Selected quad for the lemma: mind_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
mind_n	body_n	good_a	soul_n	5,431	5	4.9949	4	true

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A50777	Exaltatio alæ The ex-ale-tation of ale / done into verse by T.C.P.	Mews, Peter, 1619-1706.	1666 (1666)	Wing M1955; ESTC R43452	10,861	34

in vivis Qui Nectar haud norunt nisi nobilis Alae Pictique Scotique pugnabant utrique Tam abditum fuerat hoc in penetrali Sed funditùs Picti a Scotis devicti Quod artem celabant hos Hetheraeale Verùm hac sit an illac tu prorsus nil fac Oportet haberi non vivitur Kala Nam nee Haverhannocks sed nec Haverjannocks Quod Scotis in votis est nobilis Ala. Nec inficiabor foret irritus labor Quod multi hinc dixerint ultimum VALE Da poculum ori quàm dulce est MORI Decoris a spiculis nobilis Alae Innocuis tamen hoc esto solamen Consciscit quod suum sibi quisque fatale Nam peccat nec Byna vetulave divinae Si potus quis potu sit nobilis Alae Quot morte offectet hic si quis objectet Sit memor et quibus est Medicinale Lupulata necantur qui ALA sanantur Quae salubris virtus est nobilis Alae Sed longè hoc a re MORTEM nominare Convitia nolim ingerere mala Quamvis Lupulata sit lupis enata Bonumque sit omen praenobilis Alae Hoc multis compertum et exitio certum Archiva ni fallant exemplo paenali Nam pendulus mox fit qui lupulum coxit Lupulatam expertus quod amarior Ala. ALAM ab alendo vitalem defendo Balanae si foret nunc os mihi quale Nam parvulum est mî nec tantillulum quí Praeconia praedicem nobilis Alae Animus tamen fallit qui paucula callet Ni dixerim nil ut durat malè Sed propter bibendum numeratò solvendum Hoc unicum onus est nobilis Alae Tune Vir ille bonus Hoc mî erit Onus Fecisti tu satis Dicéndum jam Vale Sex calices addam Obaeratus si cadam Vt praestem praeconia nobilis Alae THE EX-ALE-TATION OF ALE. NOt drunken nor sober but neighbour to both I met with a friend in Ales-burie vale He saw by my face that I was in the case To speak no great harm of a Pot of good Ale Then did he me greet said since we meet And he put me in mind of the name of the Dale For Ales-buries sake some pains I would take And not bury the praise of a Pot of good Ale The more to procure me then did he adjure me If the Ale I drank last was nappie stale To do it its right and stirr up my Sprite And fall to commend a Pot of good Ale Quoth I to commend it I dare not begin Lest therein my credit might happen to faile For many men now do count it a sin But once to look towards a Pot of good Ale Yet I care not a pin for I see no such sin Nor any thing else my courage to quaile For this we do find that take it in kind Much virtue there is in a Pot of good Ale And I mean not the tast though thereby much grac't Nor the merry-go-down without pull or hale Perfuming the throat when the stomach 's a float With the fragrant sweet scent of a Pot of good Ale Nor yet the delight that comes to the sight To see how it flow'rs and mantles in graile As green as a Leek with a smile in the cheek The true Orient colour of a Pot of good Ale But I mean the mind and the good it doth find Not only the body so seeble and fraile For body and soul may blesse the Black Bowl Since both are beholden to a Pot or good Ale For when heavinesse the mind doth oppresse And sorrow and greif the heart do assayle No remedy quicker than to take off your liquor And to wash away cates with a Pot of good Ale The Widdow that buried her husband of late Will soon have forgotten to weep and to waile And think every year twain till she marrie again If she read the contents of a Pot of good Ale It is like a Belly-blast to cold Heart And warm's and engenders the Spirits Vitale To keep them from damage all Sp'rits ow their homage To the Sp'rit of the Butterie a Pot of good Ale The naked complaines not for want of a Coat Nor on the cold weather will once turn his tayle All the way as he goes he cuts the wind with his nose If he but well wrapt in a Pot of good Ale The hungry man takes no thought for his meat Though his stomach could brook a ten-penny naile He quite forgets hunger thinks on it no longer If he touch but the Sparks of a Pot of good Ale The poor man will praise it so hath he good cause That all the year eats neither Partridg not Quale But sets up his rest and makes up his Feast With a crust of Brown-bread and a Pot of good Ale The Shepheard the Sower the Thresher the Mower The one with his scythe the other with his flaile Take them out by the Pole on the perill of my soul All will hold up their hands to a Pot of good Ale The Black-smith whose bellow's all Summer do blow With the fire in his face still without e're a vaile Though his throat be full dry he will tell you no lie But where you may be sure of a Pot of good Ale Who ever denayes it the Prisoner will praise it That begs at the grate and lyes in the jayle For ever in his fetter he thinks himself better May he get but a two penny Black Pot of Ale The Beggar whose portion is alwayes his Prayer Not having a tattar to hang on his tayle Is as rich in his rags as the Churl in his bags If he once but shake hands with a Pot of good Ale It drives his poverty clean out of mind Forgetting his Brown-bread his Wallet and Male He walks in the house like a six footed Louse If he once be enricht with a Pot of good Ale And he that doth dig in the ditches all day And wearies himself quite at the Plough-tayle Will speak no lesse things than of Queens of Kings If he touch but the top of a Pot of good Ale It is like a Whet-stone to a blunt wit And makes a supply where Nature doth faile The dullest wit soon will look quite through the Moon If his Temples be wet with a Pot of good Ale Then Dick to his Darling full boldly dare speak Though before silly fellow his courage did quaile He gives her the smouch with his hand on his pouch It he meet by the way with a Pot of good Ale And it makes the Carter a Courtier straight-way With Rhetorical termes he will tell his tale With courtesies great store and his Cap up before Being school'd but a little with a Pot of good Ale The old man whose tongue wags faster than his teeth For old age by Nature doth drivel and drayle Will frig and will fling like a Dog in a string If he warm his cold blood with a Pot of good Ale And the good old Clerk whose sight waxeth dark And ever he