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!