At Christmas I no more desire a rose - Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows

Where is our usual manager of mirth?What revels are in hand? Is there no play,To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.

Lawn as white as driven snow, Cyprus black as e'er was crow, Gloves as sweet as damask roses, Masks for faces and for noses, Bugle bracelet, necklace amber, Perfume for a lady's chamber, Golden quoifs and stomachers For my lads to give their dears, Pins and poking-sticks of steel, What maids lack from head to heel.

O that I were a mockery king of snow, Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke To melt myself away in water drops!

If but a dozen French Were there in arms, they would be as a call To train ten thousand English to their side, Or as a little snow, tumbled about, Anon becomes a mountain.