WILLY. THOMALIN.
WILLY.
Thomalin, why sitten we so,
As weren overwent with woe,
Upon so fair a morrow?
The joyous time now nigheth fast,
That shall alegge this bitter blast,
And slake the winter sorrow.
THO. Sicker, Willy, thou warnest well;
For winter's wrath begins to quell,