Each thing that’s done belowe the moone.
There’s not a hag
Or ghost shall wag,
Or cry 'ware goblins! where I go,
But Robin, I,
Their feates will spy,
And send them home with ho, ho, ho!
Whene’er such wanderers I meete,
As from their night-sports they trudge home,
With counterfeiting voice I greete,