The Maltworm's Madrigal.

I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe;     At noon I dream on the settle; at night I cannot sleep;     For my love, my love it groweth; I waste me all the day;     And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say.     The sparrow when he spieth his Dear upon the tree,     He beateth-to his little wing; he chirketh lustily;     But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail;     I wot that I shall die of Love--an I die not of Ale.     Her lips are like the muscadel; her brows are black as ink;     Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink;     But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out--"Te-Hee!     Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me?"     "Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin! Why be thine eyes so small?     Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall?     Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot?     Go to. Thou art no man (she saith)--thou art a Pottle-pot!"     "No man," i'faith. "No man!" she saith. And "Pottle-pot" thereto!     "Thou sleepest like our dog all day; thou drink'st as fishes do."     I would that I were Tibb the dog; he wags at her his tail;     Or would that I were fish, in truth, and all the sea were Ale!     So I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe;     All day I dream in the sunlight; I dream and eke I weep,     But little lore of loving can any flagon teach,     For when my tongue is loosd most, then most I lose my speech.