Nick and Froth; OR, The Good-fellows Complaint for Want of full Measure.  
Discovering the Deceits, and Abuses of Victuallers, Tapsters, Ale-drapers'; and all the rest of the Society of Drunkard-makers: By filling their Drink in False Flagons, Pimping Tankards, Cans, called Ticklers; Rabbits, Jugs, and short Quarterns, To the Grand abuse of the Society of Good-fellowship.  

Good Fellows Drinks their Liquor without flinching;  
Then why should Knavish Tapsters use such pinching.   
Tune of, We'll Drink this Old Ale no more, no more.  
 

ALl you 't are Fréemen of Ale-drapers' hall  
And Tapsters where ever you be,  
Be sure you be ready to come at my call,  
And your Knavery here you shall see.   

A knot of Good-fellows we are here inclined,  
To Challenge you out if you dare,  
A very sharp Trial you're like to find,  
Although it be at your own Bar.   

Your Cheats and Abuses, we long did abide,  
But times are so wondrous hard,  
That Loser's may speak, it cannot be denied,  
Of our Measure we have been debarred.   

But now we'll show you a trick you knaves  
And lay you all open to view,  
It's all for your froth and your Nick you slaves  
And tell you no more than is true.   

If in a cold Morning we chance to come,  
And bid a good Morrow my Host,  
And call for some Ale, you will bring us black Pots,  
Yet scarce will afford us a Toast.   

For those that drink Béer, 'tis true as i'm here  
Your Counterfeit Flagons you have,  
Which holds not a Quart, scarce by a third part,  
And 't makes my Host go brave,   
 
 
 

But now pimping Tankards are all in use  
Which drains a Man's Pocket in brief:  
For he that sits close, and takes of his Doses,  
Will Find that the Tankerd's a Thief.   

Béeed Tankard or Flagon, which of them you brag on,  
We'll trust you to Nick and to Froth;  
Before we can Drink, be sure it will shrink,  
Far worse than North Country Cloth.   

When Summer is coming, then hay brave boys,  
The tickling Cans they run round.  
Pray take't in good part, for a Winchester Quartfield  
Will fill sir, I dare lay you a Pound.   

Your Rabbits & jugs, & Coffée-house Mugs  
Are ready when ere you do call,  
A P— take his Trade, such Measures that made,  
I wish that Old Nick had them all.   

When we have a Fancy our Noses to Steel,  
And call for some Nance of the best,  
Be sure the short Pot, must fall to our lot,  
For now they are all in request.   

Scarce one House in twenty, where measure is plenty;  
But still they are all for the Pinch;  
Thus every day, they drive customs away,  
And force us good Fellows to flinch.   

Sometimes a man may, leave something to pay  
Though seldom he did it before:  
With Marlborough Cholke you his patience provoke  
When ever he clears all his score.   

The women likewise, which are not precise,  
But will take a Cup of the best,  
Tho they drink for pleasure, they'll have their measure  
Or else you shall have little rest.   

There's Billingsgate Nan, & all her whole gang  
Complaining for want of their due:  
True Topers they are, as o'er scored at Bar,  
For they'll drink till their Noses look blue.   

A Pot and a Toast, will make them to boast,  
Of things that are out of their reach:  
So long as a Groat, remains in the Coat,  
They over good Liquor will Preach.   

In Shoemaker's Row, there's true hearts you know  
But give them their Measure and weight,  
They'll scorn for to stir, but stick like a Burr,  
And Tope it from Morning till Night.   

Then there's honest Smug that with a full jug  
Will set all his Brains on a float:  
But you are such Sots, to fill him small Pots  
Will scarce quench the spark in his Throat.   

With many such Blades of several Trades  
Which freely their Money will spend;  
But fill them good drink, they value not chink  
Where ever they meet with a Friend.   

Most Trades in the Nation gives there approbation  
How that you are much for to blame:  
Then make us excuses, but cease your abuses  
And fill up your Measure for shame.