Doctor, if to Shallow's orchard
We could both to-night repair,
We might hear good Master Silence
Making merry with him there.

But, my boy, think you we'd envy
All their wit and laughter gay —
We whose joy is pewter, Sheffield,
Staffordshire, and cloisonne?

Were they " merry, " those poor mortals,
As they doubtless dreamed they were,
Knowing naught of old Bohemian?
You and I may doubt it, Sir!

Had they e'er in their contentment,
Ale-pots, mirth, and garden light,
Such an hour as we might grant them
Is indeed " the sweet o' night " ?

Poor dead roisterers, that knew not
How a night may smile away
Lulled by porcelain and pewter,
Staffordshire and cloisonne!

Then to think — what brewage had they
That by yours would stand a show!
Why, your beer is like your heart, man,
And your heart's the best I know.