Jun 02 2009
Alan Powers 
‘The nine mens Morris is fild up with mud,
And the quaint Mazes in the wanton greene,
For want of tread are undistinguishable.
The human mortals want their winter here,
No night is now with hymne or carol blest;
Therefore the Moone (the governesse of floods)
Pale in her anger, washes all the aire;
That Rheumaticke diseases do abound.
And through this distemperature, [...]
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