University of Virginia Library

Pla ce bo,
Who is there, who?
Di le xi,
Dame Margery;
Fa, re, my, my,
Wherfore and why, why?
For the sowle of Philip Sparowe,
That was late slayn at Carowe,
Among the Nones Blake,
For that swete soules sake,
And for all sparowes soules,
Set in our bederolles,
Pater noster qui,
With an Ave Mari,
And with the corner of a Crede,
The more shalbe your mede.

Whan I remember agayn
How mi Philyp was slayn,
Neuer halfe the payne
Was betwene you twayne,
Pyramus and Thesbe,
As than befell to me:
I wept and I wayled,
The tearys downe hayled;
But nothynge it auayled
To call Phylyp agayne,
Whom Gyb our cat hath slayne.

Gib, I saye, our cat
Worrowyd her on that
Which I loued best:
It can not be exprest
My sorrowfull heuynesse,
But all without redresse;
For within that stounde,
Halfe slumbrynge, in a sounde
I fell downe to the grounde.

Vnneth I kest myne eyes
Towarde the cloudy skyes:
But whan I dyd beholde
My sparow dead and colde,
No creatuer but that wolde
Haue rewed vpon me,
To behold and se
What heuynesse dyd me pange;
Wherewith my handes I wrange,
That my senaws cracked,
As though I had been racked,
So payned and so strayned,
That no lyfe wellnye remayned.

I syghed and I sobbed,
For that I was robbed
Of my sparowes lyfe.
O mayden, wydow, and wyfe,
Of what estate ye be,
Of hye or lowe degre,
Great sorowe than ye myght se
And lerne to wepe at me!
Such paynes dyd me frete,
That myne hert dyd bete,
My vysage pale and dead,
Wanne, and blewe as lead;
The panges of hatefull death
Wellnye had stopped my breath.

Heu, heu, me,
That I am wo for thé!
Ad Dominum, cum tribularer, clamavi:
Of God nothynge els craue I
But Phyllypes soule to kepe
From the marees deepe
Of Acherontes well,
That is a flode of hell;
And from the great Pluto,
The prynce of endles wo;
And from foule Alecto,
With vysage blacke and blo;
And from Medusa, that mare,
That lyke a fende doth stare:
And from Megeras edders,
For rufflynge of Phillips fethers,
And from her fyry sparklynges,
For burnynge of his wynges;
And from the smokes sowre
Of Proserpinas bowre;
And from the dennes darke,
Wher Cerberus doth barke,
Whom Theseus dyd afraye,
Whom Hercules dyd outraye,
As famous poetes say;
From that hell hounde,
That lyeth in cheynes bounde,
With gastly hedes thre,
To Jupyter pray we
That Phyllyp preserued may be!
Amen, say ye with me!

Do mi nus,
Helpe nowe, swete Jesus!
Levavi oculos meos in montes:
Wolde God I had Zenophontes,
Or Socrates the wyse,
To shew me their deuyse,
Moderatly to take
This sorow that I make
For Phyllip Sparowes sake!
So feruently I shake,
I fele my body quake;
So vrgently I am brought
Into carefull thought.
Like Andromach, Hectors wyfe,
Was wery of her lyfe,
Whan she had lost her ioye,
Noble Hector of Troye;
In lyke maner also
Encreaseth my dedly wo,
For my sparowe is go.

It was so prety a fole,
It wold syt on a stole,
And lerned after my scole
For to kepe his cut,
With, Phyllyp, kepe your cut!

It had a veluet cap,
And wold syt vpon my lap,
And seke after small wormes,
And somtyme white bred crommes;
And many tymes and ofte
Betwene my brestes softe
It wolde lye and rest;
It was propre and prest.

Somtyme he wolde gaspe
Whan he sawe a waspe;
A fly or a gnat,
He wolde flye at that;
And prytely he wold pant
Whan he saw an ant;
Lord, how he wolde pry
After the butterfly!
Lorde, how he wolde hop
After the gressop!
And whan I sayd, Phyp, Phyp,
Than he wold lepe and skyp,
And take me by the lyp.
Alas, it wyll me slo,
That Phillyp is gone me fro!

Sin in i qui ta tes
Alas, I was euyll at ease!
De pro fun dis cla ma vi,
Whan I sawe my sparowe dye!

Nowe, after my dome,
Dame Sulpicia at Rome,
Whose name regystered was
For euer in tables of bras,
Because that she dyd pas
In poesy to endyte,
And eloquently to wryte,
Though she wolde pretende
My sparowe to commende,
I trowe she coude not amende
Reportynge the vertues all
Of my sparowe royall.

For it wold come and go,
And fly so to and fro;
And on me it wolde lepe
Whan I was aslepe,
And his fethers shake,
Wherewith he wolde make
Me often for to wake,
And for to take him in
Vpon my naked skyn;
God wot, we thought no syn:
What though he crept so lowe?
It was not hurt, I trowe,
He dyd nothynge perde
But syt vpon my kne:
Phyllyp, though he were nyse,
In him it was no vyse;
Phyllyp had leue to go
To pyke my lytell too;
Phillip myght be bolde
And do what he wolde;
Phillip wolde seke and take
All the flees blake
That he coulde there espye
With his wanton eye.

O pe ra,
La, soll, fa, fa,
Confitebor tibi, Domine, in toto corde meo.
Alas, I wold ryde and go
A thousand myle of grounde!
If any such might be found,
It were worth an hundreth pound
Of kynge Cresus golde,
Or of Attalus the olde,
The ryche prynce of Pargame,
Who so lyst the story to se.
Cadmus, that his syster sought,
And he shold be bought
For golde and fee,
He shuld ouer the see,
To wete if he coulde brynge
Auy of the ofsprynge,
Or any of the blode.
But whoso vnderstode
Of Medeas arte,
I wolde I had a parte
Of her crafty magyke!
My sparowe than shuld be quycke
With a charme or twayne,
And playe with me agayne.
But all this is in vayne
Thus for to complayne.

I toke my sampler ones,
Of purpose, for the nones,
To sowe with stytchis of sylke
My sparow whyte as mylke,
That by representacyon
Of his image and facyon,
To me it myght importe
Some pleasure and comforte
For my solas and sporte:
But whan I was sowing his beke,
Methought my sparow did speke,
And opened his prety byll,
Saynge, Mayde, ye are in wyll
Agayne me for to kyll,
Ye prycke me in the head!
With that my nedle waxed red,
Methought, of Phyllyps blode;
Myne hear ryght vpstode,
And was in suche a fray,
My speche was taken away.
I kest downe that there was,
And sayd, Alas, alas,
How commeth this to pas?
My fyngers, dead and colde,
Coude not my sampler holde;
My nedle and threde
I threwe away for drede.
The best now that I maye,
Is for his soule to pray:
A porta inferi,
Good Lorde, haue mercy
Vpon my sparowes soule,
Wryten in my bederoule!

Au di vi vo cem,
Japhet, Cam, and Sem,
Ma gni fi cat,
Shewe me the ryght path
To the hylles of Armony,
Wherfore the birdes yet cry
Of your fathers bote,
That was sometyme aflote,
And nowe they lye and rote;
Let some poetes wryte
Deucalyons flode it hyght:
But as verely as ye be
The naturall sonnes thre
Of Noe the patryarke,
That made that great arke,
Wherin he had apes and owles,
Beestes, byrdes, and foules,
That if ye can fynde
Any of my sparowes kynde,
God send the soule good rest!
I wolde haue yet a nest
As prety and as prest
As my sparowe was.
But my sparowe dyd pas
All the sparows of the wode
That were syns Noes flode,
Was neuer none so good;
Kynge Phylyp of Macedony
Had no such Phylyp as I,
No, no, syr, hardely.

That vengeaunce I aske and crye,
By way of exclamacyon,
On all the hole nacyon
Of cattes wylde and tame;
God send them sorowe and shame!
That cat specyally
That slew so cruelly
My lytell prety sparowe
That I brought vp at Carowe.

O cat of carlyshe kynde,
The fynde was in thy mynde
Whan thou my byrde vntwynde!
I wold thou haddest ben blynde!
The leopardes sauage,
The lyons in theyr rage,
Myght catche thé in theyr pawes,
And gnawe thé in theyr iawes!
The serpentes of Lybany
Myght stynge thé venymously!
The dragones with their tonges
Might poyson thy lyuer aud longes!
The mantycors of the mountaynes
Myght fede them on thy braynes!

Melanchates, that hounde
That plucked Acteon to the grounde,
Gaue hym his mortall wounde,
Chaunged to a dere,
The story doth appere,
Was chaunged to an harte:
So thou, foule cat that thou arte,
The selfe same hounde
Myght thé confounde,
That his owne lord bote,
Myght byte asondre thy throte!

Of Inde the gredy grypes
Myght tere out all thy trypes!
Of Arcady the beares
Might plucke awaye thyne eares!
The wylde wolfe Lycaon
Byte asondre thy backe bone!
Of Ethna the brennynge hyll,
That day and night brenneth styl
Set in thy tayle a blase,
That all the world may gase
And wonder vpon thé,
From Occyan the greate se
Vnto the Iles of Orchady,
From Tyllbery fery
To the playne of Salysbery!
So trayterously my byrde to kyll
That neuer ought thé euyll wyll!

Was neuer byrde in cage
More gentle of corage
In doynge his homage
Vnto his souerayne.
Alas, I say agayne,
Deth hath departed vs twayne!
The false cat hath thé slayne:
Farewell, Phyllyp, adew!
Our Lorde thy soule reskew!
Farewell without restore,
Farewell for euermore!

And it were a Jewe,
It wolde make one rew,
To se my sorow new.
These vylanous false cattes
Were made for myse and rattes,
And not for byrdes smale.
Alas, my face waxeth pale,
Tellynge this pyteyus tale,
How my byrde so fayre,
That was wont to repayre,
And go in at my spayre,
And crepe in at my gore
Of my gowne before,
Flyckerynge with his wynges!
Alas, my hert it stynges,
Remembrynge prety thynges!
Alas, myne hert it sleth
My Phyllyppes dolefull deth,
Whan I remembre it,
How pretely it wolde syt,
Many tymes and ofte
Vpon my fynger aloft!
I played with him tyttell tattyll,
And fed him with my spattyl,
With his byll betwene my lippes;
It was my prety Phyppes!
Many a prety kusse
Had I of his swete musse;
And now the cause is thus,
That he is slayne me fro,
To my great payne and wo.

Of fortune this the chaunce
Standeth on varyaunce:
Oft tyme after pleasaunce
Trouble and greuaunce;
No man can be sure
Allway to haue pleasure:
As well perceyue ye maye
How my dysport and play
From me was taken away
By Gyb, our cat sauage,
That in a furyous rage
Caught Phyllyp by the head,
And slew him there starke dead.

Kyrie, eleison,
Christe, eleison,
Kyrie, eleison!

For Phylyp Sparowes soule,
Set in our bederolle,
Let vs now whysper
A Pater noster.

Lauda, anima mea, Dominum!
To wepe with me loke that ye come,
All manner of byrdes in your kynd;
Se none be left behynde.
To mornynge loke that ye fall
With dolorous songes funerall,
Some to synge, and some to say,
Some to wepe, and some to pray,
Euery byrde in his laye.
The goldfynche, the wagtayle;
The ianglynge iay to rayle,
The fleckyd pye to chatter
Of this dolorous mater;
And robyn redbrest,
He shall be the preest
The requiem masse to synge,
Softly warbelynge,
With helpe of the red sparow,
And the chattrynge swallow,
This herse for to halow;
The larke with his longe to;
The spynke, and the martynet also;
The shouelar with his brode bek;
The doterell, that folyshe pek,
And also the mad coote,
With a balde face to toote;
The feldefare, and the snyte;
The crowe, and the kyte;
The rauyn, called Rolfe,
His playne songe to solfe;
The partryche, the quayle;
The plouer with vs to wayle;
The woodhacke, that syngeth chur
Horsly, as he had the mur;
The lusty chauntyng nyghtyngale;
The popyngay to tell her tale,
That toteth oft in a glasse,
Shal rede the Gospell at masse;
The mauys with her whystell
Shal rede there the pystell.
But with a large and a longe
To kepe iust playne songe,
Our chaunters shalbe the cuckoue,
The culuer, the stockedowue,
With puwyt the lapwyng,
The versycles shall syng.

The bitter with his bumpe,
The crane with his trumpe,
The swan of Menander,
The gose and the gander,
The ducke and the drake,
Shall watche at this wake;
The pecocke so prowde,
Bycause his voyce is lowde,
And hath a glorious tayle,
He shall syng the grayle;
The owle, that is so foule,
Must helpe vs to houle;
The heron so gaunce,
And the cormoraunce,
With the fesaunte,
And the gaglynge gaunte,
And the churlysshe chowgh;
The route and the kowgh;
The barnacle, the bussarde,
With the wilde mallarde;
The dyuendop to slepe;
The water hen to wepe;
The puffin and the tele
Money they shall dele
To poore folke at large,
That shall be theyr charge;
The semewe and the tytmose;
The wodcocke with the longe nose;
The threstyl with her warblyng;
The starlyng with her brablyng;
The roke, with the ospraye
That putteth fysshes to a fraye;
And the denty curlewe,
With the turtyll most trew.

At this Placebo
We may not well forgo
The countrynge of the coe:
The storke also,
That maketh his nest
In chymneyes to rest;
Within those walles
No broken galles
May there abyde
Of cokoldry syde,
Of els phylosophy
Maketh a great lye.

The estryge, that wyll eate
An horshowe so great,
In the stede of meate,
Such feruent heat
His stomake doth freat;
He can not well fly,
Nor synge tunably,
Yet at a brayde
He hath well assayde
To solfe aboue ela,
Ga, lorell, fa, fa;
Ne quando
Male cantando,
The best that we can,
To make hym our belman,
And let hym ryng the bellys;
He can do nothyng ellys.

Chaunteclere, our coke,
Must tell what is of the clocke
By the ostrology
That he hath naturally
Conceyued and cought,
And was neuer tought
By Albumazer
The astronomer,
Nor by Ptholomy
Prince of astronomy,
Nor yet by Haly;
And yet he croweth dayly
And nightly the tydes
That no man abydes,
With Partlot his hen,
Whom now and then
Hee plucketh by the hede
Whan he doth her trede.

The byrde of Araby,
That potencyally
May neuer dye,
And yet there is none
But one alone;
A phenex it is
This herse that must blys
With armatycke gummes
That cost great summes,
The way of thurifycation
To make a fumigation,
Swete of reflary,
And redolent of eyre,
This corse for to sence
With greate reuerence,
As patryarke or pope
In a blacke cope;
Whyles he senseth [the herse],
He shall synge the verse,
Libera me,
In de, la, soll, re,
Softly bemole
For my sparowes soule.
Plinni sheweth all
In his story naturall
What he doth fynde
Of the phenyx kynde;
Of whose incyneracyon
There ryseth a new creacyon
Of the same facyon
Without alteracyon,
Sauyng that olde age
Is turned into corage
Of fresshe youth agayne;
This matter trew and playne,
Playne matter indede,
Who so lyst to rede.

But for the egle doth flye
Hyest in the skye,
He shall be the sedeane,
The quere to demeane,
As prouost pryncypall,
To teach them theyr ordynall;
Also the noble fawcon,
With the gerfawcon,
The tarsell gentyll,
They shall morne soft and styll
In theyr amysse of gray;
The sacre with them shall say
Dirige for Phyllyppes soule;
The goshauke shall haue a role
The queresters to controll;
The lanners and the marlyons
Shall stand in their morning gounes;
The hobby and the muskette
The sensers and the crosse shall fet;
The kestrell in all this warke
Shall be holy water clarke.

And now the darke cloudy nyght
Chaseth away Phebus bryght,
Taking his course toward the west,
God sende my sparoes sole good rest!
Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine!
Fa, fa, fa, my, re, re,
A por ta in fe ri,
Fa, fa, fa, my, my.

Credo videre bona Domini,
I pray God, Phillip to heuen may fly!
Domine, exaudi orationem meam!
To heuen he shall, from heuen he cam!

Do mi nus vo bis cum!
Of al good praiers God send him sum!

Oremus.
Deus, cui proprium est misereri et parcere,
On Phillips soule haue pyte!
For he was a prety cocke,
And came of a gentyll stocke,
And wrapt in a maidenes smocke,
And cherysshed full dayntely,
Tyll cruell fate made him to dy:
Alas, for dolefull desteny!
But whereto shuld I
Lenger morne or crye?
To Jupyter I call,
Of heuen emperyall,
That Phyllyp may fly
Aboue the starry sky,
To treade the prety wren,
That is our Ladyes hen:
Amen, amen, amen!

Yet one thynge is behynde,
That now commeth to mynde;
An epytaphe I wold haue
For Phyllyppes graue:
But for I am a mayde,
Tymerous, halfe afrayde,
That neuer yet asayde
Of Elyconys well,
Where the Muses dwell;
Though I can rede and spell.
Recounte, reporte, and tell
Of the Tales of Caunterbury,
Some sad storyes, some mery
As Palamon and Arcet,
Duke Theseus, and Partelet;
And of the Wyfe of Bath,
That worketh moch scath
Whan her tale is tolde
Amonge huswyues bolde,
How she controlde
Her husbandes as she wolde,
And them to despyse
In the homylyest wyse,
Brynge other wyues in thought
Their husbandes to set at nought
And though that rede haue I
Of Gawen and syr Guy,
And tell can a great pece
Of the Golden Flece,
How Jason it wan,
Lyke a valyaunt man;
Of Arturs rounde table,
With his knightes commendable,
And dame Gaynour, his quene,
Was somewhat wanton, I wene;
How syr Launcelote de Lake
Many a spere brake
For his ladyes sake;
Of Trystram, and kynge Marke,
And al the hole warke
Of Bele Isold his wyfe,
For whom was moch stryfe;
Some say she was lyght,
And made her husband knyght
Of the comyne hall,
That cuckoldes men call;
And of syr Lybius,
Named Dysconius;
Of Quater Fylz Amund,
And how they were sommonde
To Rome, to Charlemayne,
Vpon a great payne,
And how they rode eche one
On Bayarde Mountalbon;
Men se hym now and then
In the forest of Arden:
What though I can frame
The storyes by name
Of Judas Machabeus,
And of Cesar Julious;
And of the loue betwene
Paris and Vyene;
And of the duke Hannyball,
That made the Romaynes all
Fordrede and to quake;
How Scipion dyd wake
The cytye of Cartage,
Which by his vnmerciful rage
He bete down to the grounde:
And though I can expounde
Of Hector of Troye,
That was all theyr ioye,
Whom Achylles slew,
Wherfore all Troy dyd rew;
And of the loue so hote
That made Troylus to dote
Vpon fayre Cressyde,
And what they wrote and sayd,
And of theyr wanton wylles
Pandaer bare the bylles
From one to the other;
His maisters loue to further,
Somtyme a presyous thyng,
An ouche, or els a ryng;
From her to hym agayn
Somtyme a prety chayn,
Or a bracelet of her here,
Prayd Troylus for to were
That token for her sake;
How hartely he dyd it take,
And moche therof dyd make;
And all that was in vayne,
For she dyd but fayne;
The story telleth playne,
He coulde not optayne,
Though his father were a kyng,
Yet there was a thyng
That made the male to wryng;
She made him to syng
The song of louers lay;
Musyng nyght and day,
Mournynge all alone,
Comfort had he none,
For she was quyte gone;
Thus in conclusyon,
She brought him in abusyon;
In ernest and in game
She was moch to blame;
Disparaged is her fame,
And blemysshed is her name,
In maner half with shame;
Troylus also hath lost
On her moch loue and cost,
And now must kys the post;
Pandara, that went betwene,
Hath won nothing, I wene,
But lyght for somer grene;
Yet for a speciall laud
He is named Troylus baud,
Of that name he is sure
Whyles the world shall dure:

Though I remembre the fable
Of Penelope most stable
To her husband most trew,
Yet long tyme she ne knew
Whether he were on lyue or ded;
Her wyt stood her in sted,
That she was true and iust
For any bodely lust
To Ulixes her make,
And neuer wold him forsake:

Of Marcus Marcullus
A proces I could tell vs;
And of Anteocus;
And of Josephus
De Antiquitatibus;
And of Mardocheus,
And of great Assuerus,
And of Vesca his queene,
Whom he forsoke with teene,
And of Hester his other wyfe,
With whom he ledd a plesaunt life;
Of kyng Alexander;
And of kyng Euander;
And of Porcena the great,
That made the Romayns to sweat:

Though I haue enrold
A thousand new and old
Of these historious tales,
To fyll bougets and males
With bokes that I haue red,
Yet I am nothyng sped,
And can but lytell skyll
Of Ouyd or Virgyll,
Or of Plutharke,
Or Frauncys Petrarke,
Alcheus or Sapho,
Or such other poetes mo,
As Linus and Homerus,
Euphorion and Theocritus,
Anacreon and Arion,
Sophocles and Philemon,
Pyndarus and Symonides,
Philistion and Phorocides;
These poetes of auncyente,
They ar to diffuse for me:

For, as I tofore haue sayd,
I am but a yong mayd,
And cannot in effect
My style as yet direct
With Englysh wordes elect:
Our naturall tong is rude,
And hard to be enneude
With pullysshed termes lusty;
Our language is so rusty,
So cankered, and so full
Of frowardes, and so dull,
That if I wolde apply
To wryte ornatly,
I wot not where to fynd
Termes to serue my mynde.

Gowers Englysh is olde,
And of no value told;
His mater is worth gold,
And worthy to be enrold.

In Chauser I am sped,
His tales I haue red:
His mater is delectable,
Solacious, and commendable;
His Englysh well alowed,
So as it is enprowed,
For as it is enployed,
There is no Englysh voyd,
At those dayes moch commended,
And now men wold haue amended
His Englysh, whereat they barke,
And mar all they warke:
Chaucer, that famus clerke,
His termes were not darke,
But plesaunt, easy, and playne;
No worde he wrote in vayne.

Also Johnn Lydgate
Wryteth after an hyer rate;
It is dyffuse to fynde
The sentence of his mynde,
Yet wryteth he in his kynd,
No man that can amend
Those maters that he hath pende;
Yet some men fynde a faute,
And say he wryteth to haute.

Wherfore hold me excused
If I haue not well perused
Myne Englyssh halfe abused;
Though it be refused,
In worth I shall it take,
And fewer wordes make.

But, for my sparowes sake,
Yet as a woman may,
My wyt I shall assay
An epytaphe to wryght
In Latyne playne and lyght,
Wherof the elegy
Foloweth by and by:
Flos volucrum formose, vale!
Philippe, sub isto
Marmore jam recubas,
Qui mihi carus eras.
Semper erunt nitido
Radiantia sidera cælo;
Impressusque meo
Pectore semper eris.
Per me laurigerum
Britonum Skeltonida vatem
Hæc cecinisse licet
Ficta sub imagine texta.
Cujus eras volucris,
Præstanti corpore virgo;
Candida Nais erat,
Formosior ista Joanna est;
Docta Corinna fuit,
Sed magis ista sapit.
Bien men souient.