University of Virginia Library

[If slouth and tract of time]

If slouth and tract of time,
(that wears eche thing away)
Should rust and canker worthy artes,
Good works would soen decay.
If suche as present are,
For goeth the people past:
Our selus should soen in silence slepe,
And loes renom at last.
No soyll nor land so rude,
But som odd men can shoe:
Than should the learned pas vnknowne,
whoes pen & skill did floe.
God sheeld our slouth wear sutch,
Or world so simple nowe:
That knowledge scaept without reward,
Who sercheth vertue throwe
And paints forth vyce a right,
And blames abues of men:
And shoes what lief desarues rebuke,
And who the prayes of pen.
You see howe forrayn realms,
Aduance their Poets all:
And ours are drowned in the dust,
Or flong against the wall,
In Fraunce did Marrot raigne,
and neighbour thear vnto:
Was Petrark, marching full with dantte,
Who erst did wonders do
Among the noble Grekes,
Was Homere full of skill:
And where that Ouid norisht was,
The soyll did florish still.
With letters hie of style,
But Uirgill wan the fraes,
And past them all for deep engyen,
And made them all to gaes
Upon the bookes he made,
Thus eche of them you see
Wan prayse and fame and honor had,
Eche one in their degree.
I pray you then my friendes,
Disdaine not for to vewe;
The workes and sugred verses fine,
Of our raer poetes newe
Whoes barborus language rued,
Perhaps ye may mislike,
But blame them not that ruedly playes
If they the ball do strike.
Nor skorne not mother tunge,
O babes of englishe breed,
I haue of other language seen,
And you at full may reed.
Fine verses trimly wrought,
And coutcht in comly sort,
But neuer I nor you I troe,
In sentence plaine and short.
Did yet beholde with eye,
In any forraine tonge:
A higher verse a staetly style,
That may be read or song.
Than is this daye in deede.
Our englishe verse and ryme:
The grace wherof doth touch ye gods,
And reatch the cloudes somtime.
Thorow earth and waters deepe,
The pen by skill doth passe:
And featly nyps the worldes abuse,
And shoes vs in a glasse,
The vertu and the vice,
Of eury wyght a lyue:
The hony combe that bee doth make,
Is not so sweete in hyue.
As are the golden leues,
That drops from poets head:
Which doth surmoūt our cōmō talke
As farre as dros doth lead.
The flowre is sifted cleane,
The bran is cast aside.
And so good corne is knowen from chaffe,
And each fine graine is spide.
Peers plowman was full plaine,
And Chausers spreet was great:
Earle Surry had a godly vayne,
Lord Haus the marke did beat.
And Phaer did hit the pricke,
In thinges he did translate:
And Edwards had a special gift,
And diuers men of late.
Hath helpt our Englishe toung,
That first was baes and brute
Ohe shall I leaue out Skeltons name,
The blossome of my frute,
The tree wheron in deed,
My branchis all might groe,
Nay skelton wore the Lawrell wreath,
And past in schoels ye knoe,
A poet for his arte,
Whoes iudgment suer was hie,
And had great practies of the pen,
His works they will not lie.
His terms to taunts did lean,
His talke was as he wraet:
Full quick of witte, right sharp of words,
And skilfull of the staet.
Of reason riep and good,
And to the haetfull mynd:
That did disdain his doings still,
A skornar of his kynd.
Most pleasant euery way,
As poets ought to be:
And seldom out of Princis grace,
And great with eche degre.
Thus haue you heard at full,
What Skelton was in deed:
A further knowledge shall you haue,
If you his bookes do reed.
I haue of meer good will,
Theas verses written heer:
To honour vertue as I ought,
And make his fame apeer.
That whan the Garland gay,
Of lawrel leaues but laet,
Small is my pain, great is his prayes,
That thus sutch honour gaet.