiths house they came then with spéed,
And there they were wondrous merry indéed,
With my not and thy put to rayse the score hier,
Mine Oost was so drunk he fell in the fire.
But quoth the good Wife, swéet hart no not rayl,
These things must be if we sell Ale.
Mine Oast being drunk and loose in his joynts,
He took an occasion to untrusse his points,
The vault it was nere, but borded but slight,
The Smith he was heavy and could not tred light,
The bords broke asunder, and down he fell in,
It was a worse matter then breaking his shin,
But quoth the good Wife, séét heart do not rayl,
These things must be it we sell Ale.
Happy is be who when he doth stumble,
Knowes the ground well before he do tumble,
But so did not he, for he had forgotten,
The bords which he trod on were so rotten,
He moved the house to mirth and to laughter,
His clothes they stunk at least a month after,
But, quoth the good Wife, swéet hart do not rayl,
These things must be if we sell Ale.
But men ran so much with him on the score,
That Vulcan at last grew wondrous poor,
He owed the Brewer and Baker so much,
They thretned to arrest him, his case it way such,
He went to his Anvill, to my pot and thine,
He torn'd out his Maid he puld down his Signe.
But O (quoth the good Wife) why should we fail,
These things should not be if we sell Ale.
The Smith & his boy went to work for some chink,
To pay for the liquor which others did drink,
Of all trades in London, few break as I heare,
That sell Tobacco strong Ale and good Béer,
They might have done better, but they were loth,
To fill up their measure with nothing but froth.
Let no Ale-house kéeper at my Song rayl,
These things must be it they sell Ale.
Humfrey Crowch.
FINIS.
LONDON, Printed for RICHARD HARPER in Smithfield.