I pray you, all ye men who put your trust
In moulds and systems and well-tackled gear,
Holding that Nature lives from year to year
In one continual round because she must—
Set me not down, I pray you, in the dust
Of all these centuries, like a pot of beer—
A pewter-pot disconsolately clear,
Which holds a potful, as is right and just!
I will grow clamorous—by the rood, I will,
If thus ye use me like a pewter pot!
Good friend, thou art a toper and a sot—
will not be the lead to hold thy swill,
Nor any lead: I will arise and spill
Thy silly beverage—spill it piping hot!