gh hunting be not out,
We will go hunt in hell for better hap.
One parting blow, my hearts, unto our friends,
To bid the fields and huntsmen all farewell.
Toss up your bugle-horns unto the stars:
Toil findeth ease, peace follows after wars.
[_Exit_.

[_Here they go out, blowing their horns, and
hallooing as they came in_.

WILL SUM. Faith, this scene of Orion is right _prandium caninum_, a
dog's dinner which, as it is without wine, so here's a coil about dogs
without wit. If I had thought the ship of fools[66] would have stay'd to
take in fresh water at the Isle of Dogs, I would have furnish'd it with
a whole kennel of collections to the purpose. I have had a dog myself,
that would dream and talk in his sleep, turn round like Ned fool, and
sleep all night in a porridge-pot. Mark but the skirmish between
Sixpence and the fox, and it is miraculous how they overcome one another
in honourable courtesy. The fox, though he wears a chain, runs as though
he were free; mocking us (as it is a crafty beast), because we, having a
lord and master to attend on, run about at our pleasures, like
masterless men. Young Sixpence, the best page his master hath, plays a
little, and retires. I warrant he will not be far out of the way when
his master goes to dinner. Learn of him, you diminutive urchins, how to
behave yourselves in your vocation: take not up your standings in a
nut-tree, when you should be waiting on my lord's trencher. Shoot but a
bit at butts; play but a span at points. Whatever you do, _memento
mori_--remember to rise betimes in the morning.

SUM. Vertumnus, call Harvest.

VER. Harvest, by west and by north, by south and by east,
Show thyself like a beast.
Goodman Harvest, yeoman, come in and say what you can. Boom for the
scythe and the sickle there.

_Enter_ HARVEST, _with a scythe on his neck, and all
his reapers with sickles, and a great black bowl with
a posset in it, borne before him; they come in singing.

The Song.

Merry, merry, merry: cheery, cheery, cheery,
Trowl the blade bowl[67] to me;
Hey derry, derry, with a poup and a lerry,
I'll trowl it again to thee:

Hooky, hooky, we have shorn,
And we have bound,
And we have brought Harvest
Home to town_.

SUM. Harvest, the bailiff of my husbandry,
What plenty hast thou heap'd into our barns?
I hope thou hast spe