University of Virginia Library

Whan that Bachus, the myghti lorde,
And Juno eke, both by one accorde,
Hath sette a-broche of myghti wyne a tone,
And after wardys in to the brayn ran
Of Colyn Blobolle, whan he had dronke a tante
Bothe of Teynt and of wyne Alycaunt,
Till he was drounke as any swyne;
And after this, with a mery chere,
He rensyd had many an ale picher,
That he began to loken and to stare,
Like a wode bole or a wilde mare;
So toty was the brayn of his hede,
That he desirid for to go to bede,
And whan he was ones therin laide,
With hym self mervailously he fraide;
He gan to walow and turn up and downe,
And for to tell in conclucioun,
Sore he spwed, and alle vppe he kest
That he had recevyd in his brest,
So that it was grete pité for to here
His lamētacionne and his hevy chere.
An hors wold wepe to se the sorow he maide,
His evy countenaunces and his colour fade.
I trow he was infecte certeyn
With the faitour, or the fever lordeyn,
Or with a sekenesse called a knave ateynt;
And anon his herte he gan to faynt,
And after ward their toke hym many a throw
Of good ale bolys that he had i-blowe;
He lokyd furyous as a wyld catt,
And pale of hew like a drowned ratte;
And in his bake their toke hym one so felle,
That after ward folowed a very stynkyng smell,
That for to cast was more vnholsam
Than aurum potab[i]le or aurum pimentum.
And whan his angwyssh some what gan apese,
He recovered of his dronken dessese;
He set hym vppe and sawe their biside
A sad man, in whom is no pride,
Right a discrete confessour, as I trow,
His name was called sir John Doclow;
He had commensed in many a worthier place
Then ever was Padow, or Boleyne de Grace;
Of so grete reverens werre the universities,
That men toke entrie knelyng on their knees;
In suche places his fader for hym had ben,
Whate shuld I tell you? ye wotte where I mene.
And yet in phisike he cowth no skylle at alle,
Whiche men callen baas naturalle;
Good drynke he lovyd better than he did wepit,
Men called hym maister John-with-the-shorte-tipet.
Hereby menne may welle understonde and see,
That in scolys he had take degré,
And was welle laboured in the rough byble,
Ffor he loved in no wise to be idele;
An able man to be aboute a pope,
Because he coude a conscience so welle grope,
And make an man to bryng out his mynde
Every thing that he had left behynde.
He gaf me many a good certacion,
With right and holsom predicacion,
That he had laboured in Venus secrete celle,
And me exponyd many a good gossepelle,
And many a right swete epistell eke,
In hem perfite and not for to seke;
And he had them i-lerneid and i-rade,
And alle were good, I trow their were none bade.
And right like an hevynly instrument
Unto me ever his tounge wente,
It was joie for to here and see
The fructuons talkyng that he had to me;
He behavyd hym so lich a gostly leche,
Both in countenaunce and in his speche,
And bad I shuld, by cause I was seke,
Unto Lucina and to Ciraa eke
My soule byqueth, or I hens deperte,
As I wold have his prayers after ward.
He promysyd me also, that he wold syng
Foure devoite masses at my biryng,
On of Bachus, anothir of Lucina,
The third of Juno, the fourth of Ciria,
And at Venus temple with grette devocion,
I have to you so grette dilection;
And for my soule ryng many a mery pele,
In Venus temple and eke in hir chapelle,
And also in many an othir holy stede,
Where Spade may not helpe women at ther nede;
And bad me eke be of right good chere
Alle the wyle I shold abyde here,
And for any thing that he coude feele,
That was in me, I sholde do right wele.
And yet he said: Be myne avisment,
Withoute tarying ye make your Testament,
And by good avice alle thing welle besett,
Loke ye do soo: for ye shalle fare the bette;
Whylis ye have your right memorie,
Calle unto you your owne secretory,
Maister Grombold, that cane handelle a pen,
For on booke he skrapith like an hen,
That no man may his letters know nor se,
Allethough he looke trughe spectacles thre.
Lete such a man writte your Testament,
For he shalle best folow your entent.