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 sped well, thou art so blithe.

HAR.  Sped well or ill, sir, I drink to you on the same. 
Is your throat clear to help us sing, Hooky, hooky?

        [Here they all sing after him.

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

AUT.  Thou Corydon, why answer’st not direct?

HAR.  Answer? why, friend, I am no tapster, to say, Anon, anon, sir:[68] but leave you to molest me, goodman tawny-leaves, for fear (as the proverb says, leave is light) so I mow off all your leaves with my scythe.

WIN.  Mock not and mow[69] not too long; you were best not,[70] For fear we whet your scythe upon your pate.