With every woman is he in some loves pang,
Then up to our lute at midnight, twangledome twang,[447] 20
Then twang with our sonets, and twang with our dumps,[448]
And heyhough from our heart, as heavie as lead lumpes:
Then to our recorder[449] with toodleloodle poope
As the howlet out of an yvie bushe should hoope.
Anon to our gitterne, thrumpledum, thrumpledum thrum, 25
Thrumpledum, thrumpledum, thrumpledum, thrumpledum thrum.
Of Songs and Balades also is he a maker,
And that can he as finely doe as Iacke Raker,[450] C iii b