Part I., p. 106. _There is not half so warm, &c._ See _Choyce Drollery_, 1656, p. 61, _ante_; and p. 293, for note correcting “daily” to “dully” in ninth line. Part II., p. 74 (App. p. lv.) _As ~Moss~ caught his Mare._ Not having had space at command, when giving a short Addit. Note on p. 408 of _M. D. C._, we now add a nursery rhyme (we should gladly have given another, which mentions catching the mare “Napping up a tree”). Perhaps the following may be the song reported as being sung in South Devon:— _~Moss~ was a little man, and a little mare did buy,_ _For kicking and for sprawling none her could come nigh;_ _She could trot, she could amble, and could canter here and there,_ _But one night she strayed away—so ~Moss~ lost his Mare._ _~Moss~ got up next morning to catch her fast asleep,_ _And round about the frosty fields so nimbly he did creep._ _Dead in a ditch he found her, and glad to find her there,_ _So I’ll tell you by and bye, how ~Moss~ caught his mare._ _Rise! stupid, rise! he thus to her did say,_ _Arise you beast, you drowsy beast, get up without delay,_ _For I must ride you to the town, so don’t lie sleeping there,_ _He put the halter round her neck—so ~Moss~ caught his mare._ As that prematurely wise young sceptic Paul Dombey declared, when a modern-antique Legend was proffered to him, “I don’t believe that story!” It is frightfully devoid of _ærugo_, even of _æruca_. It may do for South Devon, and for Aylesbury farmers over their “beer and bacca,” but not for us. The true Mosse found his genuine mare veritably “napping” (not dead), up a real tree. In John Taylor’s “_A Swarme of Sectaries and Schismatiqves_,” 1641, his motto is (concerning Sam Howe lecturing from a tub), _The Cobler preaches and his Audience are_ _As wise as ~Mosse~ was, when he caught his Mare._ Part II., page 89. _Cheer up, my mates, &c._ (See Appendix to _Westm. Droll_., p. lxii.) The author of this frollicsome ditty was no other than ABRAHAM COWLEY (1618-67), dear to all who know his choice “Essays in Prose and Verse,” his unlaboured letters, the best of his smaller poems, or the story of his stainless life and gentleness. It is that noble thinker and poet, Walter Savage Landor, who writes, and in his finest mood:— _Time has been_ _When ~Cowley~ shone near ~Milton~, nay, above!_ _An age roll’d on before a keener sight_ _Could separate and see them far apart._ (_Hellenics_, edit. 1859, p. 258.)