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

The sayle is vp, Fortune ruleth our helme,
We wante no wynd to passe now ouer all;
Fauoure we haue tougher than ony elme,
That wyll abyde and neuer from vs fall:
But vnder hony ofte tyme lyeth bytter gall;
For, as me thoughte, in our shyppe I dyde see
Full subtyll persones, in nombre foure and thre.

The fyrste was Fauell, full of flatery,
Wyth fables false that well coude fayne a tale;
The seconde was Suspecte, whiche that dayly
Mysdempte eche man, with face deedly and pale;
And Haruy Hafter, that well coude picke a male;
With other foure of theyr affynyte,
Dysdayne, Ryotte, Dyssymuler, Subtylte.

Fortune theyr frende, with whome oft she dyde daunce;
They coude not faile, thei thought, they were so sure;
And oftentymes I wolde myselfe auaunce
With them to make solace and pleasure;
But my dysporte they coude not well endure;
They sayde they hated for to dele with Drede.
Than Fauell gan wyth fayre speche me to fede.

FAUELL.

Noo thynge erthely that I wonder so sore
As of your connynge, that it is so excellent;
Deynte to haue with vs suche one in store,
So vertuously that hath his dayes spente:
Fortune to you gyftes of grace hath lente:
Loo, what it is a man to haue connynge!
All erthly tresoure it is surmountynge.

Ye be an apte man, as ony can be founde,
To dwell with vs, and serue my ladyes grace;
Ye be to her yea worth a thousande pounde;
I herde her speke of you within shorte space,
Whan there were dyuerse that sore dyde you manace;
And, though I say it, I was myselfe your frende,
For here be dyuerse to you that be vnkynde.

But this one thynge ye maye be sure of me;
For, by that Lorde that bought dere all mankynde,
I can not flater, I muste be playne to thé;
And ye nede ought, man, shewe to me your mynde,
For ye haue me whome faythfull ye shall fynde;
Whyles I haue ought, by God, thou shalt not lacke,
And yf nede be, a bolde worde I dare cracke.

Nay, naye, be sure, whyles I am on your syde,
Ye maye not fall, truste me, ye maye not fayle;
Ye stonde in fauoure, and Fortune is your gyde,
And, as she wyll, so shall our grete shyppe sayle:
Thyse lewde cok wattes shall neuermore preuayle
Ageynste you hardely, therfore be not afrayde:
Farewell tyll soone; but no worde that I sayde.

DREDE.

Than thanked I hym for his grete gentylnes:
But, as me thoughte, he ware on hym a cloke,
That lyned was with doubtfull doublenes;
Me thoughte, of wordes that he had full a poke;
His stomak stuffed ofte tymes dyde reboke:
Suspycyon, me thoughte, mette hym at a brayde,
And I drewe nere to herke what they two sayde.

In faythe, quod Suspecte, spake Drede no worde of me?
Why, what than? wylte thou lete men to speke?
He sayth, he can not well accorde with thé.
Twyst, quod Suspecte, goo playe, hym I nereke.
By Cryste, quod Fauell, Drede is soleyne freke:
What lete vs holde him vp, man, for a whyle?
Ye soo, quod Suspecte, he maye vs bothe begyle.

And whan he came walkynge soberly,
Wyth whom and ha, and with a croked loke,
Me thoughte, his hede was full of gelousy,
His eyne rollynge, his hondes faste they quoke;
And to me warde the strayte waye he toke:

God spede, broder! to me quod he than;
And thus to talke with me he began.

SUSPYCYON.

Ye remembre the gentylman ryghte nowe
That commaunde with you, me thought, a party space?
Beware of him, for, I make God auowe,
He wyll begyle you and speke fayre to your face;
Ye neuer dwelte in suche an other place,
For here is none that dare well other truste;
But I wolde telle you a thynge, and I durste.

Spake he a fayth no worde to you of me?
I wote, and he dyde, ye wolde me telle.
I haue a fauoure to you, wherof it be
That I muste shewe you moche of my counselle:
But I wonder what the deuyll of helle
He sayde of me, whan he with you dyde talke:
By myne auyse vse not with him to walke.

The soueraynst thynge that ony man maye haue,
Is lytyll to saye, and moche to here and see;
For, but I trusted you, so God me saue,
I wolde noo thynge so playne be;
To you oonly, me thynke, I durste shryue me;

For now am I plenarely dysposed
To shewe you thynges that may not be disclosed.

DREDE.

Than I assured hym my fydelyte,
His counseyle secrete neuer to dyscure,
Yf he coude fynde in herte to truste me;
Els I prayed hym, with all my besy cure,
To kepe it hymselfe, for than he myghte be sure
That noo man erthly coude hym bewreye,
Whyles of hys mynde it were lockte with the keye.

By God, quod he, this and thus it is;
And of his mynde he shewed me all and some.
Farewell, quod he, we wyll talke more of this:
Soo he departed there he wolde be come.
I dare not speke, I promysed to be dome:
But, as I stode musynge in my mynde,
Haruy Hafter came lepynge, lyghte as lynde.

Vpon his breste he bare a versynge boxe;
His throte was clere, and lustely coude fayne;
Me thoughte, his gowne was all furred wyth foxe;
And euer he sange, Sythe I am no thynge playne.
To kepe him frome pykyng it was a grete payne:
He gased on me with his gotyshe berde;
Whan I loked on hym, my purse was half aferde.

HARUY HAFTER.

Syr, God you saue! why loke ye so sadde?
What thynge is that I maye do for you?
A wonder thynge that ye waxe not madde!
For, and I studye sholde as ye doo nowe,
My wytte wolde waste, I make God auowe.
Tell me your mynde: me thynke, ye make a verse;
I coude it skan, and ye wolde it reherse.

But to the poynte shortely to procede,
Where hathe your dwellynge ben, er ye cam here?
For, as I trowe, I haue sene you indede
Er this, whan that ye made me royall chere.
Holde vp the helme, loke vp, and lete God stere:
I wolde be mery, what wynde that euer blowe,
Heue and how rombelow, row the bote, Norman, rowe!

Prynces of yougthe can ye synge by rote?
Or shall I sayle wyth you a felashyp assaye;
For on the booke I can not synge a note.
Wolde to God, it wolde please you some daye
A balade boke before me for to laye,
And lerne me to synge, Re, my, fa, sol!
And, whan I fayle, bobbe me on the noll.

Loo, what is to you a pleasure grete,
To haue that connynge and wayes that ye haue!

By Goddis soule, I wonder how ye gete
Soo greate pleasyre, or who to you it gaue:
Syr, pardone me, I am an homely knaue,
To be with you thus perte and thus bolde;
But ye be welcome to our housholde.

And, I dare saye, there is no man here inne
But wolde be glad of your company:
I wyste neuer man that so soone coude wynne
The fauoure that ye haue with my lady;
I praye to God that it maye neuer dy:
It is your fortune for to haue that grace;
As I be saued, it is a wonder case.

For, as for me, I serued here many a daye,
And yet vnneth I can haue my lyuynge:
But I requyre you no worde that I saye;
For, and I knowe ony erthly thynge
That is agayne you, ye shall haue wetynge:
And ye be welcome, syr, so God me saue:
I hope here after a frende of you to haue.

DREDE.

Wyth that, as he departed soo fro me,
Anone ther mette with him, as me thoughte,
A man, but wonderly besene was he;
He loked hawte, he sette eche man at noughte;
His gawdy garment with scornnys was all wrought;

With indygnacyon lyned was his hode;
He frowned, as he wolde swere by Cockes blode;

He bote the lyppe, he loked passynge coye;
His face was belymmed, as byes had him stounge:
It was no tyme with him to jape nor toye;
Enuye hathe wasted his lyuer and his lounge,
Hatred by the herte so had hym wrounge,
That he loked pale as asshes to my syghte:
Dysdayne, I wene, this comerous crabes hyghte.

To Heruy Hafter than he spake of me,
And I drewe nere to harke what they two sayde.
Now, quod Dysdayne, as I shall saued be,
I haue grete scorne, and am ryghte euyll apayed.
Than quod Heruy, why arte thou so dysmayde?
By Cryste, quod he, for it is shame to saye;
To see Johan Dawes, that came but yester daye,

How he is now taken in conceyte,
This doctour Dawcocke, Drede, I wene, he hyghte:
By Goddis bones, but yf we haue som sleyte,
It is lyke he wyll stonde in our lyghte.
By God, quod Heruy, and it so happen myghte;
Lete vs therfore shortely at a worde
Fynde some mene to caste him ouer the borde.

By Him that me boughte, than quod Dysdayne,
I wonder sore he is in suche conceyte.
Turde, quod Hafter, I wyll thé no thynge layne,
There muste for hym be layde some prety beyte;
We tweyne, I trowe, be not withoute dysceyte:
Fyrste pycke a quarell, and fall oute with hym then,
And soo outface hym with a carde of ten.

Forthwith he made on me a prowde assawte,
With scornfull loke meuyd all in moode;
He wente aboute to take me in a fawte;
He frounde, he stared, he stampped where he stoode.
I lokyd on hym, I wende he had be woode.
He sent the arme proudly vnder the syde,
And in this wyse he gan with me to chyde.

DISDAYNE.

Remembrest thou what thou sayd yester nyght?
Wylt thou abyde by the wordes agayne?
By God, I haue of thé now grete dyspyte;
I shall thé angre ones in euery vayne:
It is greate scorne to see suche an hayne
As thou arte, one that cam but yesterdaye,
With vs olde seruauntes suche maysters to playe.

I tell thé, I am of countenaunce:
What weneste I were? I trowe, thou knowe not me.

By Goddis woundes, but for dysplesaunce,
Of my querell soone wolde I venged be:
But no force, I shall ones mete with thé;
Come whan it wyll, oppose thé I shall,
What someuer auenture therof fall.

Trowest thou, dreuyll, I saye, thou gawdy knaue,
That I haue deynte to see thé cherysshed thus?
By Goddis syd, my sworde thy berde shall shaue;
Well, ones thou shalte be chermed, I wus:
Naye, strawe for tales, thou shalte not rule vs;
We be thy betters, and so thou shalte vs take,
Or we shall thé oute of thy clothes shake.

DREDE.

Wyth that came Ryotte, russhynge all at ones,
A rusty gallande, to-ragged and to-rente;
And on the borde he whyrled a payre of bones,
Quater treye dews he clatered as he wente;
Now haue at all, by saynte Thomas of Kente!
And euer he threwe and kyst I wote nere what:
His here was growen thorowe oute his hat.

Thenne I behelde how he dysgysed was:
His hede was heuy for watchynge ouer nyghte,
His eyen blereed, his face shone lyke a glas;
His gowne so shorte that it ne couer myghte
His rumpe, he wente so all for somer lyghte;
His hose was garded wyth a lyste of grene,
Yet at the knee they were broken, I wene.

His cote was checked with patches rede and blewe;
Of Kyrkeby Kendall was his shorte demye;
And ay he sange, In fayth, decon thou crewe;
His elbowe bare, he ware his gere so nye;
His nose a droppynge, his lyppes were full drye;
And by his syde his whynarde and his pouche,
The deuyll myghte daunce therin for ony crowche.

Counter he coude O lux vpon a potte;
An eestryche fedder of a capons tayle
He set vp fresshely vpon his hat alofte:
What, reuell route! quod he, and gan to rayle
How oft he hadde hit Jenet on the tayle,
Of Felyce fetewse, and lytell prety Cate,
How ofte he knocked at her klycked gate.

What sholde I tell more of his rebaudrye?
I was ashamed so to here hym prate:
He had no pleasure but in harlotrye.
Ay, quod he, in the deuylles date,
What art thou? I sawe thé nowe but late.
Forsothe, quod I, in this courte I dwell nowe.
Welcome, quod Ryote, I make God auowe.

RYOTE.

And, syr, in fayth why comste not vs amonge,
To make thé mery, as other felowes done?
Thou muste swere and stare, man, al daye longe,
And wake all nyghte, and slepe tyll it be none;
Thou mayste not studye, or muse on the mone;

This worlde is nothynge but ete, drynke, and slepe,
And thus with vs good company to kepe.

Plucke vp thyne herte vpon a mery pyne,
And lete vs laugh a placke or tweyne at nale:
What the deuyll, man, myrthe was neuer one!
What, loo, man, see here of dyce a bale!
A brydelynge caste for that is in thy male!
Now haue at all that lyeth vpon the burde!
Fye on this dyce, they be not worth a turde!

Haue at the hasarde, or at the dosen browne,
Or els I pas a peny to a pounde!
Now, wolde to God, thou wolde leye money downe!
Lorde, how that I wolde caste it full rounde!
Ay, in my pouche a buckell I haue founde!
The armes of Calyce, I haue no coyne nor crosse!
I am not happy, I renne ay on the losse.

Now renne muste I to the stewys syde,
To wete yf Malkyn, my lemman, haue gete oughte:
I lete her to hyre, that men maye on her ryde,
Her armes easy ferre and nere is soughte:
By Goddis sydes, syns I her thyder broughte,
She hath gote me more money with her tayle
Than hath some shyppe that into Bordews sayle.

Had I as good an hors as she is a mare,
I durst auenture to iourney through Fraunce;
Who rydeth on her, he nedeth not to care,
For she is trussed for to breke a launce;
It is a curtel that well can wynche and praunce:
To her wyll I nowe all my pouerte lege;
And, tyll I come, haue here is myne hat to plege.

DREDE.

Gone is this knaue, this rybaude foule and leude;
He ran as fast as euer that he myghte:
Vnthryftynes in hym may well be shewed,
For whome Tyborne groneth both daye and nyghte.
And, as I stode and kyste asyde my syghte,
Dysdayne I sawe with Dyssymulacyon
Standynge in sadde communicacion.

But there was poyntynge and noddynge with the hede,
And many wordes sayde in secrete wyse;
They wandred ay, and stode styll in no stede:
Me thoughte, alwaye Dyscymular dyde deuyse;
Me passynge sore myne herte than gan agryse,
I dempte and drede theyr talkynge was not good.
Anone Dyscymular came where I stode.

Than in his hode I sawe there faces tweyne;
That one was lene and lyke a pyned goost,
That other loked as he wolde me haue slayne;
And to me warde as he gan for to coost,
Whan that he was euen at me almoost,
I sawe a knyfe hyd in his one sleue,
Wheron was wryten this worde, Myscheue.

And in his other sleue, me thought, I sawe
A spone of golde, full of hony swete,
To fede a fole, and for to preue a dawe;
And on that sleue these wordes were wrete,
A false abstracte cometh from a fals concrete:
His hode was syde, his cope was roset graye:
Thyse were the wordes that he to me dyde saye.

DYSSYMULATION.

How do ye, mayster? ye loke so soberly:
As I be saued at the dredefull daye,
It is a perylous vyce, this enuy:
Alas, a connynge man ne dwelle maye
In no place well, but foles with hym fraye!
But as for that, connynge hath no foo
Saue hym that nought can, Scrypture sayth soo.

I knowe your vertu and your lytterature
By that lytel connynge that I haue:
Ye be malygned sore, I you ensure;
But ye haue crafte your selfe alwaye to saue:
It is grete scorne to se a mysproude knaue

With a clerke that connynge is to prate:
Lete theym go lowse theym, in the deuylles date!

For all be it that this longe not to me,
Yet on my backe I bere suche lewde delynge:
Ryghte now I spake with one, I trowe, I see;
But, what, a strawe! I maye not tell all thynge.
By God, I saye there is grete herte brennynge
Betwene the persone ye wote of, you;
Alas, I coude not dele so with a Jew!

I wolde eche man were as playne as I;
It is a worlde, I saye, to here of some;
I hate this faynynge, fye vpon it, fye!
A man can not wote where to be come:
I wys I coude tell,—but humlery, home;
I dare not speke, we be so layde awayte,
For all our courte is full of dysceyte.

Now, by saynte Fraunceys, that holy man and frere,
I hate these wayes agayne you that they take:
Were I as you, I wolde ryde them full nere;
And, by my trouthe, but yf an ende they make,
Yet wyll I saye some wordes for your sake,
That shall them angre, I holde thereon a grote;
For some shall wene be hanged by the throte.

I haue a stoppynge oyster in my poke,
Truste me, and yf it come to a nede:

But I am lothe for to reyse a smoke,
Yf ye coude be otherwyse agrede;
And so I wolde it were, so God me spede,
For this maye brede to a confusyon,
Withoute God make a good conclusyon.

Naye, see where yonder stondeth the teder man!
A flaterynge knaue and false he is, God wote;
The dreuyll stondeth to herken, and he can:
It were more thryft, he boughte him a newe cote;
It will not be, his purse is not on flote:
All that he wereth, it is borowed ware;
His wytte is thynne, his hode is threde bare.

More coude I saye, but what this is ynowe:
Adewe tyll soone, we shall speke more of this:
Ye muste be ruled as I shall tell you howe;
Amendis maye be of that is now amys;
And I am your, syr, so haue I blys,
In euery poynte that I can do or saye;
Gyue me your honde, farewell, and haue good daye.

DREDE.

Sodaynly, as he departed me fro,
Came pressynge in one in a wonder araye:
Er I was ware, behynde me he sayde, Bo!
Thenne I, astonyed of that sodeyne fraye,
Sterte all at ones, I lyked no thynge his playe;

For, yf I had not quyckely fledde the touche,
He had plucte oute the nobles of my pouche.

He was trussed in a garmente strayte:
I haue not sene suche an others page;
For he coude well vpon a casket wayte;
His hode all pounsed and garded lyke a cage;
Lyghte lyme fynger, he toke none other wage.
Harken, quod he, loo here myne honde in thyne;
To vs welcome thou arte, by saynte Quyntyne.

DISCEYTE.

But, by that Lorde that is one, two, and thre,
I haue an errande to rounde in your ere:
He tolde me so, by God, ye maye truste me,
Parte remembre whan ye were there,
There I wynked on you,—wote ye not where?
In A loco, I mene juxta B:
Woo is hym that is blynde and maye not see!

But to here the subtylte and the crafte,
As I shall tell you, yf ye wyll harke agayne;
And, whan I sawe the horsons wolde you hafte,
To holde myne honde, by God, I had grete payne;
For forthwyth there I had him slayne,
But that I drede mordre wolde come oute:
Who deleth with shrewes hath nede to loke aboute.

DREDE.

And as he rounded thus in myne ere
Of false collusyon confetryd by assente,
Me thoughte, I see lewde felawes here and there
Came for to slee me of mortall entente;
And, as they came, the shypborde faste I hente,
And thoughte to lepe; and euen with that woke,
Caughte penne and ynke, and wrote thys lytyll boke.

I wolde therwith no man were myscontente;
Besechynge you that shall it see or rede,
In euery poynte to be indyfferente,
Syth all in substaunce of slumbrynge doth procede:
I wyll not saye it is mater in dede,
But yet oftyme suche dremes be founde trewe:
Now constrewe ye what is the resydewe.

Thus endeth the Bowge of Courte.