For it's this we Shepheards love,
Being that which most doth move;
There, there, there,

To a haire ;

O Tim Crowd, methinks I hear thee,
Young nor old,

Ne're could hold,

But must leak if they come near thee.

Mop. Blush Marina, fie for shame,

Blemish not a shepheards name; Mar. Mopsus, why, is't such a matter, Maids to shew their yeelding nature? O what then,

Be ye men,

That will bear your selves so froward,
When you find

Us inclin'd

To your bed and board so toward?

Mop. True indeed, the fault is ours,
Though we term it oft time yours.

Mar. What would shepheards have us doe,
But to yeeld when they do woo?
And we yeeld

Them the field,

And endow them with their riches.

Mop. Yet we know

Oft times too,

You'll not stick to weare the breeches.

Mar. Fools they'l deem them, that do hear them Say their wives are wont to weare them;

For I know, there's none has wit,

Can endure or suffer it;

But if they

Have no stay,

Nor discretion (as 'tis common)

Then they may

Give the sway,

As is fitting, to the Woman.

Mop. All too long (deare Love) I ween,
Have we stood upon this Theame:
Let each Lasse, as once it was,

Love her Swain, and Swain his Lasse:
So shall we

Honour'd be,

In our mating, in our meeting.

While we stand

Hand in hand,

Honest Swainling, with his Sweeting.

Alvar and Anthea.

Come Anthea let us two

Go to Feast as others do.

Tarts and Custards, Cream and Cakes,

Are the junkets still at Wakes:

Unto which the Tribes resort,

Where the businesse is the sport:

Morris-dancers thou shalt see,
Marian too in Pagentrie:
And a Mimick to devise
Many grinning properties.
Players there will be, and those
Base in action as in clothes :
Yet with strutting they will please
The incurious Villages.

Neer the dying of the day

There will be a Cudgel-play,
Where a Coxcomb will be broke,

Ere a good word can be spoke :
But the anger ends all here,

Drencht in Ale, or drown'd in Beere.

Happy Rusticks, best content
With the cheapest Merriment:

And possesse no other feare,

Then to want the Wake next yeare.

The Wake.

I, and wither shall we go?

To the Wake I trow:

'Tis the Village Lord Majors show,

Oh! to meet I will not faile;

For my pallate is in hast,

Till I sip again and tast

Of the Nut-brown Lass and Ale.

Feele how my Temples ake
For the Lady of the Wake e;

Her lips are as soft as a Medler,
With her posies and her points,
And the Ribbons on her joynts,
The device of the fields and the Pedler.

With a noyse and a Din,
Comes the Maurice-Dancer in :

With a fine linnen shirt, but a Buckram skin.

Oh! he treads out such a Peale

From his paire of legs of Veale,

The Quarters are Idols to him.
Nor do those Knaves inviron

Their Toes with so much iron,
"Twill ruine a Smith to shooe him.
I, and then he flings about,

His sweat and his clout,

The wiser think it two Ells:

While the Yeomen find it meet,

That he jingle at his feet,

The Fore-horses right Eare Jewels.

Enter Fidler.

But before all be done,

With a Christopher strong,

Comes Musick none, though Fidler one,
While the Owle and his Grandchild,

With a face like a Manchild,

Amaz'd in their Nest,

Awake from their Rest,

And seek out an Oake to laugh in.

Such a dismall chance,

Makes the Church-yard dance,

J

When the Screech Owls guts string a Coffin,

When a Fidlers coarse,

Catches cold and grows hoarse,

Oh ye never heard a sadder,

When a Rattle-headed Cutter,

Makes his will before Supper,

To the Tune of the Nooze and the Ladder.