A pure native Bird
This and though his hue
Be not Coventrie-blue
Yet he is undone
By the thread he has spunne,
For since the wise towne
Has let the Sports downe
Of May-games and Morris,
For which he right sorry is:
Where their Maides, and their Makes,
At Dancings and Wakes,
Had their Napkins, and poses,
And the wipers for their noses,
And their smocks all-be-wrought
With his thred which they bought:
It now lies on his hands,
And having neither wit, nor lands,
Is ready to hang, or choke him,
In a skeyne of that, that broke him.
Hey, Owle, fourth.
The Masque of Owles at Kenilworth,
in The Works of Ben Jonson,
Edited by Herford, Simpson and Simpson.,
Vol. VII 1941 Clarendon Press, Oxford, p.785, ll.120-136.