"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