Was ’t not enough Nature and strength were foes,
But thou must yearly murther him in prose?
Or dost thou thinke thy raving phrase can make
A lowder eccho then the Almanake?
Trust mee, November doth more ghastly looke
In Dade and Hopton’s[59] pennyworth then thy booke;
And sadder record their fixt figure beares
Then thy false-printed and ambitious teares.
For were it not for Christmas, which is nigh,
When spice, fruit eaten, and digested pye