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and tokens, to know Cupide the Poets God of Loue. But more particularlye I thinke, in the person of Thomalin is meant some secrete freend, who scorned Loue and his knights so long, till at length him selfe was entangled, and unwares wounded with the dart of some beautifull regard, which is Cupides arrowe.

 

WillyeThomalin.
Thomalin, why sytten we soe,
As weren ouerwent with woe,
 Vpon so fayre a morow?
The ioyous time now nighest fast,
That shall alegge this bitter blast,
 And slake the winters sorowe.

Thomalin.
Sicker Willye, thou warnest well:
For Winters wrath beginnes to quell,
 And pleasant spring appeareth.
The grasse now ginnes to be refresht,
The Swallow peepes out of her nest,
 And clowdie Welkin cleareth.

Willye.
Seest not thilke same Hawthorne studde,
How bragly it beginnes to budde,
 And vtter his tender head?
Flora now calleth forth eche flower,
And bids make ready Maias bowre,
 That newe is vpryst from bedde.
Tho shall we sporten in delight,
And learne with Lettice to wexe light,
 That scornefully lookes askaunce,
Tho will we little Loue awake,
That nowe sleepeth in Lethe lake,
 And pray him leaden our daunce.

Thomalin.
Willye, I wene thou bee assott:
For lustie Loue still sleepeth not,
 But is abroad at his game.

Willye.
How kenst thou, that he is awoke?

Of