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

I haue your lewde letter receyuyd,
And well I haue yt perseyuyd,
And your skrybe I haue aspyed,
That your mad mynde contryuyd.
Sauynge your vsscheres rod,
I caste me nat to be od
With neythyr of yow tewyne:
Wherfore I wryght ageyne;
How the fauyr of your face
Is voyd of all good grace;
For alle your carpet cousshons,
Ye haue knauyche condycyonns.
Gup, marmeset, jast ye, morelle!
I am laureat, I am no lorelle.
Lewdely your tyme ye spende,
My lyuyng to reprehende;
And wyll neuer intende
Your awne lewdnes to amende:
Your Englyshe lew[d]ly ye sorte,
And falsly ȝe me reporte.
Garnyche, ye gape to wyde:

140

Yower knavery I wyll nat hyde,
For to aswage your pride.

Whan ye war yonger of age,
Ye war a kechyn page,
A dyshwasher, a dryvyll,
In the pott your nose dedde sneuyll;
Ye fryed and ye broylyd,
Ye rostyd and ye boylyd,
Ye rostyd, lyke a fonne,
A gose with the fete vponne;
Ye slvfferd vp sowse
In my lady Brewsys howse.
Wherto xulde I wryght
Of soche a gresy knyght?
A bawdy dyscheclowte,
That bryngyth the worlde abowte
With haftynge and with polleynge,
With lyenge and controlleynge.

At Gynys when ye ware
But a slendyr spere,
Dekkyd lewdly in your gere;
For when ye dwelt there,
Ye had a knauysche cote
Was skantly worthe a grote;
In dud frese ye war schrynyd,
With better frese lynyd;
The oute syde euery day,
Ye myght no better a way;

141

The insyde ye ded calle
Your best gowne festyvalle.
Your drapry ȝe ded wante,
The warde with yow was skante.
When ye kyst a shepys ie,
------ mastres Andelby,
------ Gynys vpon a gonge,
------ sat sumwhat to longe;
------ hyr husbandes hed,
------ malle of lede,
------ that ye ther prechyd,
To hyr loue ye nowte rechyd:
Ye wolde haue bassyd hyr bumme,
So that sche wolde haue kum
On to your lowsy den;
But sche of all men
Had yow most in despyght,
Ye loste hyr fauyr quyt;
Your pyllyd garleke hed
Cowde hocupy there no stede;
She callyd yow Syr Gy of Gaunt,
Nosyd lyke an olyfaunt,
A pykes or a twybyll;
Sche seyd how ye ded brydell,
Moche lyke a dromadary;
Thus with yow sche ded wary,
With moche mater more
That I kepe in store.

142

Your brethe ys stronge and quike;
Ye ar an eldyr steke;
Ye wot what I thynke;
At bothe endes ye stynke;
Gret daunger for the kynge,
Whan hys grace ys fastynge,
Hys presens to aproche:
Yt ys to your reproche.
Yt fallyth for no swyne
Nor sowtters to drynke wyne,
Nor seche a nody polle
A pryste for to controlle.

Lytyll wyt in your scrybys nolle
That scrybblyd your fonde scrolle,
Vpon hym for to take
Agennst me for to make,
Lyke a doctor dawpate,
A lauryate poyete for to rate.
Yower termys ar to grose,
To far from the porpose,
To contaminate
And to violate
The dygnyte lauryate.

Bolde bayarde, ye are to blynde,
And grow all oute of kynde,
To occupy so your mynde;
For reson can I non fynde
Nor good ryme in yower mater;
I wondyr that ye smatyr,
So for a knaue to clatyr;

143

Ye wolde be callyd a maker,
And make moche lyke Jake Rakar;
Ye ar a comly crakar,
Ye lernyd of sum py bakar.
Caste vp your curyows wrytyng,
And your dyrty endytyng,
And your spyghtfull despyghtyng,
For alle ys nat worthe a myteyng,
A makerell nor a wyteyng:
Had ye gonne with me to scole,
And occupyed no better your tole,
Ye xulde haue kowththyd me a fole.

But now, gawdy, gresy Garnesche,
Your face I wyse to varnyshe
So suerly yt xall nat tarnishe.
Thow a Sarsens hed ye bere,
Row and full of lowsy here,
As heuery man wele seethe,
Ful of grett knauys tethe,
In a felde of grene peson
Ys ryme yet owte of reson;
Your wyt ys so geson,
Ye rayle all out of seson.

Your skyn scabbyd and scuruy,
Tawny, tannyd, and shuruy,
Now vpon thys hete
Rankely whan ye swete,
Men sey ye wyll wax lowsy,
Drunkyn, drowpy, drowsy.

144

Your sworde ye swere, I wene,
So tranchaunt and so kene,
Xall kyt both wyght and grene:
Your foly ys to grett
The kynges colours to threte.
Your brethe yt ys so felle
And so puauntely dothe smelle,
And so haynnously doth stynke,
That naythyr pump nor synke
Dothe sauyr halfe so souer
Ageynst a stormy shouer.
O ladis of bryght colour,
Of bewte that beryth the flower,
When Garnyche cummyth yow amonge
With hys brethe so stronge,
Withowte ye haue a confectioun
Agenst hys poysond infeccioun,
Els with hys stynkyng jawys
He wyl cause yow caste your crawes,
And make youer stomoke seke
Ovyr the perke to pryk.

Now, Garnyche, garde thy gummys;
My serpentins and my gunnys
Agenst ye now I bynde;
Thy selfe therfore defende.
Thou tode, thow scorpyone,
Thow bawdy babyone,
Thow bere, thow brystlyd bore,
Thou Moryshe mantycore,
Thou rammysche stynkyng gote,

145

Thou fowle chorlyshe parote,
Thou gresly gargone glaymy,
Thou swety slouen seymy,
Thou murrionn, thow mawment,
Thou fals stynkyng serpent,
Thou mokkyshe marmoset,
I wyll nat dy in they det.
Tyburne thou me assynyd,
Where thou xulddst haue bene shrynyd;
The nexte halter ther xall be
I bequeth yt hole to thé:
Soche pelfry thou hast pachchyd,
And so thy selfe houyr wachyd
That ther thou xuldyst be rachchyd,
If thow war metely machchyd.

Ye may wele be bedawyd,
Ye ar a fole owtelauyd;
And for to telle the gronde,
Pay Stokys hys fyue pownd.
I say, Syr Dalyrag,
Ye bere yow bold and brag
With othyr menys charge:
Ye kyt your clothe to large:
Soche pollyng paiaunttis ye pley,
To poynt yow fresche and gay.

And he that scryblyd your scrolles,
I rekyn yow in my rowllys,
For ij dronken sowllys.

146

Rede and lerne ye may,
How olde proverbys say,
That byrd ys nat honest
That fylythe hys owne nest.
Yf he wyst what sum wotte,
The flesche bastyng of his cote
Was sowyd with slendyr thre[de]:
God sende you wele good spede,
With Dominus vobiscum!
Good Latyn for Jake a thrum,
Tyll more matyr may cum.

By the kynges most noble commaundment.