Where now no anchorite doth dwell

To rise and pray at Lenard's bell:

Martyn hath kicked at Balaam's ass,

So merrie be old Martilmasse.

When the dailie sportes be done,

Round the market crosse they runne,

Prentis laddes, and gallant blades,

Dancinge with their gamesome maids,

Till the beadel, stoute and sowre,

Shakes his bell, and calls the houre;