The High and mighty Comm●●●ation of the virtue of a Pot of Good Ale.  
Full of wit without offence, of mirth without obsceniti●● of pleasure without scurrility, and of good content without distaste.  
Whereunto is added the valiant battle fought between the Norfolk Cock and the Wisbich Cock.  
written by Thomas Randall.  
LONDON, Printed for F. Cowles, T. Bates, and I. Wright.  
MDCXLII.   

The High and mighty C●●●●ndation of the the virtue o● 〈…〉 t of Good Ale.  

NOt drunken nor sober, (but neighbour to both,  
I met with a friend in Alesberry 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 put me in mind of the name of the Dale,  
That for Alesberries sake, some pains I would take,  
And not bury the praise of a pot of Good Ale.   

The more to procure me, than did he adjure me,  
(If the Ale I drank last were nappy and stale)  
To do it ●s right, and stir up my sp●ight▪  
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 God 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 dark,  
And the print of the letter doth seem ●oo small,  
T●ey 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 inspired 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 dewed with a pot of Good Ale.   

The Prisoner that is enclosed in the grate,  
Will shake off remembrance of bondge 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 Ka●●▪ 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 & his heart were at his breech  
If he liquour 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,  
Ere while was (scarce able to tell a right tale,  
It will open his ●aw, he will tell you the Law,  
And straight be a Bencher with a pot of Good Ale.   

I do further allege, it is fortitudes 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 〈…〉'd 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 ●is nose,  
If he be but well lined with a pot of Good Ale.   

The hungry man seldom can mind his meat,  
(Though his stomach could brook a Ten penny Nail)  
He qu●te forgets hunger, thinks of it no longer,  
If his guts be but soured with a pot of Good Ale.   

T●e Reaper the Mower, the Thresher, the sour,  
The one with his scythe, and the other with his flail,  
Pull 'em out by the pole, on the peril of my sole,  
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 enriched 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 drenched 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,  
An house is ordained 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 aleberries, Cawdles and Possets each one▪  
And Sullabubs made at the Milking pale▪  
Although they be many, beer 〈◊〉 not in any  
But all are composed 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 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 devised for his Nation (by the welchmens' tale)  
Seventeen hundred years before Christ did spring,  
The happy invention of a pot of Good Ale.   

But he was a Pagan, and Ale than was rife;  
But after Christ came, and bade us, All hail,  
Saint Ta●●● 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 peer in her life,  
Put awle Cally 〈…〉, 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 steeped with a pot of Good Ale.   

O Ale, ab alen●●●, thou liquour of life,  
I wish that my mouth were as big as a Whale;  
But than 'twere to little, to reach thy least title,  
That belongs ● 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,   

W●ll said my friend the blot I will bear,  
Y●u have done very well, it is time to strike sa●le;  
we'll have six pots more, though we die on the score,  
To make all this good of a pot of Good Ale.    

The Combat of the Cocks.  

Go you tame Gallants, you that have the name,  
And would accounted be Cocks of the Game,  
That have brave spurs to show for't and can crow,  
And count all dunghill breed that cannot show  
Such painted plumes as yours; that think't no vice,  
With Cock-like lust to trad your Cockatrice:  
Th●ugh Peacocks, woodcocks, weathercocks you be,  
If y'are no fighting Cocks, y'are not for me:  
I of two feathered Combatants will write,  
He that to th' life means to express the fight,  
Must make his ink o'th' blood which they did spill,  
And from their dying wings borrow his quill.   

NO sooner were the doubtful people set,  
The matches made, and all that would had bet,  
But straight the skilful judges of the play,  
Bring forth their sharp heeled warriors, and they  
Were both in linen bags, as if 'twere meet▪  
Before they died to have their winding-sheet.  
With that in th' pit they are put, and when they were  
Both on their feet, the Norfolk chanticleer  
Looks stoutly at his ne'er before seen foe,  
And like a challenger begins to crow,  
And shakes his wings, as if he would display  
His warlike colours, which were black and grey:  
Mean time the wary Wisbich walks, and breathes  
His active body, and in fury wreaths  
His comely creft, and often looking down,  
He whets his angry beak upon the ground:  
With that they meet, not like that Coward breed  
Of Aesop, they can better fight than feed.  
They scorn the dunghill, 'tis their only prize,  
To dig for pearl within each others eyes:  
They fight so long, that it was hard to know  
To the skilful, whether they did fight no no▪  
Had not the blood which died the fatal floor  
Borne witness of it; yet they fight the more,  
As if each wound were but a spur to prick  
Their fury forward: lightning's not more quick  
Nor red than were their eyes: 'twas hard to know  
Whether it was blood or anger made them so:  
And sure they had been out, had they not stood  
More safe by being fenced in by blood.  
Yet still they fight, but now (alas) at length,  
Although their courage be full tried, their strength  
And blood began to ebb; you that have seen  
A water-combat on the Sea, between  
Two roaring angry boiling billows, how  
They march, and meet, and dash their curled brows,  
Swell●ng like graves, as if they did intend  
To entomb each other, ere the quarrel end:  
But when the wind is down, and blustering weather,  
They are made friends, and sweetly run together,  
May think these Champions such; their combs grow low,  
And they that leapt even now, now scarce can go:  
Their wings which lately at each blow they clapped  
(As if they did applaud themselves) how slapt.  
And having lost the advantage of the heel,  
Drunk with each others blood, they only reel.  
From either eyes such drops of blood did fall,  
As if they wept them for their funeral.  
And yet they would fain fight, they come so near,  
As if they meant into each others ear  
To whisper death; and when they cannot rise,  
They lie and look blows in each others eyes.   

But now the tragic part after the fight,  
When Norfolk Cock had got the best of it,  
And Wisbich lay a-dying, so that none,  
Th●ugh sober, but might venture seven to one,  
Contracting (like a dying Taper) all  
His force, as meaning with that blow to fall;  
He struggles up, and having ta●en wind,  
Ventures a blow, and strikes the other blind.  
And now poor Norfolk having lost his eyes,  
Fights only guided by the Antipathies:  
With him (alas) the Proverb holds not true;  
The blows his eyes ne'er see, his heart most rue.  
At length by cha●ce, he stumbling on his foe,  
Not having any power to strike a blow,  
He falls upon him with a wounded head,  
And makes his conquered wings his featherbed:  
Where lying sick, his friends were very chary  
Of him, and fetched in haste an apothecary;  
But all in vain, his body did so blister,  
That it was uncapable of any glister,  
Wherefore at length opening his fainting bill,  
He called a Scrivener, and thus made his will.   

INprimis, Let it never be forgot,  
My b●dy freely I bequeathe to th' pot,  
Decently to be boiled, and for its tomb,  
Let it be buried in some hungry womb.  
Item▪ executors I will have none,  
But he that on my side laid seven to one:  
And like a Gentleman that he may live,  
To him and to his heirs my comb I give;  
Together with my brains, that all may know,  
That often times his brains did use to crow.  
Item, It is my will, to the weaker ones,  
Whose wives complain of them, I give my stones;  
To him that's dull, I do my spurs impart,  
And to the Coward I bequeathe my heart:  
To Ladies that are light, it is my will,  
My feathers should be given; and for my bill,  
I'd give't a tailor, but it is so short,  
That I'm afraid he'll rather curse me for't:  
And for the Apothecaries see, who meant,  
To give me a glister, let my rump be sent.  
Lastly, because I feel my life decay.  
I yield, and give to Wisbich Cock the day.    
FINIS.