And now y shal telle ȝow of þe noble Erl Thomas of Lancastre. When he was taken & brouȝt to Ȝork, meny of þe citee were ful glade, and uppon him criede wiþ hye voice, “A, sire traitoure! Ȝe arne welcome, blessed be God! for now shal ȝe have þe reward þ at longetyme ȝe haue diserued!” and caste uppon him meny snoweballes, and many oþer reproues dede him. But þe gentil Erl þat soffrede, and saide neþer on ne oþere.
The Brut, or the Chronicles of England, A wanton wenche vppon a colde daye
With Snowe balles prouoked me to playe: But theis snowe balles soe hette my desyer That I maye calle them balles of wylde fyer. Whoe woulde haue thoughte in this colde snowe Cupyde woulde hide his fonde fyrye towe, Or that from water shoulde breede brandes fyrye, Or colde and moyste shoulde cause hotte and drye? What place is free from Loues slye workeinge If vnder snowe his fyer lye lurkeinge? Noe snowe nor thinge this fyer can quenche But the like fyer of this like wenche. “Of a Snowe balle,” Nicholas Bacon |
