The Poetical Works of John Skelton :: :: University of Virginia Library

So many poynted caps
Lased with double flaps,
And so gay felted hats,
Sawe I never:
So many good lessons,
So many good sermons,
And so few devocions,
Sawe I never.

So many gardes worne,
Jagged and al to-torne,
And so many falsely forsworne,
Sawe I never:
So few good polycies
In townes and cytyes
For kepinge of blinde hostryes
Sawe I never.

So many good warkes,
So few wel lerned clarkes,
And so few that goodnes markes,
Sawe I never:

429

Such pranked cotes and sleves,
So few yonge men that preves,
And such encrease of theves,
Sawe I never.

So many garded hose,
Such cornede shoes,
And so many envious foes,
Sawe I never:
So many questes sytte
With men of smale wit,
And so many falsely quitte,
Sawe I never.

So many gay swordes,
So many altered wordes,
And so few covered bordes,
Sawe I never:
So many empti purses,
So few good horses,
And so many curses,
Sawe I never.

Such bosters and braggers,
So newe fashyoned daggers,
And so many beggers,
Sawe I never:
So many propre knyves,
So well apparrelled wyves
And so yll of theyr lyves,
Saw I never.

So many cockolde makers,
So many crakers,
And so many peace breakers,
Saw I never:
So much vayne clothing
With cultyng and jagging,
And so much bragginge,
Saw I never.

430

So many newes and knackes,
So many naughty packes,
And so many that mony lackes,
Saw I never:
So many maidens with child
And wylfully begylde,
And so many places untilde,
Sawe I never.

So many women blamed
And rightuously defaimed,
And so lytle ashamed,
Sawe I never:
Widowes so sone wed
After their husbandes be deade,
Having such hast to bed,
Sawe I never.

So much strivinge
For goodes and for wivinge,
And so lytle thryvynge,
Sawe I never:
So many capacities,
Offices and pluralites,
And chaunging of dignities,
Sawe I never.

So many lawes to use
The truth to refuse,
Suche falshead to excuse,
Sawe I never:
Executers havinge the ware,
Taking so littel care
Howe the soule doth fare,
Sawe I never.

Amonge them that are riche
No frendshyp is to kepe tuche,
And such fayre glosing speche
Sawe I never:

431

So many pore
In every bordoure,
And so small soccoure,
Saw I never.

So proude and so gaye,
So riche in araye,
And so skant of money,
Saw I never:
So many bowyers,
So many fletchers,
And so few good archers,
Saw I never.

So many chepers,
So fewe biers,
And so many borowers,
Sawe I never:
So many alle sellers
In baudy holes and sellers,
Of yonge folkes yll counsellers,
Sawe I never.

So many pinkers,
So many thinkers,
And so many good ale drinkers,
Sawe I never:
So many wronges,
So few mery songes,
And so many yll tonges,
Sawe I never.

So many a vacabounde
Through al this londe,
And so many in pryson bonde,
I sawe never:
So many citacions,
So fewe oblacions,
And so many newe facions,
Sawe I never.

432

So many fleyng tales,
Pickers of purses and males,
And so many sales,
Saw I never:
So much preachinge,
Speaking fayre and teaching,
And so ill belevinge,
Saw I never.

So much wrath and envy,
Covetous and glottony,
And so litle charitie,
Sawe I never:
So many carders,
Revelers and dicers,
And so many yl ticers,
Sawe I never.

So many lollers,
So few true tollers,
So many baudes and pollers,
Sawe I never:
Such treachery,
Simony and usury,
Poverty and lechery,
Saw I never.

So many avayles,
So many geales,
And so many fals baylies,
Sawe I never:
By fals and subtyll wayes
All England decayes,
For more envy and lyers
Sawe I never.

433

So new facioned jackes
With brode flappes in the neckes,
And so gay new partlettes,
Sawe I never:
So many slutteshe cookes,
So new facioned tucking hookes,
And so few biers of bookes,
Saw I never.

Sometime we song of myrth and play,
But now our joy is gone away,
For so many fal in decay
Sawe I never:
Whither is the welth of England gon?
The spiritual saith they have none,
And so many wrongfully undone
Saw I never.

It is great pitie that every day
So many brybors go by the way,
And so many extorcioners in eche cuntrey
Sawe I never.
To thé, Lord, I make my mone,
For thou maist healpe us everichone:
Alas, the people is so wo begone,
Worse was it never!

Amendment
Were convenient,
But it may not be;
We have exiled veritie.
God is neither dead nor sicke;
He may amend al yet,
And trowe ye so in dede,
As ye beleve ye shal have mede.
After better I hope ever,
For worse was it never.

J. S.

Finis.

University of Virginia Library

THE MANER OF THE WORLD NOW A DAYES.[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

THE MANER OF THE WORLD NOW A DAYES.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.