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 Thy shearing feast which never fail; Thy harvest-home, thy wassail bowl, That's toss'd up after fox i' th' hole; Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-tide kings And queens, thy Christmas revellings, Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit, And no man pays too dear for it. To these, thou hast thy times to go And trace the hare i' th' treacherous snow; Thy witty wiles to draw, and get The lark into the trammel net; Thou hast thy cockrood and thy glade To take the precious pheasant made; Thy lime-twigs, snares and pit-falls then To catch the pilfering birds, not men. O happy life! if that their good The husbandmen but understood! Who all the day themselves do please, And younglings, with such sports as these, And lying down have nought t' affright Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night. Cætera desunt —— Soil'd, manured. Compost, preparation.

Fox i' th' hole, a hopping game in which boys beat each other with gloves.

Cockrood, a run for snaring woodcocks.

Glade, an opening in the wood across which nets were hung to catch game. (Willoughby, Ornithologie, i. 3.)


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I dare not ask a kiss, I dare not beg a smile,