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ET is the day of Martelmas;

Cups of ale should freely pass.

What though winter has begun To push down the summer sun ? To our fire we can betake, And enjoy the crackling brake, Never heeding winter's face On the day of Martelmas. Some do the city now frequent, Where costly shows and merriment Do wear the vapourish evening out With interlude and revelling rout, Such as did pleasure England's queen, When here her royal grace was seen ; Yet will they not this day let pass, The merry day of Martelmas. When the daily sports be done, Round the market-cross they run, Prentice lads and gallant blades Dancing with their gamesome maids ; Till the beadle, stout and sour, Shakes his bell, and calls the hour; Then farewell lad and farewell lass To the merry night of Martelmas. Martelmas shall come again, Spite of wind and snow and rain ; But many a strange thing must be done, Many a cause be lost and won, Many a tool must leave his pelf, Many a worldling cheat himself, And many a marvel come

pass, Before return of Martelmas.


III. Id. Novemb.

ARTINI rediit sacrum : fluentes
Tempus cervisiae dari culullos.

Qvid si pergit hiemps ab arce caeli
Semper deciduum movere solem?
At fas ante focum sedere nobis ;
At lignis crepitantibus fruemur
Securi niviumqve flaminumqve,
Martini redeunte luce festa.
Est qvi nunc mediam freqventat urbeni,
Qva pompae et celebres ubiqve ludi
Fallunt desidis Hesperi vapores
Mimis, saltibus, omnibus cachinnis:
Qvae, regina, tibi fuere cordi,
Cum nostris modo lusibus favebas.
At non immemor hic boni diei,
Martinus sibi qvem sacrum dicavit.
Post ludos, abeunte sole, circum
Cursantes titubant crucem forensem
Cum saltantibus ebrii puellis
Bibones operaeqve feriati :
Qvis seram gravis impigerqve custos
Campanam monitor qvatit: iubentqve
Iam sese puer invicem et puella
Martiniqve hilarem valere noctem.
Martinus referet suos honores,
Qvamvis flabra furant nivesqve et imbres.
Sed fient memoranda multa, multi
Stabunt iudicibus cadentqve coram,
Multus divitias relinqvet Harpax,
Multus se veterator ipse fallet,
Multa vulgus hians stupescet, ante
Martino sua festa qvam redibunt.



WHIS is no answer, thou unfeeling man,

To excuse the current of thy cruelty.

S. I am not bound to please thee with my answer. B. Do all men kill the things they do not love ? S. Hates any man the thing he would not kill ? B. Every offence is not a hate at first. S. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice ?


The Primrose.

SK me why I send you

This firstling of the infant year :

Ask me why I send to you
This primrose all bepearled with dew ;
I straight will whisper in your ears,
The sweets of love are washed with tears.

Ask me why this flower doth show
So yellow, green, and sickly too;
Ask me why the stalk is weak,
And, bending, yet it doth not break;
I must tell you, these discover
What doubts and fears are in a lover.


Cornish Men.

ND shall they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen,

And shall Trelawny die ?
Then twenty thousand Cornish men

Will know the reason why.


Β. 'Αλλ' ουδε τούτο τούπος, ώ σκληρόν κάρα,

λύει σε μη ουχί λήμαθώπευτον κλύειν.
Σ. ου δεί με φωνείν πάντα σοι προς ηδονήν.
Β. έκτεινε γάρ τις ευθέως α μη φίλ' ή;
Σ. ήχθηρε γάρ τις ταύθ' ά μη κτείνειν θέλει και
Β. ου πάν γε νείκος εις άπαξ έχθραν φύει.
Σ. δις γαρ συ πληγείης αν εξ όφεως εκών και

T. C. Β.

Primula Veris.

VAERIS cur tibi muneri

Sic anni dederim primitias novi,

Cur haec venerit ad tuum
Limen rore micans primula gemmeo ?
Qvas dat delicias Amor,

Illas, crede mihi, fletibus irrigat.
Qvaeris cur ita palleat

Aegrescens viridi lumine flosculus ;
Culmo cur tenero nimis

Flectatur, neqve adhuc fractus humi cadat?
Haec te, crede mihi, docent

Ut spes inter Amor pendeat et metus.


Hic Genus acre Virum.

Είτά τις ονομάτων πατρίων κλέος άμμι πατήσει,

και θάνατος δαμάσει τον φίλον άμμιν έτην ; ού, πρίν Κορναβικών δις μυρίοι άνδρες απάντρων

γνώσ', είτ' ούν αδίκως είτε καλώς τάδ' έχει.

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