My shag-hair Cyclops, come let 's ply
Our Lemnian hammers lustily!
By my wife's sparrows,
I swear these arrows
Shall singing fly
Through many a wanton's eye.
These headed are with golden blisses,
These silver ones feathered with kisses;
But this of lead
Strikes a clown dead,
When in a dance
He falls in a trance,
To see his black-brow lass not buss him,
And then whines out for death to untruss him.
So, so; our work being done, let 's play:
Holiday, boys! cry holiday!