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  Wherein, as in a Christmasse hall, Wee frisk and dance the devil and all.

Then we change our wily features Into yett far smaller creatures, And dance in joynts of gowty toes, To painfull tunes of groans and woes. 



you be a man of fashion? Would you lead a life divine? Take a little dram of passion, In a lusty dose of wine.

If the nymph have no compassion, Vain it is to sigh and grone, Love was but put in for fashion, Wine will doe the worke alone.