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And now the           victors play, *»

Dancing the triumphs of the hay,

Where every mower's wholesome heat

Smells like an Alexander's sweat,

Their females fragrant as the mead

Which they in fairy ciixiles tread : *»

When at their dance's end they kiss,

Their new-made hay not sweeter is ;

When, after this, 'tis piled in cocks.