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Poem	Dawson the Butler's dead: Although I think Poets were ne'er infusde with single drinke Ile spend a farthing muse; some watry verse Will serve the turne to cast upon his hearse; If any cannot weepe amongst us here Take off his pott, and so squeeze out a tear: Weepe, O his cheeses, weepe till yee bee good, Yee that are dry or in the sun have stood; In mossy coats und rusty liveries mourne, Untill like him to ashes you shall turne: Weep, O ye barrells, lett your drippings fall In trickling streams: make waste more prodigal Than when our drinke is badde, that John may flote To Styx in beere, and lift upp Charon's boate With wholesome waves. And as our conduits run With clarett at a Coronation, So lett our channells flow with single tiffe, For John, I hope, is crownde: take off your whiffe, Yee men of Rosemary: Now drinke off all, Remembring 'tis a Butler's funeral: Had he bin master of good double beere, My life for his, John Dawson had beene here.
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