University of Virginia Library



[The Vnluckie Firmentie.]

[_]

No complete version of this poem is extant.



[OMITTED]

[The seconde parte.]

And taryed for his company
Which had not done so quickely
Although agaynst his hearte,
For when he sawe a full platter
His mouth woulde streyght run of water
Tyll he therof had parte.
Yet manerly he dyd refrayne
Wherof his Wyfe was ryght fayne,
To see hym syt so quyet,
Thoughe he vnsatisfyed dyd ryse
And at supper lykewyse
By chaunge of wonted dyet.
The daye was paste and nyght come,
Beede woulde fayne haue ben at home
I knowe not well wherfore,
His wyfe sware by her hed
That she wolde se the Bryde in bed
Before she past the doore.
The Brydegrome saide by Gods m{yght}
Cosyn you shall not go home to nyght
And thefore make no haste,
Beede dyd thanke hym hartely
Trustyng that more Furmenty
By tarieng he should taste.
When tyme was come conuenyent
Euery man homewarde went
Whiche had ben at the feast,
Sauynge some that eate Possettes
Whilste a fewe merye Gossypes
Brought the Bryde to rest.


One gaue the bed a charme
Another was deuysynge harme
The thyrde dyd scoole the Bryde
One wolde the sheetes haue sewed
Another Nettels wolde haue strewed
Uppon the Brydegromes syde.
I can not tell howe they agreed
But Mawde and her husbande Beede
Were to their lodgynge led,
But Beede coulde no rest take,
His belly so began to ake
By hungry goynge to bed.
He turnde and tost styll in payne
His wife that woulde haue slepte fayne
He greatly dyd disease.
Who knewe not what the cause was
Howe do you syr (quoth she) alas
Be [illeg.] well at ease?
Wyfe (quoth he) and dere leefe
Thou neuer feltest the lyke greefe
Of myne I dare well saye,
It is of such extremytie
That if I haue not remedye
I shall not lyue tyll daye.
Syr (quoth she) then let me heare
{W}hat is the thynge that doth you deare
And what your helpe must be?
It is of such a qualytie
That nothynge els but Furmentie
Can saue my lyfe (quoth he.)


By those wordes the wyfe knewe
Whervppon the matter grewe
And waxed full of sorowe.
Saying thus to hym weepynge
Syr I praie you fall to slepynge
And suffer tyll to morow.
For now you knowe they be not hot
Tell me (quoth he) where is the pot
I care not howe they be
You do intend (quoth she) this nyght
To put your honestie to flyght
As farre as I can see.
For that (quoth he) care not thou
And lyke one made began nowe
To chase and threate her sore
Cryinge where is the pot styll
At last (quoth she) with an ill wyll
Behynde the mylke house doore.
Why then (quoth he) with mery chere
Let me alone if it be there
I will it fynde I trowe,
Go closely (quoth she) then
I woulde not for my speckelde Hen,
That any shoulde it knowe.
Up rose he then in hys Shurte
Not doutynge Colde to do hym hurt,
For nothynge coulde hym staye
He trode uppon the grounde soft
Gropynge for the doore ofte
Before he came halfe waye.


The doore stode by the catche
Full saftely then be drewe the latche
For feare of makinge noyse.
And as behynde the doore he sought
The Ladle by the ende he caught
Wherat he dyd reioyse.
From whence eare he dyd departe
Althoughe a full halfe quarte
The Ladle wolde contayne,
Syxe of them quyte of the swylde
To the brym with Potage fylde
To dryue awaye his payne.
Thoughe they wanted holsome heat
Yet he sware, he neuer meate
Coulde lyke unto them fynde,
I praye God, muche good do it his hart
And thus doth ende the seconde parte
The best is yet behynde.

3. The thirde parte.

How Beede ye wold haue brought his wife a Ladle full of Furmentie to her bed, myste the waye to his chamber, and how hee kist an olde wiues taile in stede of his wife. And how he bestowed The Potage where he had kist.

But to make you vnderstande
The thynge that I haue in hande
In playne and perfecte sorte,
I must by waye of degression
Th{e}n make to you expression
{W}herof dyd sprynge the sporte.


This yonge man that so late
Was exalted to the estate
Of moste honorable Maryage,
Dyd kepe his weddynge resydence
In the house of his Parentes
A thinge not rare in vsage.
The olde Father of the house
With his wyfe and honest Spouse
Thoughe she were somwhat olde
Had their lodgynge neere bye
Where Beede and his wife dyd lie
As me myne Auctor tolde.
Whose chambre doore open stoode
Unluckyly that nyght by the Roode
As thynges fell after oute
Which I intende to disclose
As I no lesse dyd purpose
When I went here aboute.
Thoughe Fortune had ben such a Frende
That Beede obtayned in the ende
His longed for reqest,
Yet nowe on hym she gan to frowne
And turnde hys lucke quyte vpsydowne
Before she let hym rest.
For when he was well satisfied
His angre then was mollyfyed
He was no longer wrothe.
But lyke a louynge and kynde harte
Wylshed that his Wyfe had part
Of that so deyntie broth.


Wherfore a Ladle full he hent
And with them towarde his wyfe went
When he him selfe was sped
Intendynge to haue pleased her
Because he had diseased her
With tumblynge in his bed.
But were it throughe to muche hast
Or whether that he were agast
With ought he sawe abrode,
I knowe not nether doth it skyll
But well I wotte, he sped but ill
In caryage of his lode.
For as he lyke a Foxe wylye
Passed towarde his wife slylye
With the Ladle in his fyst.
He myssynge his owne chumbre,
Into the olde folkes Parler
He slipt before he wist.
Yet weenynge that he had ben ryght
He went as warely as he myght
And styll that waye dyd kepe,
And forthwith in the same stounde
The aged couples bed he founde
Where both lay fost a sleepe.
And albe it there was no lyght
The Ladle yet he kepte vpryght
And not a drop was spylde,
The olde wife laye with her backe
To hym warde, whose Bum for lacke
Of clothes dyd lye vnhylde.


Nowe Beede which dyd thynke he had
Ben at his owne bed syde, for glad
Dyd laye his lothsome lyppes
Full kyndly to the bare place
Supposynge that hys wyues face
Which was the good wyues hyppes.
Here is wife some Furmentie
(Quoth he) because so louyngly
Thou toldst me where they stoode,
I never wist that any meate
Made of a lytell mylke and wheate
Coulde haue ben halfe so good.
Tast of them here as thou lyest
Puffe (quoth she) and lanchte a fyste
The wynde somwhat heddye,
Thou art vnwise (quoth he) to blowe
Syppe afewe and thou sholt knowe
They be cold enoughe alredy.
With that there blewe so great a gale
That wolde haue made ones stomake quayle
It came with such a heate
Wyse (quoth he) by my fayth
Me thynkes thou haste a sowre breath
After thy Brydale meate.
And as he these wordes spake
It semed that her tacklynges brake
Wherwith atempest rose
For then the Thunderclaps dyd mutther
Rap, rap, one after another
Assendynge into his nose.


He waxed therwith very angry
As I coulde not blame hym greatly
Beynge in suche a case,
By Coxe lylly woundes he swore
If thou blowe in them once more
I will caste them in thy face.
With that there came a sore cracke
Inoughe to haue made a shypwracke
Then Beede the Ladle tooke,
To dasshe then he dyd not spare
The Potage on her Buttockes bare
Wherwith the wyfe awooke.
And when she felt her buttockes wete
Her tayle cleauynge to the sheete
Out and alas (quoth she)
Her husbande awooke therwith anon
In the name of God and saynt Iohn
What ayleth thee wyfe quoth he?
I am ashamde syr to tell it
I haue taken such a surfet
That I haue playde the chylde
I praye you therfore hertyly
That you wyll take it paciently
For I am all befylde.
The good man gropynge to her huckles
Was by and by vp to the knuckles,
Then he began to rayle
Hast thou ben at the potage pot
So ofte (quoth he) that thou canst not
More better rule thy tayle.


It chaunced not therby (quoth she)
Wylt thou tell me that (quoth he)?
For Scrypture mention makes,
That it was throughe none other meate
For here ynoughe doth lye of Wheat
To make a couple of Cakes.
Couldst thou not from thy bed crepe,
I was quoth shee so fast a slepe
I knewe not of the dede,
When Beede dyd this debatynge heare
As one that had a flea in hys eare
A waye he went with spede.

4. The fourth parte.

How Beede in returning to the pot with the Ladle againe, prisoned on of his handes in a Creame pot, & how he did chyde wt his wife till she brake the Ladle on his hed, & won the mastrye of him with the losse of one of her eyes.

Thoughe Beede his latter laboure lost
His former pleasure, quit that cost
If that had ended all,
But as the Prouerbe doth expresse
To sweete meate, a sowre messe
Of sawce doth often fall.
For as I sayde, he dyd not byde
To here the man and wyfe chyde
For that which he had done,
But stale awaye with softe noyce
And dyd not at his lucke reioyce
But made an inwarde mone.


For that he had so euyll sped
Beynge by his folye led
Where he myght shame haue got
And where he on his full gorge,
Sustayned such a sore discharge
Of hote and peryllous shotte
And when he being thus bestadde
The mylke house founde agayne had
Which longe he mased sought,
The Ladle then he dyd restore
Unto the Pot, from whence before
With Potage he had brought.
The Moone had then her perfyte lyght
And showen in at the wyndowe bryght
That opened to the South,
Wherby Beede dyd soone espye
A Erthen pytcher standynge by
Whiche had a mylky mouth.
And as it is a Glottens gyse
That wherupon he settes his eyes
That seemeth meate to be,
His stomacke wyll begyn to gnawe
Tyll parte be in his gredy mawe
Of that his eye doth see.
For in the Pot, that there stode
Was sweete Creame thycke and good
Which Beede dyd from the shelfe
Quickely take, and in it pryed
And what it was when he espyed
He laughed to hym selfe.


Saynge mawgre all ill lucke
He woulde therat haue one plucke
Before he thence dyd passe.
But Spoone coulde he none fynde
And suppynge was not in his mynde
Wherfore he forced was.
Into the pot hys fyst to thrust
To satisfye his gredy lust
And hoggysshe appetyte
But of his fyst the greatnes
And the pottes mouth streatnes
Dyd marre his purpose quite
Because throughe hardely goynge in
Ther of, and chafynge of the skyn
Wwich was both harde and tough
The bloude so fast into it fell
That sodaynely it gan to swell
Then had he worke ynoughe
For out it woulde not come agayne
Thoughe he and houre full or twayne
Dyd struggle with it sore,
He wrange and wrested, pluckte and haylde
He fret and chafed, curst and raylde
His hap he did deplore.
Wysshynge that the tyme and howre
That he from his owne bowre
Proceded lyke a mome,
To se his wynes cosen wed
That he ther with a broken hed
Had kept him selfe at home.


And when he from his bed did ryse
His hungry stomacke to suffyse
To wysshe he nowe begyns
That the Thresholde of the doore,
Had hym tumbled in the floore
And broken both his shynnes.
His wife that a sleepe had taken
In the meane whyle, was nowe waken
And when her Mate she myst.
In a musynge moode she was
For howe the worlde was come to pas
With hym she lytle wyst.
Yet thought she, by hys longe taryeng
That there had hapt some miscaryinge
And therfore was in dreede,
For she thought that veryly
He had choked hymselfe with Furmentie
Because he came not to bed.
Up she rose to go looke
The waye to the mylke house she tooke
Where busylye God wot
Her Husbande in his shryt she founde
Barefoote on the colde ground
Wrestlynge with the pot.
Syr (quoth she) what do you meane?
Speake softe (quoth he) noughty queane
The Deuyll plucke out thy tonge
Then softely she agayne dyd saye
What is the matter I you praye
That you haue ben so longe.


But he was in such a rage
As one that shulde on a Stage
The parte of Herode playe,
That all in vayne dyd Mawde speake
For he his fume dyd seke to wreake
And then began a fraye.
For a woman as you knowe
Can very ill abyde a blowe
And therfore in her mynde
That Deuyll put it at the last,
The she shulde be no more agast
To folowe all her kynde.
Which is to paye vsurye
For any kynde of Iniurie,
By men vnto them offerde
And Beede as I vnderstand
A buffet with his emptye hande
To Mawde his wife then proferde
The which she tooke in ill parte
Saynge syr be shrewe thy harte
For (you) was come from home:
If thou do so muche agayne
Thou Loute quoth she I tell the playne
I wyll dresse the lyke a mome.
What (quoth he) euen playne Loute,
Then is it tyme to looke about
Your tawntynge will I charme
If I coulde from mee discharge
This Creame pot, that I once at large
Myght haue my other arme.


But she lyke a subtill shrewe
His Cowardely Courage well knewe.
And therfore was she bolde
T vomyte out her bytter bane
That all the trayne in Turneagayn lane
Myght there haue learnde to scolde.
Beede layde on with threates amayne
Mawde with tawntes replyed agayne
For a worde, she gaue him fyue,
Bonayre and Buxum was forgot
Then Beede sawe it booted not
Agaynst the streame to stryue
And therwith all he dyd forbeare
His hastie wordes and spake her fayre
Which put her in a Courage
To vse with him such kynde of playe
That after tyll his dyenge daye
He curst his Cosynes Maryage.
For the more that Beede sought
His wife to sylence to haue brought
The lowder styll she crowes,
And whan her powder all was spent
Then vaylyauntly her selfe she bent
To fall to handye blowes.
But Beedes fortune was so ill
His better hande yet beynge styll
Within the Creame pot fast,
That about his balde noddle
To rap a good the wodden Ladle
His wife was not agast.


Cryinge lowde at euery strype
I wyll the teache, thou greedy Grype
Good maner more to knowe,
The man had small defence God wot
Yet now and then with the pot
He warded well her blowe.
But she layde one suche lyll,
That he was forst agaynst his wyll
That kynde of warde forgo,
Or els in wylfull dyngynge stroke
The Erthe Pot wolde soone haue broke
And spylde the Creeme also.
So that the sely man was fayne
Upon the Frontresse of his brayne
To take his wyues blessynge,
Who quyte a sundre on his noule
At lengh dyd breake the Ladle boule
Wherby she caught a dressynge
Thoughe a peece that backe dyd flye
And gaue her such a blowe in the eye
That refte therof the syght,
And then to bed she went in payne
With more losse to her then gayne
For all her cunninge fyght.

5. The fyfte parte.

How Beed brake the Creampot on a Freers hed, and the Freer brake his felowes hed. And of the hurt & discommodytie that came through Beedes longyng for Furmentie.



When Beede coulde se no remedy
But that of meare necessytie
The Creame pot must a sundre,
To fynde a place wheare he myght
Worke his purpose out of syght
About then dyd he blunder.
In the end he thought without the doore
Was the fyttest place therfore
Sythe nedes he do it must
Intendynge therby subtyle wyt
To throwe the sherdes into some pyt
And hyde the Creame he must.
Why do I staye, he got hym out
To do the thyng he went about
With hast deuoyde of heede
But as it is an olde Ryme
Hast makes wast somtyme
So dyd it then by Beede.
For as asyde he cast his eye
A darke corner he dyd espye
And thyther hym selfe he got,
Where a sleepe laye two Fryers
Balde almost to the eares
Upon a greene plot.
Which two such maner vties
Had kept aboue their duties
Ouer euen at the Maryage
And were so well entertayned
That ther they were both constrayned
To take vp their harbygage.


They had sucked such a Iuce
Out of the good ale Cruce
Wherin they founde no dregges
That neyther of them his hed
Coulde cary home to his bed
For lacke of better legges.
But there the selye fooles
Laye slepynge in their Cooles
And bare headed was one
Which Beede did nothynge marke
But at a blushe in the darke
Did take it for a stone.
Wherupon the pot he strake
So harde that it in peeces brake
Then was he well apayde,
But when he sawe what he had doone
He whypte awaye to bed soone
And nothing therof sayde,
The Freere awaked with the blowe
And ran vpon his owne felowe
That styll lay fast asleepe.
Saynge knaue, why doest thou so,
I wyll requyte the or I go
Thy hed I aduyse the keepe.
And with a great pybble stone
He brake his fellowes head anone
Who therwith vp dyd starte
And sayde agayne vnto the other
What doth moue the gentell brother
To playe with me this parte.


A good cuse there is (quoth he)
For that thou hast so serued me
As it no lesse appeares,
Se quoth he then dronken Loute
Howe thou my braynes hast strycken out
Which run about myne eares.
The Freeres then to buffets fell
Who had the worse I can not tell
For no man was them by
But he that best of them sped
Was sure of a broken hed
Or elles I hearde a lye.
On the morowe was there founde
The Creame pot broke on the grounde
A meruell in myne eyes
The Creame was run downe the gutter
The Cooke therby for lacke of Butter
That daye dyd marre the Pyes.
The Ladle clefte a sonder was
And howe all this shulde come to pas
The people mused sore,
The Furmentie was halfe eaten
The mylke Mayde was shrewdly beaten
For lockynge not the doore.
The olde woman to her payne
In such a bumble broth had layne
That on her heuy hyppes
The skynne alas, was chafed of
As brode I wys I do not scoffe
As yonder yonge mans lyppes.


Mawde had vpon her browe
Cawght a Clappe I tolde you howe
Wherby she lost an eye
Men thought her husband Beede
That nyght in bed had done that deede
But there they went a wrye.
For besyde many a knocke
Which he of her in her smocke
Had taken lyke a Daster.
He neuer whyle she was his wife
Coulde after lyue a quyet lyfe
For styll she would be mayster.
All these fore saide chaunces ill
If Beede in bed had layne styll
Had not so hapte that daye:
But now there was no remedye
For no man coulde for certaintie
The fault to any laye.
Euery man ther at mused
But Beede fyrst hym selfe excused
Whom no man dyd suspecte:
But when his mylkye sleeue was spyde
Which lyke a foole he coulde not hyde
The matter was detecte.
Home therfore he went in hast
Not taryenge for his breake fast
Nor yet the Bryde to thanke,
His wife tooke more leasure
And went after at her pleasure
A shamed of the prancke.


Yet lyke an honest woman she
Tooke her leaue, so dyd not he
Of thankes she made no spare,
Desyrynge God to sende them ioye
And then God saue her and saynt Loy
She called for her Mare.
And thus of that Matrymonye
Dyd ende the great Solemnytie
Where to so many fell,
Such hurte and discommodytie
Throughe a poore messe of Furmentie
That all that yet do dwell.
Within the Coast of Cumberlande
That dyd the Processe vnderstande
Wyll speake ye at of that Feaste,
But let them talke and saye their fyll
For I haue sayde all that I will
And therfore here I rest.
Finis.
quoth. G. Kyttes.