An unfortunate misprint crept in, detected too late: for “_Feasts_” read properly “_Jeasts_:” the old fashioned initial _J_ being barred across like _F_. Page 293, line 11. “_Heresie in hops._” This must have been an established jest. Compare Introd. to _M. D., C._, pp. xxxi-ii. and T. Randolph’s “Fall of the Mitre Tavern,” Cambridge, before 1635, “_The zealous students of that place_ _Change of religion bear:_ _That this mischance may soon bring in_ || _A heresy of beer._” Page 295, line 24. “_A hundred horse._” “He that gave the King a hundred horse,” refers, no doubt, to Sir John Suckling and his loyal service in 1642. See introduction to _M. D., C._, pp. xix. xx. The Answer to “I tell thee, Jack, thou gavest the King,” there mentioned, and probably referring to Sir John Mennis, a carping rival although a Cavalier, has a smack of Cleveland about it (it certainly is not Suckling’s):— _I tell thee, fool, who ere thou be,_ _That made this fine sing-song of me,_ _Thou art a riming sot:_ _These very lines do thee betray,_ _This barren wit makes all men say_ _’Twas some rebellious Scot._ _But it’s no wonder if you sing_ _Such songs of me, who am no King,_ _When every blew-cap swears_ _Hee’l not obey King ~James~ his Barn,_ _That huggs a Bishop under’s Arme,_ _And hangs them in his ears._ _Had I been of your Covenant,_ _You’d call me th’ son of ~John~ of ~Gaunt~,_ _And give me t’ great renown;_ _But now I am ~John~ [f]or the King,_ _You say I am but poor ~Suckling~,_ _And thus you cry me down._ _Well, it’s no matter what you say_ _Of me or mine that run away:_ _I hold it no good fashion_ _A Loyal subjects blood to spill,_ _When we have knaves enough to kill_ _By force of Proclamation._ _Commend me unto ~Lesley~ stout,_ _And his Pedlers him about,_ _Tell them without remorse_ [p. 151.] _That I will plunder all their packs_ _Which they have got with their stoln knick knacks,_ _With these my hundred horse._ _This holy War, this zealous firke_ _Against the Bishops and the Kirk_ _Is a pretended bravery;_ _Religion, all the world can tell,_ _Amongst Highlanders nere did dwell,_ _Its but to cloak your knavery._ _Such desperate Gamesters as you be,_ _I cannot blame for tutoring me,_ _Since all you have is down,_ _And every Boor forsakes his Plow,_ _And swears that he’l turn Gamester now_ _To venture for a Crown._ (_Le Prince d’Amour_, 1660, pp. 150, 151.) Pages 296, 398 (Cp. this vol. p. 149, line 8). _Now that the Spring._ This is by WILLM. BROWNE, author of “Britannia’s Pastorals.” The date is probably about fifteen years before 1645. It is one among the “Odes, Songs, and Sonnets of Wm. Browne,” in the Lansdowne MS. 777, fol. 4 _reverso_ and 5, with extra verses not used in the Catch. _A Rounde._ [1st verse sung by] All.