Come, Anthea, Let Us Two Go To Feast, As Others Do: Tarts And Custards, Creams And Cakes, Are The Junkets Still At Wakes; Unto Which The Tribes Resort, Where The Business Is The Sport: Morris-Dancers Thou Shalt See, Marian, Too, In Pageantry; And A Mimic To Devise Many Grinning Properties. Players There Will Be, And Those Base In Action As In Clothes; Yet With Strutting They Will Please The Incurious Villages. Near The Dying Of The Day There Will Be A Cudgel-Play, Where A Coxcomb Will Be Broke, Ere A Good Word Can Be Spoke: But The Anger Ends All Here, Drench'D In Ale, Or Drown'D In Beer. Happy Rusticks! Best Content With The Cheapest Merriment; And Possess No Other Fear, Than To Want The Wake Next Year.