The industrious Smith wherein shown,  
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 burden; though ill we may speed,  
Our labour will help us in time of our need;   
To the tune of young man remember delights are but vain.  


Quem rion▪  
Huc, huc pierides.  
Castalius or Vinum Hispanense   

THere was a poor Smith lived in a poor town,  
That had a loving wife bonny and brown,  
And though he were very discreet and wise,  
Yet would he do nothing without her advice,  
His stock it grew low, full well he did know,  
He told his wife what he intended to do,  

Quoth he, sweet wife, if I can prevail,  
I will  horses, and thou shalt sell Ale.    

I see by my labour but little I thrive,  
And that against the stream I do strive,  
By selling of Ale some money is got,  
If every man honestly pay for his pot:  
By this may we keep the Wolf from the door,  
And live in good fashion though now we live poor,  

If we have good custom we shall 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 Been,  
Tobacco It be wise we must not forget,  
Men will call for it, when malt's above wheat.  

When once it is known, then o'er hill and dale,  
Men will come flocking to taste of our Ale.    

They sent for a wench, her name it was Bess,  
And her they hired to welcome their guess,  
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 roar,  
The Smith he was never so troubled before,  

But quoth the good wife, sweet hart do not rail,  
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 toast,  
Besides much precious time he now lost,  
And thus the poor Smith was every day crossed,  

But, quoth the good wife, sweet hart do not rail,  
These things must be if we sell Ale.    

Men run on the score and little they paid  
Which made the poor Smith be greatly dismayed  
And bonny Bisse though she were not slack,  
To welcome her guess, yet things went to wrack  
For the would exchange a pot for a kiss,  
Which any fellow should seldom times miss.  

But quoth the good wife, sweet hart do not rail,  
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 lie.  

But quoth the good wife, sweet hart do not rail,  
These things must be if we sell Ale.    

He came home again and there he did see  
His Wife kindly sitting on a man's knee,  
And though he said little, yet he thought the more  
And who could blame the poor Wit all therefore,  
He hugged her & kissed her though Vulan stood by,  
Which made him to grumble, and look all awry.  

But quoth the good wife, sweet hart do not rapl,  
These things must he if we sell Ale.     

The second part  
to the same tune.  
 
 

A Sort of Sailors 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 creep up to his bed.  

But quoth the good Wife, sweet hart do not rail,  
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 asked him for money, quoth he, by your leave,  
I own you no money nor none you shall have,  
I own to your wife and her I will pay,  
The Smith he was vexed and departed away.  

Alas, who could blame him if now he do rail.  
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 cursed, and he swore,  
Quoth she, he is come to pay the old score.  

And still she cried, good sweet hart do not rail,  
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,  
Unto the Smith's house they came then with speed,  
And there they were wondrous merry indeed,  
With my not and thy put to raise the score hire,  
Mine host was so drunk he fell in the fire.  

But quoth the good Wife, sweet hart no not rail,  
These things must be if we sell Ale.    

Mine Oast being drunk and lose in his joints,  
He took an occasion to untruss his points,  
The vault it was ne'er, but boarded but slight,  
The Smith he was heavy and could not tread light,  
The boards broke asunder, and down he fell in,  
It was a worse matter than breaking his shin,  

But quoth the good Wife, séét heart do not rail,  
These things must be it we sell Ale.    

Happy is be who when he doth stumble,  
Knows the ground well before he do tumble,  
But so did not he, for he had forgotten,  
The boards 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, sweet hart do not rail,  
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 threatened to arrest him, his case it way such,  
He went to his Anvil, to my pot and thine,  
He turned out his Maid he pulled down his Sign.  

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 hear,  
That sell Tobacco strong Ale and good Béer,  
They might have done better, but they were loath,  
To fill up their measure with nothing but froth.  

Let no Alehouse keeper at my Song rail,  
These things must be it they sell Ale.     
Humphrey Crouch.  
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for RICHARD HARPER in Smithfield.