The Poetical Works of John Skelton :: :: University of Virginia Library

In autumpne, whan the sonne in Virgine
By radyante hete enryped hath our corne;
Whan Luna, full of mutabylyte,
As emperes the dyademe hath worne
Of our pole artyke, smylynge halfe in scorne
At our foly and our vnstedfastnesse;
The tyme whan Mars to werre hym dyde dres;

I, callynge to mynde the greate auctoryte
Of poetes olde, whyche full craftely,
Vnder as couerte termes as coude be,
Can touche a trouth and cloke it subtylly
Wyth fresshe vtteraunce full sentencyously;
Dyuerse in style, some spared not vyce to wryte,
Some of moralyte nobly dyde endyte;

Wherby I rede theyr renome and theyr fame
Maye neuer dye, bute euermore endure:
I was sore moued to aforce the same,
But Ignoraunce full soone dyde me dyscure,
And shewed that in this arte I was not sure;
For to illumyne, she sayde, I was to dulle,
Auysynge me my penne alwaye to pulle,

And not wryte; for he so wyll atteyne
Excedynge ferther than his connynge is,
His hede maye be harde, but feble is his brayne,
Yet haue I knowen suche er this;
But of reproche surely he maye not mys,
That clymmeth hyer than he may fotynge haue;
What and he slyde downe, who shall hym saue?

Thus vp and down my mynde was drawen and cast,
That I ne wyste what to do was beste;
So sore enwered, that I was at the laste
Enforsed to slepe and for to take some reste;
And to lye downe as soone as I me dreste,
At Harwyche Porte slumbrynge as I laye,
In myne hostes house, called Powers Keye,

Methoughte I sawe a shyppe, goodly of sayle,
Come saylynge forth into that hauen brood,
Her takelynge ryche and of hye apparayle:
She kyste an anker, and there she laye at rode.
Marchauntes her borded to see what she had lode:

Therein they founde royall marchaundyse,
Fraghted with plesure of what ye coude deuyse.

But than I thoughte I woulde not dwell behynde;
Amonge all other I put myselfe in prece.
Than there coude I none aquentaunce fynde:
There was moche noyse; anone one cryed, Cese!
Sharpely commaundynge eche man holde hys pece:
Maysters, he sayde, the shyp that ye here see,
The Bowge of Courte it hyghte for certeynte:

The owner therof is lady of estate,
Whoos name to tell is dame Saunce-pere;
Her marchaundyse is ryche and fortunate,
But who wyll haue it muste paye therfore dere;
This royall chaffre that is shypped here
Is called Fauore, to stonde in her good grace.
Than sholde ye see there pressynge in a pace

Of one and other that wolde this lady see;
Whiche sat behynde a traues of sylke fyne,
Of golde of tessew the fynest that myghte be,
In a trone whiche fer clerer dyde shyne
Than Phebus in his spere celestyne;
Whoos beaute, honoure, goodly porte,
I haue to lytyll connynge to reporte.

But, of eche thynge there as I toke hede,
Amonge all other was wrytten in her trone,

In golde letters, this worde, whiche I dyde rede,
Garder le fortune, que est mauelz et bone!
And, as I stode redynge this verse myselfe allone,
Her chyef gentylwoman, Daunger by her name,
Gaue me a taunte, and sayde I was to blame

To be so perte to prese so proudly vppe:
She sayde she trowed that I had eten sause;
She asked yf euer I dranke of saucys cuppe.
And I than softly answered to that clause,
That, so to saye, I had gyuen her no cause.
Than asked she me, Syr, so God thé spede,
What is thy name? and I sayde, it was Drede.

What mouyd thé, quod she, hydder to come?
Forsoth, quod I, to bye some of youre ware.
And with that worde on me she gaue a glome
With browes bente, and gan on me to stare
Full daynnously, and fro me she dyde fare,
Leuynge me stondynge as a mased man:
To whome there came an other gentylwoman;

Desyre her name was, and so she me tolde,
Sayenge to me, Broder, be of good chere,
Abasshe you not, but hardely be bolde,
Auaunce yourselfe to aproche and come nere:
What though our chaffer be neuer so dere,
Yet I auyse you to speke, for ony drede:
Who spareth to speke, in fayth he spareth to spede.

Maystres, quod I, I haue none aquentaunce,
That wyll for me be medyatoure and mene;
And this an other, I haue but smale substaunce.
Pece, quod Desyre, ye speke not worth a bene:
Yf ye haue not, in fayth I wyll you lene
A precyous jewell, no rycher in this londe;
Bone Auenture haue here now in your honde.

Shyfte now therwith, let see, as ye can,
In Bowge of Courte cheuysaunce to make;
For I dare saye that there nys erthly man
But, an he can Bone Auenture take,
There can no fauour nor frendshyp hym forsake;
Bone Auenture may brynge you in suche case
That ye shall stonde in fauoure and in grace.

But of one thynge I werne you er I goo,
She that styreth the shyp, make her your frende.
Maystres, quod I, I praye you tell me why soo,
And how I maye that waye and meanes fynde.
Forsothe, quod she, how euer blowe the wynde
Fortune gydeth and ruleth all oure shyppe:
Whome she hateth shall ouer the see boorde skyp;

Whome she loueth, of all plesyre is ryche,
Whyles she laugheth and hath luste for to playe;
Whome she hateth, she casteth in the dyche,

For whan she frouneth, she thynketh to make a fray;
She cheryssheth him, and hym she casseth awaye.
Alas, quod I, how myghte I haue her sure?
In fayth, quod she, by Bone Auenture.

Thus, in a rowe, of martchauntes a grete route
Suwed to Fortune that she wold be theyre frynde:
They thronge in fast, and flocked her aboute;
And I with them prayed her to haue in mynde.
She promysed to vs all she wolde be kynde:
Of Bowge of Court she asketh what we wold haue;
And we asked Fauoure, and Fauour she vs gaue.

Thus endeth the Prologue; and begynneth the Bowge of Courte breuely compyled.