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 t'untruss him. So, so : our work being done, let's play : Holiday ! boys, cry holiday !