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276

HERE AFTER FOLOWETH A LYTELL BOKE, WHICHE HATH TO NAME WHY COME YE NAT TO COURTE?

COMPYLED BY MAYSTER SKELTON, POETE LAUREATE.

The relucent mirror for all Prelats and Presidents, as well spirituall as temporall, sadly to loke vpon, deuised in English by Skelton.

All noble men, of this take hede,
And beleue it as your Crede.
To hasty of sentence,
To ferce for none offence,
To scarce of your expence,
To large in neglygence,
To slacke in recompence,
To haute in excellence,
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To lyght [in] intellegence,
And to lyght in credence;
Where these kepe resydence,
Reson is banysshed thence,
And also dame Prudence,
With sober Sapyence.
All noble men, of this take hede,
And beleue it as your Crede.
Than without collusyon,
Marke well this conclusyon,
Thorow suche abusyon,
And by suche illusyon,
Vnto great confusyon
A noble man may fall,
And his honour appall;
And yf ye thynke this shall
Not rubbe you on the gall,
Than the deuyll take all!
All noble men, of this take hede,
And beleue it as your Crede.
Hœc vates ille,
De quo loquuntur mille.

WHY COME YE NAT TO COURT?

For age is a page
For the courte full vnmete,
For age cannat rage,
Nor basse her swete swete:
278

But whan age seeth that rage
Dothe aswage and refrayne,
Than wyll age haue a corage
To come to court agayne.

But

Helas, sage ouerage
So madly decayes,
That age for dottage
Is reconed now adayes:
Thus age (a graunt domage)
Is nothynge set by,
And rage in arerage
Dothe rynne lamentably.

So

That rage must make pyllage,
To catche that catche may,
And with suche forage
Hunte the boskage,
That hartes wyll ronne away;
Bothe hartes and hyndes,
With all good myndes:
Fare well, than, haue good day!
Than, haue good daye, adewe!
For defaute of rescew,
Some men may happely rew,
And some theyr hedes mew;
The tyme dothe fast ensew,
That bales begynne to brew:
I drede, by swete Iesu,
This tale wyll be to trew;
279

In faythe, dycken, thou krew,
In fayth, dicken, thou krew, &c.
Dicken, thou krew doutlesse;
For, trewly to expresse,
There hath ben moche excesse,
With banketynge braynlesse,
With ryotynge rechelesse,
With gambaudynge thryftlesse,
With spende and wast witlesse,
Treatinge of trewse restlesse,
Pratynge for peace peaslesse.
The countrynge at Cales
Wrang vs on the males:
Chefe counselour was carlesse,
Gronynge, grouchyng, gracelesse;
And to none entente
Our talwod is all brent,
Our fagottes are all spent,
We may blowe at the cole:
Our mare hath cast her fole,
And Mocke hath lost her sho;
What may she do therto?
An ende of an olde song,
Do ryght and do no wronge,
As ryght as a rammes horne;
For thrifte is threde bare worne,
Our shepe are shrewdly shorne,
And trouthe is all to-torne;
Wysdom is laught to skorne,
Fauell is false forsworne,
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Iauell is nobly borne,
Hauell and Haruy Hafter,
Iack Trauell and Cole Crafter,
We shall here more herafter;
With pollynge and shauynge,
With borowynge and crauynge,
With reuynge and rauynge,
With swerynge and starynge,
Ther vayleth no resonynge,
For wyll dothe rule all thynge,
Wyll, wyll, wyll, wyll, wyll,
He ruleth alway styll.
Good reason and good skyll,
They may garlycke pyll,
Cary sackes to the myll,
Or pescoddes they may shyll,
Or elles go rost a stone:
There is no man but one
That hathe the strokes alone;
Be it blacke or whight,
All that he dothe is ryght,
As right as a cammocke croked.
This byll well ouer loked,
Clerely perceuye we may
There went the hare away,
The hare, the fox, the gray,
The harte, the hynde, the buck:
God sende vs better luck!
God sende vs better lucke, &c.
Twit, Andrewe, twit, Scot,
Ge heme, ge scour thy pot;
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For we haue spente our shot:
We shall haue a tot quot
From the Pope of Rome,
To weue all in one lome
A webbe of lylse wulse,
Opus male dulce:
The deuyll kysse his cule!
For, whyles he doth rule,
All is warse and warse;
The deuyll kysse his arse!
For whether he blesse or curse,
It can not be moche worse.
From Baumberow to Bothombar
We haue cast vp our war,
And made a worthy trewse,
With, gup, leuell suse!
Our mony madly lent,
And mor madly spent:
From Croydon to Kent,
Wote ye whyther they went?
From Wynchelsey to Rye,
And all nat worth a flye;
From Wentbridge to Hull;
Our armye waxeth dull,
With, tourne all home agayne,
And neuer a Scot slayne.
Yet the good Erle of Surray,
The Frenche men he doth fray,
And vexeth them day by day
With all the power he may;
282

The French men he hath faynted,
And made theyr hertes attaynted:
Of cheualry he is the floure;
Our Lorde be his soccoure!
The French men he hathe so mated,
And theyr courage abated,
That they are but halfe men;
Lyke foxes in theyr denne,
Lyke cankerd cowardes all,
Lyke vrcheons in a stone wall,
They kepe them in theyr holdes,
Lyke henherted cokoldes.
But yet they ouer shote vs
Wyth crownes and wyth scutus;
With scutis and crownes of gold
I drede we are bought and solde;
It is a wonders warke:
They shote all at one marke,
At the Cardynals hat,
They shote all at that;
Oute of theyr stronge townes
They shote at him with crownes;
With crownes of golde enblased
They make him so amased,
And his eyen so dased,
That he ne se can
To know God nor man.
He is set so hye
In his ierarchy
Of frantycke frenesy
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And folysshe fantasy,
That in the Chambre of Starres
All maters there he marres;
Clappyng his rod on the borde,
No man dare speke a worde,
For he hathe all the sayenge,
Without any renayenge;
He rolleth in his recordes,
He sayth, How saye ye, my lordes?
Is nat my reason good?
Good euyn, good Robyn Hood!
Some say yes, and some
Syt styll as they were dom:
Thus thwartyng ouer thom,
He ruleth all the roste
With braggynge and with bost;
Borne vp on euery syde
With pompe and with pryde,
With, trompe vp, alleluya!
For dame Philargerya
Hathe so his herte in holde,
He loueth nothyng but golde;
And Asmodeus of hell
Maketh his membres swell
With Dalyda to mell,
That wanton damosell.
Adew, Philosophia,
Adew, Theologia!
Welcome, dame Simonia,
With dame Castrimergia,
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To drynke and for to eate
Swete ypocras and swete meate!
To kepe his flesshe chast,
In Lent for a repast
He eateth capons stewed,
Fesaunt and partriche mewed,
Hennes, checkynges, and pygges;
He foynes and he frygges,
Spareth neither mayde ne wyfe:
This is a postels lyfe!
Helas! my herte is sory
To tell of vayne glory:
But now vpon this story
I wyll no further ryme
Tyll another tyme,
Tyll another tyme, &c.
What newes, what newes?
Small newes the true is,
That be worth ii. kues;
But at the naked stewes,
I vnderstande how that
The sygne of the Cardynall Hat,
That inne is now shyt vp,
With, gup, hore, gup, now gup,
Gup, Guilliam Trauillian,
With, iast you, I say, Jullian!
Wyll ye bere no coles?
A mayny of marefoles,
That occupy theyr holys,
Full of pocky molys.
285

What here ye of Lancashyre?
They were nat payde their hyre;
They are fel as any fyre.
What here ye of Chesshyre?
They haue layde all in the myre;
They grugyd, and sayde
Theyr wages were nat payde;
Some sayde they were afrayde
Of the Scottysshe hoste,
For all theyr crack and bost,
Wylde fyre and thonder;
For all this worldly wonder,
A hundred myle asonder
They were whan they were next;
That is a trew text.
What here ye of the Scottes?
They make vs all sottes,
Poppynge folysshe dawes;
They make vs to pyll strawes;
They play their olde pranckes,
After Huntley bankes:
At the streme of Banockes burne
They dyd vs a shrewde turne,
Whan Edwarde of Karnaruan
Lost all that his father wan.
What here ye of the Lorde Dakers?
He maketh vs Jacke Rakers;
He sayes we ar but crakers;
He calleth vs England men
Stronge herted lyke an hen;
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For the Scottes and he
To well they do agre,
With, do thou for me,
And I shall do for thé.
Whyles the red hat doth endure,
He maketh himselfe cock sure;
The red hat with his lure
Bryngeth all thynges vnder cure.
But, as the worlde now gose,
What here ye of the Lorde Rose?
Nothynge to purpose,
Nat worth a cockly fose:
Their hertes be in thyr hose.
The Erle of Northumberlande
Dare take nothynge on hande:
Our barons be so bolde,
Into a mouse hole they wolde
Rynne away and crepe;
Lyke a mayny of shepe,
Dare nat loke out at dur
For drede of the mastyue cur,
For drede of the bochers dogge
Wold wyrry them lyke an hogge.
For and this curre do gnar,
They must stande all a far,
To holde vp their hande at the bar.
For all their noble blode
He pluckes them by the hode,
And shakes them by the eare,
And brynge[s] them in suche feare;
287

He bayteth them lyke a bere,
Lyke an oxe or a bull:
Theyr wyttes, he saith, are dull;
He sayth they haue no brayne
Theyr astate to mayntayne;
And maketh them to bow theyr kne
Before his maieste.
Juges of the kynges lawes,
He countys them foles and dawes;
Sergyantes of the coyfe eke,
He sayth they are to seke
In pletynge of theyr case
At the Commune Place,
Or at the Kynges Benche;
He wryngeth them suche a wrenche,
That all our lerned men
Dare nat set theyr penne
To plete a trew tryall
Within Westmynster hall;
In the Chauncery where he syttes,
But suche as he admyttes
None so hardy to speke;
He sayth, thou huddy peke,
Thy lernynge is to lewde,
Thy tonge is nat well thewde,
To seke before our grace;
And openly in that place
He rages and he raues,
And cals them cankerd knaues;
Thus royally he dothe deale
288

Vnder the kynges brode seale;
And in the Checker he them cheks;
In the Ster Chambre he noddis and beks,
And bereth him there so stowte,
That no man dare rowte,
Duke, erle, baron, nor lorde,
But to his sentence must accorde;
Whether he be knyght or squyre,
All men must folow his desyre.
What say ye of the Scottysh kynge?
That is another thyng.
He is but an yonglyng,
A stalworthy stryplyng:
There is a whyspring and a whipling,
He shulde be hyder brought;
But, and it were well sought,
I trow all wyll be nought,
Nat worth a shyttel cocke,
Nor worth a sowre calstocke.
There goth many a lye
Of the Duke of Albany,
That of shulde go his hede,
And brought in quycke or dede,
And all Scotlande owers
The mountenaunce of two houres.
But, as some men sayne,
I drede of some false trayne
Subtelly wrought shall be
Vnder a fayned treatee;
But within monethes thre
289

Men may happely se
The trechery and the prankes
Of the Scottysshe bankes.
What here ye of Burgonyons,
And the Spainyardes onyons?
They haue slain our Englisshmen
Aboue threscore and ten:
For all your amyte,
No better they agre.
God saue my lorde admyrell!
What here ye of Mutrell?
There with I dare nat mell.
Yet what here ye tell
Of our graunde counsell?
I coulde say some what,
But speke ye no more of that,
For drede of the red hat
Take peper in the nose;
For than thyne heed of gose,
Of by the harde arse.
But there is some trauarse
Bytwene some and some,
That makys our syre to glum;
It is some what wronge,
That his berde is so longe;
He morneth in blacke clothynge.
I pray God saue the kynge!
Where euer he go or ryde,
I pray God be his gyde!
290

Thus wyll I conclude my style,
And fall to rest a whyle,
And so to rest a whyle, &c.
Ones yet agayne
Of you I wolde frayne,
Why come ye nat to court?—
To whyche court?
To the kynges courte,
Or to Hampton Court?—
Nay, to the kynges court:
The kynges courte
Shulde haue the excellence;
But Hampton Court
Hath the preemynence,
And Yorkes Place,
With my lordes grace,
To whose magnifycence
Is all the conflewence,
Sutys and supplycacyons,
Embassades of all nacyons.
Strawe for lawe canon,
Or for the lawe common,
Or for lawe cyuyll!
It shall be as he wyll:
Stop at law tancrete,
An obstract or a concrete;
Be it soure, be it swete,
His wysdome is so dyscrete,
That in a fume or an hete,
Wardeyn of the Flete,
Set hym fast by the fete!
291

And of his royall powre
Whan him lyst to lowre,
Than, haue him to the Towre,
Saunz aulter remedy,
Haue hym forthe by and by
To the Marshalsy,
Or to the Kynges Benche!
He dyggeth so in the trenche
Of the court royall,
That he ruleth them all.
So he dothe vndermynde,
And suche sleyghtes dothe fynde,
That the kynges mynde
By hym is subuerted,
And so streatly coarted
In credensynge his tales,
That all is but nutshales
That any other sayth;
He hath in him suche fayth.
Now, yet all this myght be
Suffred and taken in gre,
If that that he wrought
To any good ende were brought;
But all he bringeth to nought,
By God, that me dere bought!
He bereth the kyng on hand,
That he must pyll his lande,
To make his cofers ryche;
But he laythe all in the dyche,
And vseth suche abusyoun,
292

That in the conclusyoun
All commeth to confusyon.
Perceyue the cause why,
To tell the trouth playnly,
He is so ambicyous,
So shamles, and so vicyous,
And so supersticyous,
And so moche obliuyous
From whens that he came,
That he falleth into a cæciam,
Whiche, truly to expresse,
Is a forgetfulnesse,
Or wylfull blyndnesse,
Wherwith the Sodomites
Lost theyr inward syghtes,
The Gommoryans also
Were brought to deedly wo,
As Scrypture recordis:
A cœcitate cordis,
In the Latyne synge we,
Libera nos, Domine!
But this madde Amalecke,
Lyke to a Mamelek,
He regardeth lordes
No more than potshordes;
He is in suche elacyon
Of his exaltacyon,
And the supportacyon
Of our souerayne lorde,
That, God to recorde,
293

He ruleth all at wyll,
Without reason or skyll:
How be it the primordyall
Of his wretched originall,
And his base progeny,
And his gresy genealogy,
He came of the sank royall,
That was cast out of a bochers stall.
But how euer he was borne,
Men wolde haue the lesse scorne,
If he coulde consyder
His byrth and rowme togeder,
And call to his mynde
How noble and how kynde
To him he hathe founde
Our souereyne lorde, chyfe grounde
Of all this prelacy,
And set hym nobly
In great auctoryte,
Out from a low degre,
Whiche he can nat se:
For he was parde
No doctor of deuinyte,
Nor doctor of the law,
Nor of none other saw;
But a poore maister of arte,
God wot, had lytell parte
Of the quatriuials,
Nor yet of triuialis,
Nor of philosophy,
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Nor of philology,
Nor of good pollycy,
Nor of astronomy,
Nor acquaynted worth a fly
With honorable Haly,
Nor with royall Ptholomy,
Nor with Albumasar,
To treate of any star
Fyxt or els mobyll;
His Latyne tonge dothe hobbyll,
He doth but cloute and cobbill
In Tullis faculte,
Called humanyte;
Yet proudly he dare pretende
How no man can him amende:
But haue ye nat harde this,
How an one eyed man is
Well syghted when
He is amonge blynde men?
Than, our processe for to stable,
This man was full vnable
To reche to suche degre,
Had nat our prynce be
Royall Henry the eyght,
Take him in suche conceyght,
That he set him on heyght,
In exemplyfyenge
Great Alexander the kynge,
In writynge as we fynde;
Whiche of his royall mynde,
295

And of his noble pleasure,
Transcendynge out of mesure,
Thought to do a thynge
That perteyneth to a kynge,
To make vp one of nought,
And made to him be brought
A wretched poore man,
Whiche his lyuenge wan
With plantyng of lekes
By the dayes and by the wekes,
And of this poore vassall
He made a kynge royall,
And gaue him a realme to rule,
That occupyed a showell,
A mattoke, and a spade,
Before that he was made
A kynge, as I haue tolde,
And ruled as he wolde.
Suche is a kynges power,
To make within an hower,
And worke suche a myracle,
That shall be a spectacle
Of renowme and worldly fame:
In lykewyse now the same
Cardynall is promoted,
Yet with lewde condicyons cotyd,
As herafter ben notyd,
Presumcyon and vayne glory,
Enuy, wrath, and lechery,
Couetys and glotony,
296

Slouthfull to do good,
Now frantick, now starke wode.
Shulde this man of suche mode
Rule the swerde of myght,
How can he do ryght?
For he wyll as sone smyght
His frende as his fo;
A prouerbe longe ago.
Set vp a wretche on hye
In a trone triumphantlye,
Make him a great astate,
And he wyll play checke mate
With ryall maieste,
Counte him selfe as good as he;
A prelate potencyall,
To rule vnder Bellyall,
As ferce and as cruell
As the fynd of hell.
His seruauntes menyall
He dothe reuyle, and brall,
Lyke Mahounde in a play;
No man dare him withsay:
He hath dispyght and scorne
At them that be well borne;
He rebukes them and rayles,
Ye horsons, ye vassayles,
Ye knaues, ye churles sonnys,
Ye rebads, nat worth two plummis,
Ye raynbetyn beggers reiagged,
Ye recrayed ruffyns all ragged!
297

With, stowpe, thou hauell,
Rynne, thou iauell!
Thou peuysshe pye pecked,
Thou losell longe necked!
Thus dayly they be decked,
Taunted and checked,
That they ar so wo,
That wot not whether to go.
No man dare come to the speche
Of this gentell Iacke breche,
Of what estate he be,
Of spirituall dygnyte,
Nor duke of hye degre,
Nor marques, erle, nor lorde;
Whiche shrewdly doth accorde,
Thus he borne so base
All noble men shulde out face,
His countynaunce lyke a kayser.
My lorde is nat at layser;
Syr, ye must tary a stounde,
Tyll better layser be founde;
And, syr, ye must daunce attendaunce,
And take pacient sufferaunce,
For my lordes grace
Hath nowe no tyme nor space
To speke with you as yet.
And thus they shall syt,
Chuse them syt or flyt,
Stande, walke, or ryde,
And his layser abyde
298

Parchaunce halfe a yere,
And yet neuer the nere.
This daungerous dowsypere,
Lyke a kynges pere;
And within this xvi. yere
He wolde haue ben ryght fayne
To haue ben a chapleyne,
And haue taken ryght gret payne
With a poore knyght,
What soeuer he hyght.
The chefe of his owne counsell,
They can nat well tell
Whan they with hym shulde mell,
He is so fyers and fell;
He rayles and he ratis,
He calleth them doddypatis;
He grynnes and he gapis,
As it were iack napis.
Suche a madde bedleme
For to rewle this reame,
It is a wonders case:
That the kynges grace
Is toward him so mynded,
And so farre blynded,
That he can nat parceyue
How he doth hym disceyue,
I dought, lest by sorsery,
Or suche other loselry,
As wychecraft, or charmyng;
For he is the kynges derlyng,
299

And his swete hart rote,
And is gouerned by this mad kote:
For what is a man the better
For the kynges letter?
For he wyll tere it asonder;
Wherat moche I wonder,
Howe suche a hoddypoule
So boldely dare controule,
And so malapertly withstande
The kynges owne hande,
And settys nat by it a myte;
He sayth the kynge doth wryte
And writeth he wottith nat what;
And yet for all that,
The kynge his clemency
Despensyth with his demensy.
But what his grace doth thinke,
I haue no pen nor inke
That therwith can mell;
But wele I can tell
How Frauncis Petrarke,
That moche noble clerke,
Wryteth how Charlemayn
Coude nat him selfe refrayne,
But was rauysht with a rage
Of a lyke dotage:
But how that came aboute,
Rede ye the story oute,
And ye shall fynde surely
It was by nycromansy,
300

By carectes and coniuracyon,
Vnder a certeyne constellacion,
And a certayne fumygacion,
Vnder a stone on a golde ryng,
Wrought to Charlemayn the king,
Whiche constrayned him forcebly
For to loue a certayne body
Aboue all other inordinatly.
This is no fable nor no lye;
At Acon it was brought to pas,
As by myne auctor tried it was.
But let mi masters mathematical
Tell you the rest, for me they shal;
They haue the full intellygence,
And dare vse the experyens,
In there obsolute consciens
To practyue suche abolete sciens;
For I abhore to smatter
Of one so deuyllysshe a matter.
But I wyll make further relacion
Of this isagogicall colation,
How maister Gaguine, the crownycler
Of the feytis of war
That were done in Fraunce,
Maketh remembraunce,
How Kynge Lewes of late
Made vp a great astate
Of a poore wretchid man,
Wherof moche care began.
Iohannes Balua was his name,
301

Myne auctor writeth the same;
Promoted was he
To a cardynalles dygnyte
By Lewes the kyng aforesayd,
With hym so wele apayd,
That he made him his chauncelar
To make all or to mar,
And to rule as him lyst,
Tyll he cheked at the fyst,
And agayne all reason
Commyted open trayson
And against his lorde souerayn;
Wherfore he suffred payn,
Was hedyd, drawen, and quarterd,
And dyed stynkingly marterd.
Lo, yet for all that
He ware a cardynals hat,
In hym was small fayth,
As myne auctor sayth:
Nat for that I mene
Suche a casuelte shulde be sene,
Or suche chaunce shulde fall
Vnto our cardynall.
Allmyghty God, I trust,
Hath for him dyscust
That of force he must
Be faythfull, trew, and iust
To our most royall kynge,
302

Chefe rote of his makynge;
Yet it is a wyly mouse
That can bylde his dwellinge house
Within the cattes eare
Withouten drede or feare.
It is a nyce reconynge,
To put all the gouernynge,
All the rule of this lande
Into one mannys hande:
One wyse mannys hede
May stande somwhat in stede;
But the wyttys of many wyse
Moche better can deuyse,
By theyr cyrcumspection,
And theyr sad dyrrection,
To cause the commune weale
Longe to endure in heale.
Christ kepe King Henry the eyght
From trechery and dysceyght,
And graunt him grace to know
The faucon from the crow,
The wolfe from the lam,
From whens that mastyfe cam!
Let him neuer confounde
The gentyll greyhownde:
Of this matter the grownde
Is easy to expounde,
And soone may be perceyued,
How the worlde is conueyed.
But harke, my frende, one worde
In ernest or in borde:
303

Tell me nowe in this stede
Is maister Mewtas dede,
The kynges Frenche secretary,
And his vntrew aduersary?
For he sent in writynge
To Fraunces the French kyng
Of our maisters counsel in eueri thing:
That was a peryllous rekenyng!—
Nay, nay, he is nat dede;
But he was so payned in the hede,
That he shall neuer ete more bred.
Now he is gone to another stede,
With a bull vnder lead,
By way of commissyon,
To a straunge iurisdictyon,
Called Dymingis Dale,
Farre byyonde Portyngale,
And hathe his pasport to pas
Ultra Sauromatas,
To the deuyll, syr Sathanas,
To Pluto, and syr Bellyall,
The deuyls vycare generall,
And to his college conuentuall,
As well calodemonyall
As to cacodemonyall,
To puruey for our cardynall
A palace pontifycall,
To kepe his court prouyncyall,
Vpon artycles iudicyall,
To contende and to stryue
304

For his prerogatyue,
Within that consystory
To make sommons peremtory
Before some prothonotory
Imperyall or papall.
Vpon this matter mistycall
I haue tolde you part, but nat all:
Herafter perchaunce I shall
Make a larger memoryall,
And a further rehersall,
And more paper I thinke to blot,
To the court why I cam not;
Desyring you aboue all thynge
To kepe you from laughynge
Whan ye fall to redynge
Of this wanton scrowle,
And pray for Mewtas sowle,
For he is well past and gone;
That wolde God euerychone
Of his affynyte
Were gone as well as he!
Amen, amen, say ye,
Of your inward charyte;
Amen,
Of your inward charyte.
It were great rewth,
For wrytynge of trewth
Any man shulde be
In perplexyte
Of dyspleasure;
305

For I make you sure,
Where trouth is abhorde,
It is a playne recorde
That there wantys grace;
In whose place
Dothe occupy,
Full vngracyously,
Fals flatery,
Fals trechery,
Fals brybery,
Subtyle Sym Sly,
With madde foly;
For who can best lye,
He is best set by.
Than farewell to thé,
Welthfull felycite!
For prosperyte
Away than wyll fle.
Than must we agre
With pouerte;
For mysery,
With penury,
Myserably
And wretchydly
Hath made askrye
And outcry,
Folowynge the chase
To dryue away grace.
Yet sayst thou percase,
We can lacke no grace,
306

For my lordes grace,
And my ladies grace,
With trey duse ase,
And ase in the face,
Some haute and some base,
Some daunce the trace
Euer in one case:
Marke me that chase
In the tennys play,
For synke quater trey
Is a tall man:
He rod, but we ran,
Hay, the gye and the gan!
The gray gose is no swan;
The waters wax wan,
And beggers they ban,
And they cursed Datan,
De tribu Dan,
That this warke began,
Palam et clam,
With Balak and Balam,
The golden ram
Of Flemmyng dam,
Sem, Iapheth, or Cam.
But howe comme to pas,
Your cupboard that was
Is tourned to glasse,
From syluer to brasse,
From golde to pewter,
Or els to a newter,
307

To copper, to tyn,
To lede, or alcumyn?
A goldsmyth your mayre;
But the chefe of your fayre
Myght stande nowe by potters,
And suche as sell trotters:
Pytchars, potshordis,
This shrewdly accordis
To be a cupborde for lordys.
My lorde now and syr knyght,
Good euyn and good nyght!
For now, syr Trestram,
Ye must weare bukram,
Or canues of Cane,
For sylkes are wane.
Our royals that shone,
Our nobles are gone
Amonge the Burgonyons,
And Spanyardes onyons,
And the Flanderkyns.
Gyll swetis, and Cate spynnys,
They are happy that wynnys;
But Englande may well say,
Fye on this wynnyng all way!
Now nothynge but pay, pay,
With, laughe and lay downe,
Borowgh, cyte, and towne.
Good Sprynge of Lanam
Must counte what became
Of his clothe makynge:
308

He is at suche takynge,
Though his purse wax dull,
He must tax for his wull
By nature of a newe writ;
My lordys grace nameth it
A quia non satisfacit:
In the spyght of his tethe
He must pay agayne
A thousande or twayne
Of his golde in store;
And yet he payde before
An hunderd pounde and more,
Whiche pyncheth him sore.
My lordis grace wyll brynge
Downe this hye sprynge,
And brynge it so lowe,
It shall nat euer flowe.
Suche a prelate, I trowe,
Were worthy to rowe
Thorow the streytes of Marock
To the gybbet of Baldock:
He wolde dry vp the stremys
Of ix. kinges realmys,
All ryuers and wellys,
All waters that swellys;
For with vs he so mellys
That within Englande dwellys,
I wolde he were somwhere ellys;
For els by and by
He wyll drynke vs so drye,
309

And suck vs so nye,
That men shall scantly
Haue peny or halpeny.
God saue his noble grace,
And graunt him a place
Endlesse to dwell
With the deuyll of hell!
For, and he were there,
We nede neuer feere
Of the fendys blake:
For I vndertake
He wolde so brag and crake,
That he wolde than make
The deuyls to quake,
To shudder and to shake,
Lyke a fyer drake,
And with a cole rake
Brose them on a brake,
And bynde them to a stake,
And set hell on fyer,
At his owne desyer.
He is suche a grym syer,
And suche a potestolate,
And suche a potestate,
That he wolde breke the braynes
Of Lucyfer in his chaynes,
And rule them echone
In Lucyfers trone.
I wolde he were gone;
For amonge vs is none
310

That ruleth but he alone,
Without all good reason,
And all out of season:
For Folam peason
With him be nat geson;
They growwe very ranke
Vpon euery banke
Of his herbers grene,
With my lady bryght and shene;
On theyr game it is sene
They play nat all clene,
And it be as I wene.
But as touchynge dyscrecyon,
With sober dyrectyon,
He kepeth them in subiectyon:
They can haue no protectyon
To rule nor to guyde,
But all must be tryde,
And abyde the correctyon
Of his wylfull affectyon.
For as for wytte,
The deuyll spede whitte!
But braynsyk and braynlesse,
Wytles and rechelesse,
Careles and shamlesse,
Thriftles and gracelesse,
Together are bended
And so condyscended,
That the commune welth
Shall neuer haue good helth,
311

But tatterd and tuggyd,
Raggyd and ruggyd,
Shauyn and shorne,
And all threde bare worne.
Suche gredynesse
Suche nedynesse,
Myserablenesse,
With wretchydnesse,
Hath brought in dystresse
And moche heuynesse
And great dolowre
Englande, the flowre
Of relucent honowre,
In olde commemoracion
Most royall Englyssh nacion.
Now all is out of facion,
Almost in desolation;
I speke by protestacion:
God of his miseracyon
Send better reformacyon!
Lo, for to do shamfully
He iugeth it no foly!
But to wryte of his shame,
He sayth we ar to blame.
What a frensy is this,
No shame to do amys,
And yet he is ashamed
To be shamfully named!
And ofte prechours be blamed,
Bycause they haue proclamed
312

His madnesse by writynge,
His symplenesse resytynge,
Remordynge and bytynge,
With chydyng and with flytynge,
Shewynge him Goddis lawis:
He calleth the prechours dawis,
And of holy scriptures sawis
He counteth them for gygawis,
And putteth them to sylence
And with wordis of vyolence,
Lyke Pharao, voyde of grace,
Dyd Moyses sore manase,
And Aron sore he thret,
The worde of God to let;
This maumet in lyke wyse
Against the churche doth ryse;
The prechour he dothe dyspyse,
With crakynge in suche wyse,
So braggynge all with bost,
That no prechour almost
Dare speke for his lyfe
Of my lordis grace nor his wyfe,
For he hath suche a bull,
He may take whom he wull,
And as many as him lykys;
May ete pigges in Lent for pikys,
After the sectes of heretykis,
For in Lent he wyll ete
All maner of flesshe mete
313

That he can ony where gete;
With other abusyons grete,
Wherof for to trete
It wolde make the deuyll to swete,
For all priuileged places
He brekes and defaces,
All placis of relygion
He hathe them in derisyon,
And makith suche prouisyon
To dryue them at diuisyon,
And fynally in conclusyon
To bringe them to confusyon;
Saint Albons to recorde
Wherof this vngracyous lorde
Hathe made him selfe abbot,
Against their wylles, God wot.
All this he dothe deale
Vnder strength of the great seale,
And by his legacy,
Whiche madly he dothe apply
Vnto an extrauagancy
Pyked out of all good lawe,
With reasons that ben rawe.
Yet, whan he toke first his hat,
He said he knew what was what;
All iustyce he pretended,
All thynges sholde be amended,
All wronges he wolde redresse,
All iniuris he wolde represse,
All periuris he wolde oppresse;
314

And yet this gracelesse elfe,
He is periured himselfe,
As playnly it dothe appere,
Who lyst to enquere
In the regestry
Of my Lorde of Cantorbury,
To whom he was professed
In thre poyntes expressed;
The fyrst to do him reuerence,
The seconde to owe hym obedyence,
The thirde with hole affectyon
To be vnder his subiectyon:
But now he maketh obiectyon,
Vnder the protectyon
Of the kynges great seale,
That he setteth neuer a deale
By his former othe,
Whether God be pleased or wroth.
He makith so proude pretens,
That in his equipolens
He iugyth him equiualent
With God omnipotent:
But yet beware the rod,
And the stroke of God!
The Apostyll Peter
Had a pore myter
And a poore cope
Whan he was creat Pope,
First in Antioche;
He dyd neuer approche
315

Of Rome to the see
Weth suche dygnyte.
Saynt Dunstane, what was he?
Nothynge, he sayth, lyke to me:
There is a dyuersyte
Bytwene him and me;
We passe hym in degre,
As legatus a latere.
Ecce, sacerdos magnus,
That wyll hed vs and hange vs,
And streitly strangle vs
And he may fange vs!
Decre and decretall,
Constytucyon prouincyall,
Nor no lawe canonicall,
Shall let the preest pontyficall
To syt in causa sanguinis.
Nowe God amende that is amys!
For I suppose that he is
Of Ieremy the whyskynge rod,
The flayle, the scourge of almighty God.
This Naman Sirus,
So fell and so irous,
So full of malencoly,
With a flap afore his eye,
Men wene that he is pocky,
Or els his surgions they lye,
For, as far as they can spy
By the craft of surgery,
It is manus Domini.
316

And yet this proude Antiochus,
He is so ambicious,
So elate, and so vicious,
And so cruell hertyd,
That he wyll nat be conuertyd;
For he setteth God apart,
He is nowe so ouerthwart,
And so payned with pangis,
That all his trust hangis
In Balthasor, whiche heled
Domingos nose that was wheled;
That Lumberdes nose meane I,
That standeth yet awrye;
It was nat heled alderbest,
It standeth somwhat on the west;
I meane Domyngo Lomelyn,
That was wont to wyn
Moche money of the kynge
At the cardys and haserdynge:
Balthasor, that helyd Domingos nose
From the puskylde pocky pose,
Now with his gummys of Araby
Hath promised to hele our cardinals eye;
Yet sum surgions put a dout,
Lest he wyll put it clene out,
And make him lame of his neder limmes:
God sende him sorowe for his sinnes!
Some men myght aske a question,
By whose suggestyon
I toke on hand this warke,
Thus boldly for to barke?
317

And men lyst to harke,
And my wordes marke,
I wyll answere lyke a clerke;
For trewly and vnfayned,
I am forcebly constrayned,
At Iuuynals request,
To wryght of this glorious gest,
Of this vayne gloryous best,
His fame to be encrest
At euery solempne feest;
Quia difficile est
Satiram non scribere.
Now, mayster doctor, howe say ye,
What soeuer your name be?
What though ye be namelesse,
Ye shall not escape blamelesse,
Nor yet shall scape shamlesse:
Mayster doctor in your degre,
Yourselfe madly ye ouerse;
Blame Iuuinall, and blame nat me:
Maister doctor Diricum,
Omne animi vitium, &c.
As Iuuinall dothe recorde,
A small defaute in a great lorde,
A lytell cryme in a great astate,
Is moche more inordinate,
And more horyble to beholde,
Than any other a thousand folde.
Ye put to blame ye wot nere whom;
Ye may weare a cockes come;
318

Your fonde hed in your furred hood,
Holde ye your tong, ye can no goode:
And at more conuenyent tyme
I may fortune for to ryme
Somwhat of your madnesse;
For small is your sadnesse
To put any man in lack,
And say yll behynde his back:
And my wordes marke truly,
That ye can nat byde thereby,
For smegma non est cinnamomum,
But de absentibus nil nisi bonum.
Complayne, or do what ye wyll,
Of your complaynt it shall nat skyl:
This is the tenor of my byl,
A daucock ye be, and so shalbe styll.
Sequitur Epitoma
De morbilloso Thoma,
Necnon obscœno
De Polyphemo, &c.
Porro perbelle dissimulatum
Illum Pandulphum, tantum legatum,
Tam formidatum nuper prælatum,
Ceu Naman Syrum nunc elongatum,
In solitudine jam commoratum,
Neapolitano morbo gravatum,
Malagmate, cataplasmate stratum,
Pharmacopolæ ferro foratum,
319

Nihilo magis alleviatum,
Nihilo melius aut medicatum,
Relictis famulis ad famulatum,
Quo tollatur infamia,
Sed major patet insania;
A modo ergo ganea
Abhorreat ille ganeus,
Dominus male creticus,
Aptius dictus tetricus,
Fanaticus, phreneticus,
Graphicus sicut metricus
Autumat.
Hoc genus dictaminis
Non eget examinis
In centiloquio
Nec centimetro
Honorati
Grammatici
Mauri.

DECASTICHON VIRULENTUM IN GALERATUM LYCAONTA MARINUM, &c.

Proh dolor, ecce, maris lupus, et nequissimus ursus,
Carnificis vitulus, Britonumque bubulcus iniquus,
Conflatus vitulus vel Oreb, vel Salmane vel Zeb,
Carduus, et crudelis Asaphque Datan reprobatus,
Blandus et Achitophel regis, scelus omne Britannum,
Ecclesias qui namque Thomas confundit ubique,
Non sacer iste Thomas, sed duro corde Goleas,
320

Quem gestat mulus,—Sathane, cacet, obsecro, culus
Fundens asphaltum, precor! Hunc versum lege cautum;
Asperius nihil est misero quum surget in altum.

APOSTROPHA AD LONDINI CIVES (CITANTE MULUM ASINO AUREO GALERATO) IN OCCURSUM ASELLI, &c.

Excitat, en, asinus mulum, mirabile visu,
Calcibus! O vestro cives occurrite asello,
Qui regnum regemque regit, qui vestra gubernat
Prædia, divitias, nummos, gazas, spoliando!
Dixit alludens, immo illudens, paradoxam de asino aureo galerato. xxxiiii.
Hæc vates ille,
De quo loquuntur mille.
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