Then twang with our sonnets, and twang with our dumps,[89]
And heigho from our heart, as heavy as lead-lumps.
Then to our recorder[90] with toodleloodle poop,
As the howlet out of an ivy bush should hoop.
Anon to our gittern,[91] thrumpledum thrumpledum thrum,
Thrumpledum, thrumpledum, thrumpledum, thrumpledum, thrum.
Of songs and ballads also he is a maker,
And that can he as finely do as Jack Raker;[92]
Yea, and extempore will he ditties compose;
Foolish Marsias ne'er made the like, I suppose;