The Poetical Works of John Skelton principally according to the edition of the Rev. Alexander Dyce. In three volumes |
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[Womanhod, wanton, ye want] |
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The Poetical Works of John Skelton | ||
[Womanhod, wanton, ye want]
Womanhod, wanton, ye want;
Youre medelyng, mastres, is manerles;
Plente of yll, of goodnes skant,
Ye rayll at ryot, recheles:
To prayse youre porte it is nedeles;
For all your draffe yet and youre dreggys,
As well borne as ye full oft tyme beggys.
Youre medelyng, mastres, is manerles;
Plente of yll, of goodnes skant,
Ye rayll at ryot, recheles:
To prayse youre porte it is nedeles;
For all your draffe yet and youre dreggys,
As well borne as ye full oft tyme beggys.
Why so koy and full of skorne?
Myne horse is sold, I wene, you say;
My new furryd gowne, when it is worne,
Put vp youre purs, ye shall non pay.
By crede, I trust to se the day,
As proud a pohen as ye sprede,
Of me and other ye may haue nede.
Myne horse is sold, I wene, you say;
My new furryd gowne, when it is worne,
Put vp youre purs, ye shall non pay.
By crede, I trust to se the day,
As proud a pohen as ye sprede,
Of me and other ye may haue nede.
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Though angelyk be youre smylyng,
Yet is youre tong an adders tayle,
Full lyke a scorpyon styngyng
All those by whom ye haue auayle:
Good mastres, Anne, there ye do shayle:
What prate ye, praty pyggysny?
I truste to quyte you or I dy.
Yet is youre tong an adders tayle,
Full lyke a scorpyon styngyng
All those by whom ye haue auayle:
Good mastres, Anne, there ye do shayle:
What prate ye, praty pyggysny?
I truste to quyte you or I dy.
Youre key is mete for euery lok,
Youre key is commen and hangyth owte;
Youre key is redy, we nede not knok,
Nor stand long wrestyng there aboute;
Of youre doregate ye haue no doute:
But one thyng is, that ye be lewde:
Holde youre tong now, all beshrewde!
Youre key is commen and hangyth owte;
Youre key is redy, we nede not knok,
Nor stand long wrestyng there aboute;
Of youre doregate ye haue no doute:
But one thyng is, that ye be lewde:
Holde youre tong now, all beshrewde!
To mastres Anne, that farly swete,
That wonnes at the Key in Temmys strete.
That wonnes at the Key in Temmys strete.
The Poetical Works of John Skelton | ||