"It is the day of Martilmasse,

Cuppes of ale should freelie passe;

What though Wynter has begunne

To push downe the summer sunne,

To our fire we can betake

And enjoie the cracklinge brake,

Never heedinge winter's face

On the day of Martilmasse.—

Some do the citie now frequent,

Where costlie shews and merriment