For a quart of ale is a dish for a king

Sing a song of bollocks!

It's not every play that is honoured with having one of its quotes printed on one of those neon Tyvek wristbands at a beer festival, but The Winter's Tale recently joined those very exclusive ranks. Last year, I attended the first annual Florida Brewers Guild Beer Fest in Ybor City, and I enjoyed it so much that I went again last weekend. Being the self-taught Shakespeare/Beer Geek I am, I was doubly tickled by the fest's chosen quote of the day: "For a quart of ale is a meal for a king."

Of course, I've only seen it quoted as "dish"(at least the Folio version printed it that way) and not "meal," but hey, it's the thought that counts. I recognized it right away as a line from Autolycus' semi-bawdy song because I had already memorized the entire thing. It's a merry and cheeky tune that serves as his grand entrance into the play. He's a rogue and a conman, and so proud of it that he belts out his intentions as soon as he steps in front of the audience. Despite his disreputable occupation, Autolycus magically manages to be empathetic enough in his three whole scenes because he accidentally helps reveal the true identity of Perdita--the long lost daughter of the king, abandoned when she was a baby, raised by a shepherd in the country. 

This song is basically Autolycus' version of "My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music, outlining how he loves to pilfer laundry hanging on shrubbery, listen to birds sing as he beds whores, wander aimlessly through the night, and of course, drink copious amounts of ale. 

The Winter's Tale, Act IV, Sc. III
Autolycus: When daffodils begin to peer,
With heigh! the doxy over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year;
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.
The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,
With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing!
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
The lark, that tirra-lyra chants,
With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay,
Are summer songs for me and my aunts,
While we lie tumbling in the hay...
...But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?
The pale moon shines by night:
And when I wander here and there,
I then do most go right.
If tinkers may have leave to live,
And bear the sow-skin budget,
Then my account I well may, give,
And in the stocks avouch it.