Thy black jacks also, and thy butcher's matters,
And whether they square nicely with thy platters."

"Mine," quoth the Manciple, "were then the mire!
Much rather would I pay his horse's hire,
And that will be no trifle, mud and all,
Than risk the peril of so sharp a fall.
I did but jest. Score not, ye'll be not scored.
And guess ye what? I have here, in my gourd,
A draught of wine, better was never tasted,
And with this cook's ladle will I be basted,
If he don't drink of it, right lustily.
Upon my life he'll not say nay. Now see.

And true it was, the cook drank fast enough;
Down went the drink out of the gourd, FLUFF, FLUFF:
Alas! the man had had enough before:
And then, betwixt a trumpet and a snore,
His nose said something,--grace for what he had;
And of that drink the cook was wondrous glad.

Our host nigh burst with laughter at the sight,
And sighed and wiped his eyes for pure delight,
And said, "Well, I perceive it's necessary,
Where'er we go, good wine with us to carry.
What needeth in this world more strifes befall?
Good wine's the doctor to appease them all.
O, Bacchus, Bacchus! blessed be thy name,
That thus canst turn our earnest into game.
Worship and thanks be to thy deity.