August. 71 
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies, 
Clad all in linen, white as lilies ; 
The harvest swains and wenches, bound 
For joy to see the hock-cart crown’d. 
About the cart, hear how the rout 
Of rural younglings raise the shout, 
Pressing before, some coming after, 
Those with a shout, and these with laughter. 
Some bless the cart, some kiss the sheaves, 
Some prank them up with oaken leaves ; 
Some cross the fill-horse, some with great 
Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat ; 
While other rustics, less attent 
To prayers than to merriment, 
Run after, with their breeches rent 1 
Well, on, brave boys, to your lord’s hearth, 
Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth, 
Ye shall see first the large and chief 
Foundation of your feast, fat beef ; 
With upper stories, mutton, veal, 
And bacon, which makes full the meal ; 
With sev’ral dishes standing by. 
As, here a custard, there a pie, 
And here all-tempting frumentie. 
And for to make the merry cheer, 
If smirking wine be wanting here, 
There’s that which drowns all care, stout beer; 
Which freely drink to your lord's health, 
Then to the plough, the commonwealth ; 
Next to your flails, your fanes, your fatts, 
