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

Miseremini mei, ye that be my frendis!
This world hath formed me downe to fall:
How may I endure, when that eueri thyng endis?
What creature is borne to be eternall?

Now there is no more but pray for me all:
Thus say I Edward, that late was youre kynge,
And twenty two yeres ruled this imperyall,
Some vnto pleasure, and some to no lykynge:
Mercy I aske of my mysdoynge;
What auayleth it, frendes, to be my foo,
Sith I can not resyst, nor amend your complaining?
Quia, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!

I slepe now in molde, as it is naturall
That erth vnto erth hath his reuerture:
What ordeyned God to be terestryall,
Without recours to the erth of nature?
Who to lyue euer may himselfe assure?
What is it to trust on mutabilyte,
Sith that in this world nothing may indure?
For now am I gone, that late was in prosperyte:
To presume thervppon, it is but a vanyte,
Not certayne, but as a cheryfayre, full of wo:
Reygned not I of late in greate felycite?
Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!

Where was in my lyfe such one as I,
Whyle lady Fortune with me had continuaunce?
Graunted not she me to haue victory,
In England to rayne, and to contribute Fraunce?
She toke me by the hand and led me a daunce,

And with her sugred lyppes on me she smyled;
But, what for her dissembled countenaunce,
I coud not beware tyl I was begyled:
Now from this world she hath me excyled,
When I was lothyst hens for to go,
And I am in age but, as who sayth, a chylde,
Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!

I se wyll, they leve that doble my ȝeris:
This dealid this world with me as it lyst,
And hathe me made, to ȝow that be my perys,
Example to thynke on Had I wyst:
I storyd my cofers and allso my chest
With taskys takynge of the comenalte;
I toke ther tresure, but of ther prayȝeris mist;
Whom I beseche with pure humylyte
For to forgeve and have on me pety;
I was ȝour kynge, and kept ȝow from ȝowr foo:
I wold now amend, but that wull not be,
[Quia,] ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!

I had ynough, I held me not content,
Without remembraunce that I should dye;
And more euer to incroche redy was I bent,
I knew not how longe I should it occupy:
I made the Tower stronge, I wyst not why;
I knew not to whom I purchased Tetersall;
I amendid Douer on the mountayne hye,

And London I prouoked to fortify the wall;
I made Notingam a place full royall,
Wyndsore, Eltam, and many other mo:
Yet at the last I went from them all,
Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!

Where is now my conquest and victory?
Where is my riches and my royal aray?
Wher be my coursers and my horses hye?
Where is my myrth, my solas, and my play?
As vanyte, to nought al is wandred away.
O lady Bes, longe for me may ye call!
For I am departed tyl domis day;
But loue ye that Lorde that is soueraygne of all.
Where be my castels and buyldynges royall?
But Windsore alone, now I haue no mo,
And of Eton the prayers perpetuall,
Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!

Why should a man be proude or presume hye?
Sainct Bernard therof nobly doth trete,
Seyth a man is but a sacke of stercorry,
And shall returne vnto wormis mete.
Why, what cam of Alexander the greate?
Or els of stronge Sampson, who can tell?
Were not wormes ordeyned theyr flesh to frete?
And of Salomon, that was of wyt the well?
Absolon profferyd his heare for to sell,
Yet for al his bewte wormys ete him also;
And I but late in honour dyd excel,
Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!

I haue played my pageyond, now am I past;
Ye wot well all I was of no great yeld:
This al thing concluded shalbe at the last,
When death approchyth, then lost is the felde:
Then sythen this world me no longer vphelde,
Nor nought would conserue me here in my place,
In manus tuas, Domine, my spirite vp I yelde,
Humbly beseching thé, God, of thy grace!
O ye curtes commyns, your hertis vnbrace
Benyngly now to pray for me also;
For ryght wel you know your kyng I was,
Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!

SKELTON LAUREAT VPON THE DOULOUR[U]S DETHE AND MUCHE LAMENTABLE CHAUNCE OF THE MOST HONORABLE ERLE OF NORTHUMBERLANDE.

I wayle, I wepe, I sobbe, I sigh ful sore
The dedely fate, the dolefulle desteny
Of hym that is gone, alas, without restore,
Of the bloud royall descending nobelly;

Whose lordshyp doutles was slayne lamentably
Thorow treson, again him compassed and wrought,
Trew to his prince in word, in dede, and thought.

Of heuenly poems, O Clyo, calde by name
In the colege of Musis goddes hystoriall,
Adres thé to me, whiche am both halt and lame
In elect vteraunce to make memoryall!
To thé for souccour, to thé for helpe I call,
Mine homely rudnes and dryghnes to expell
With the freshe waters of Elyconys well.

Of noble actes aunciently enrolde
Of famous pryncis and lordes of astate,
By thy report ar wont to be extold,
Regestringe trewly euery formare date;
Of thy bountie after the vsuall rate
Kyndell in me suche plenty of thy noblès,
These sorowfulle dites that I may shew expres.

In sesons past, who hath herde or sene
Of formar writyng by any presidente
That vilane hastarddis in their furious tene,
Fulfylled with malice of froward entente,
Confetered togeder of commonn concente
Falsly to slee theyr moste singuler good lord?
It may be regestrede of shamefull recorde.

So noble a man, so valiaunt lord and knyght,
Fulfilled with honor, as all the world doth ken;

At his commaundement which had both day and nyght
Knyghtes and squyers, at euery season when
He calde vpon them, as meniall houshold men;
Were not these commons vncurteis karlis of kind
To slo their owne lord? God was not in their mynd.

And were not they to blame, I say, also,
That were aboute him, his owne seruants of trust,
To suffre him slayn of his mortall fo?
Fled away from hym, let hym ly in the dust;
They bode not till the reckenyng were discust;
What shuld I flatter? what shuld I glose or paint?
Fy, fy for shame, their hartes were to faint.

In England and Fraunce which gretly was redouted,
Of whom both Flaunders and Scotland stode in drede,
To whom great estates obeyed and lowted,
A mayny of rude villayns made hym for to blede;
Unkyndly they slew him, that holp them oft at nede:
He was their bulwark, their paues, and their wall,
Yet shamfully they slew hym; that shame mot them befal!

I say, ye comoners, why wer ye so stark mad?
What frantyk frensy fyll in your brayne?
Where was your wit and reson ye should haue had?
What wilful foly made yow to ryse agayne
Your naturall lord? alas, I can not fayne:
Ye armyd you with will, and left your wit behynd;
Well may ye be called comones most vnkynd.

He was your chefteyne, your shelde, your chef defence,
Redy to assyst you in euery time of nede;
Your worshyp depended of his excellence:
Alas, ye mad men, to far ye did excede;
Your hap was vnhappy, to ill was your spede:
What moued you againe him to war or to fyght?
What alyde you to sle your lord again all ryght?

The ground of his quarel was for his souerain lord,
The well concerning of all the hole lande,
Demandyng suche duties as nedes most acord
To the ryght of his prince, which shold not be withstand;
For whose cause ye slew him with your owne hand:
But had his noble men done wel that day,
Ye had not bene able to haue sayd hym nay.

But ther was fals packing, or els I am begylde;
How be it the mater was euydent and playne,
For if they had occupied their spere and their shilde,
This noble man doutles had not bene slayne.
But men say they wer lynked with a double chaine,
And held with the comones vnder a cloke,
Which kindeled the wild fyr that made al this smoke.

The commons renyed ther taxes to pay,
Of them demaunded and asked by the kynge;
With one voice importune they plainly sayd nay;
They buskt them on a bushment themselfe in baile to bring,
Againe the kyngs plesure to wrestle or to wring;
Bluntly as bestis with boste and with crye
They sayd they forsed not, nor carede not to dy.

The nobelnes of the north, this valiant lord and knight,
As man that was innocent of trechery or traine,
Presed forth boldly to withstand the myght,
And, lyke marciall Hector, he faught them agayne,
Vygorously vpon them with might and with maine,
Trustyng in noble men that were with him there;
But al they fled from hym for falshode or fere.

Barones, knyghtes, squiers, one and all,
Together with seruauntes of his famuly,
Turned their backis, and let their master fal,
Of whos [life] they counted not a flye;
Take vp whose wold, for ther they let him ly.
Alas, his gold, his fee, his annual rent
Upon suche a sort was ille bestowd and spent!

He was enuirond aboute on euery syde
With his enemyes, that wer starke mad and wode;
Yet while he stode he gaue them woundes wyde:
Allas for ruth! what thoughe his mynd wer gode,
His corage manly, yet ther he shed his blode:
Al left alone, alas, he foughte in vayne!
For cruelly among them ther he was slayne.

Alas for pite! that Percy thus was spylt,
The famous Erle of Northumberland;
Of knyghtly prowes the sword, pomel, and hylt,
The myghty lyon doutted by se and lande;
O dolorus chaunce of Fortunes froward hande!
What man, remembryng howe shamfully he was slaine,
From bitter weping himself can restrain?

O cruell Mars, thou dedly god of war!
O dolorous tewisday, dedicate to thy name,

When thou shoke thy sworde so noble a man to mar!
O ground vngracious, vnhappy be thy fame,
Which wert endyed with rede bloud of the same
Most noble erle! O foule mysuryd ground,
Whereon he gat his finall dedely wounde!

O Atropos, of the fatall systers iii
Goddes most cruel vnto the lyfe of man,
All merciles, in thé is no pite!
O homicide, which sleest all that thou can,
So forcibly vpon this erle thou ran,
That with thy sword, enharpit of mortall drede,
Thou kit asonder his perfight vitall threde!

My wordes vnpullysht be, nakide and playne,
Of aureat poems they want ellumynynge;
But by them to knowlege ye may attayne
Of this lordes dethe and of his murdrynge;
Which whils he lyued had fuyson of euery thing,
Of knights, of squyers, chyf lord of toure and towne,
Tyl fykkell Fortune began on hym to frowne:

Paregall to dukes, with kynges he might compare,
Surmountinge in honor al erlis he did excede;
To all countreis aboute hym reporte me I dare;
Lyke to Eneas benigne in worde and dede,

Valiant as Hector in euery marciall nede,
Prouydent, discrete, circumspect, and wyse,
Tyll the chaunce ran agayne hym of Fortunes duble dyse.

What nedeth me for to extoll his fame
With my rude pen enkankered all with rust,
Whose noble actes show worshiply his name,
Transendyng far myne homly Muse, that muste
Yet somwhat wright, supprised with herty lust,
Truly reportyng his right noble estate,
Immortally whiche is immaculate?

His noble blode neuer destayned was,
Trew to his prince for to defend his ryght,
Doblenes hatyng fals maters to compas,
Treytory and treason he banysht out of syght,
With truth to medle was al his holl delyght,
As all his countrey can testyfy the same:
To sle suche a lorde, alas, it was great shame!

If the hole quere of the Musis nyne
In me all onely wer set and comprysed,
Enbrethed with the blast of influence deuyne,
As perfytly as could be thought or deuised;
To me also allthough it were promised
Of laureat Phebus holy the eloquence,
All were to lytell for his magnificence.

O yonge lyon, but tender yet of age,
Grow and encrese, remembre thyn estate;
God thé assyst unto thyn herytage,
And geue thé grace to be more fortunate!
Agayn rebellyones arme thé to make debate;
And, as the lyone, whiche is of bestes kynge,
Unto thy subiectes be curteis and benygne.

I pray God sende thé prosperous lyfe and long,
Stable thy mynde constant to be and fast,
Ryght to mayntayn, and to resyst all wronge:
All flateryng faytors abhor and from thé cast;
Of foule detraction God kepe thé from the blast!
Let double delyng in thé haue no place,
And be not lyght of credence in no case.

With heuy chere, with dolorous hart and mynd,
Eche man may sorow in his inward thought
This lordes death, whose pere is hard to fynd,
Algife Englond and Fraunce were thorow saught.
Al kynges, all princes, al dukes, well they ought,
Both temporall and spiritual, for to complayne
This noble man, that crewelly was slayne:

More specially barons, and those knygtes bold,
And al other gentilmen with him enterteyned

In fee, as menyall men of his housold,
Whom he as lord worshyply mainteyned;
To sorowful weping they ought to be constreined,
As oft as they call to theyr remembraunce
Of ther good lord the fate and dedely chaunce.

O perlese Prince of heuen emperyall!
That with one word formed al thing of noughte;
Heuen, hell, and erthe obey unto thy call;
Which to thy resemblaunce wondersly hast wrought
All mankynd, whom thou full dere hast bought,
With thy bloud precious our finaunce thou did pay,
And vs redemed from the fendys pray;

To thé pray we, as Prince incomparable,
As thou art of mercy and pyte the well,
Thou bring unto thy joye eterminable
The soull of this lorde from all daunger of hell,
In endles blys with thé to byde and dwell
In thy palace aboue the orient,
Where thou art Lord and God omnipotent.

O quene of mercy, O lady full of grace,
Mayden most pure, and Goddes moder dere,
To sorowful hartes chef comfort and solace,
Of all women O flowre withouten pere!
Pray to thy Son aboue the sterris clere,

He to vouchesaf, by thy mediacion,
To pardon thy seruaunt, and brynge to saluacion.

In joy triumphaunt the heuenly yerarchy,
With all the hole sorte of that glorious place,
His soull mot receyue into theyr company,
Thorow bounty of Hym that formed all solace;
Wel of pite, of mercy, and of grace,
The Father, the Sonn, and the Holy Ghost,
In Trinitate one God of myghtes moste!

Non sapit, humanis qui certam ponere rebus
Spem cupit: est hominum raraque ficta fides.

TETRASTICHON SKELTON. LAUREATI AD MAGISTRUM RUKSHAW, SACRÆ THEOLOGIÆ EGREGIUM PROFESSOREM.

Accipe nunc demum, doctor celeberrime Rukshaw,
Carmina, de calamo quæ cecidere meo;
Et quanquam placidis non sunt modulata camenis,
Sunt tamen ex nostro pectore prompta pio.

Vale feliciter, virorum laudatissime.

SKELTON LAUREATE AGAYNSTE A comely coystrowne, that curyowsly chawntyd, and curryshly cowntred, and madly in hys musykkys mokkyshly made agaynste the ix Musys of polytyke poems and poettys matryculat.

Of all nacyons vnder the heuyn,
These frantyke foolys I hate most of all;
For though they stumble in the synnys seuyn,
In peuyshnes yet they snapper and fall,
Which men the viii dedly syn call.
This peuysh proud, thys prendergest,
When he is well, yet can he not rest.

A swete suger lofe and sowre bayardys bun
Be sumdele lyke in forme and shap,
The one for a duke, the other for dun,
A maunchet for morell theron to snap.
Hys hart is to hy to haue any hap;
But for in his gamut carp that he can,
Lo, Jak wold be a jentylman!

Wyth, Hey, troly, loly, lo, whip here, Jak,
Alumbek sodyldym syllorym ben!
Curyowsly he can both counter and knak
Of Martyn Swart and all hys mery men.
Lord, how Perkyn is proud of hys pohen!
But ask wher he fyndyth among hys monacordys
An holy water clarke a ruler of lordys.

He can not fynd it in rule nor in space:
He solfyth to haute, hys trybyll is to hy;
He braggyth of his byrth, that borne was full bace;
Hys musyk withoute mesure, to sharp is hys my;
He trymmyth in hys tenor to counter pyrdewy;
His dyscant is besy, it is withoute a mene;
To fat is hys fantsy, hys wyt is to lene.

He lumbryth on a lewde lewte, Roty bully joyse,
Rumbyll downe, tumbyll downe, hey go, now, now!
He fumblyth in hys fyngeryng an vgly good noyse,
It semyth the sobbyng of an old sow:
He wold be made moch of, and he wyst how;
Wele sped in spyndels and turnyng of tauellys;
A bungler, a brawler, a pyker of quarellys.

Comely he clappyth a payre of clauycordys;
He whystelyth so swetely, he makyth me to swete;

His descant is dasshed full of dyscordes;
A red angry man, but easy to intrete:
An vssher of the hall fayn wold I get,
To poynte this proude page a place and a rome,
For Jak wold be a jentylman, that late was agrome.

Jak wold jet, and yet Jyll sayd nay;
He counteth in his countenaunce to checke with the best:
A malaperte medler that pryeth for his pray,
In a dysh dare he rush at the rypest;
Dremyng in dumpys to wrangyll and to wrest:
He fyndeth a proporcyon in his prycke songe,
To drynk at a draught a larg and a long.

Nay, iape not with hym, he is no small fole,
It is a solemnpne syre and a solayne;
For lordes and ladyes lerne at his scole;
He techyth them so wysely to solf and to fayne,
That neyther they synge wel prycke songe nor playne:
Thys docter Deuyas commensyd in a cart,
A master, a mynstrell, a fydler, a farte.

What though ye can cownter Custodi nos?
As well it becomyth yow, a parysh towne clarke,
To syng Sospitati dedit ægros:
Yet bere ye not to bold, to braule ne to bark
At me, that medeled nothyng with youre wark:
Correct fyrst thy self; walk, and be nought!
Deme what thou lyst, thou knowyst not my thought.

A prouerbe of old, say well or be styll:
Ye are to vnhappy occasyons to fynde
Vppon me to clater, or els to say yll.
Now haue I shewyd you part of your proud mynde;
Take thys in worth, the best is behynde.
Wryten at Croydon by Crowland in the Clay,
On Candelmas euyn, the Kalendas of May.

SKELTON LAUREAT, Vppon a deedmans hed, that was sent to hym from an honorable jentyllwoman for a token, deuysyd this gostly medytacyon in Englysh couenable, in sentence comendable, lamentable, lacrymable, profytable for the soule.

Youre vgly tokyn
My mynd hath brokyn
From worldly lust;
For I haue dyscust
We ar but dust,
And dy we must.

It is generall
To be mortall:
I haue well espyde
No man may hym hyde
From Deth holow eyed,
With synnews wyderyd,
With bonys shyderyd,
With hys worme etyn maw,
And his gastly jaw
Gaspyng asyde,
Nakyd of hyde,
Neyther flesh nor fell.

Then, by my councell,
Loke that ye spell
Well thys gospell:

For wher so we dwell
Deth wyll us qwell,
And with us mell.

For all oure pamperde paunchys,
Ther may no fraunchys,
Nor worldly blys,
Redeme vs from this:
Oure days be datyd,
To be chekmatyd
With drawttys of deth,
Stoppyng oure breth;
Oure eyen synkyng,
Oure bodys stynkyng,
Oure gummys grynnyng,
Oure soulys brynnyng.
To whom, then, shall we sew,
For to haue rescew,
But to swete Jesu,
On vs then for to rew?

O goodly chyld
Of Mary mylde,
Then be oure shylde!
That we be not exyld
To the dyne dale
Of boteles bale,
Nor to the lake
Of fendys blake.

But graunt vs grace
To se thy face,
And to purchace

Thyne heuenly place,
And thy palace,
Full of solace,
Aboue the sky,
That is so hy;
Eternally
To beholde and se
The Trynyte!

Amen. Myrres vous y.

[Womanhod, wanton, ye want]

Womanhod, wanton, ye want;
Youre medelyng, mastres, is manerles;
Plente of yll, of goodnes skant,
Ye rayll at ryot, recheles:
To prayse youre porte it is nedeles;
For all your draffe yet and youre dreggys,
As well borne as ye full oft tyme beggys.

Why so koy and full of skorne?
Myne horse is sold, I wene, you say;
My new furryd gowne, when it is worne,
Put vp youre purs, ye shall non pay.
By crede, I trust to se the day,
As proud a pohen as ye sprede,
Of me and other ye may haue nede.

Though angelyk be youre smylyng,
Yet is youre tong an adders tayle,
Full lyke a scorpyon styngyng
All those by whom ye haue auayle:
Good mastres, Anne, there ye do shayle:
What prate ye, praty pyggysny?
I truste to quyte you or I dy.

Youre key is mete for euery lok,
Youre key is commen and hangyth owte;
Youre key is redy, we nede not knok,
Nor stand long wrestyng there aboute;
Of youre doregate ye haue no doute:
But one thyng is, that ye be lewde:
Holde youre tong now, all beshrewde!

To mastres Anne, that farly swete,
That wonnes at the Key in Temmys strete.

Here folowythe dyuers Balettys and Dyties solacyous, deuysyd by Master Skelton, Laureat.

[With, Lullay, lullay, lyke a chylde]

With, Lullay, lullay, lyke a chylde,
Thou slepyst to long, thou art begylde.

My darlyng dere, my daysy floure,
Let me, quod he, ly in your lap.
Ly styll, quod she, my paramoure,
Ly styll hardely, and take a nap.
Hys hed was heuy, such was his hap,
All drowsy dremyng, dround in slepe,
That of hys loue he toke no kepe,

With, Hey, lullay, &c.

With ba, ba, ba, and bas, bas, bas,
She cheryshed hym both cheke and chyn,
That he wyst neuer where he was;
He had forgoten all dedely syn.
He wantyd wyt her loue to wyn:
He trusted her payment, and lost all hys pray:
She left hym slepying, and stale away,

Wyth, Hey, lullay, &c.

The ryuers rowth, the waters wan,
She sparyd not, to wete her fete;
She wadyd ouer, she found a man
That halsyd her hartely and kyst her swete:
Thus after her cold she cought a hete.
My lefe, she sayd, rowtyth in hys bed;
I wys he hath an heuy hed,

Wyth, Hey, lullay, &c.

What dremyst thou, drunchard, drousy pate!
Thy lust and lykyng is from thé gone;
Thou blynkerd blowboll, thou wakyst to late,
Behold, thou lyeste, luggard, alone!
Well may thou sygh, well may thou grone,
To dele wyth her so cowardly:
I wys, powle hachet, she bleryd thyne I.

Qd Skelton, laureate.

[The auncient acquaintance, madam, betwen vs twayn]

The auncient acquaintance, madam, betwen vs twayn,
The famylyaryte, the formar dalyaunce,
Causyth me that I can not myself refrayne
But that I must wryte for my plesaunt pastaunce:
Remembryng your passying goodly countenaunce,
Your goodly port, your bewteous visage,
Ye may be countyd comfort of all corage.

Of all your feturs fauorable to make tru discripcion,
I am insuffycyent to make such enterpryse;
For thus dare I say, without [con]tradiccyon,
That dame Menolope was neuer half so wyse:
Yet so it is that a rumer begynnyth for to ryse,
How in good horsmen ye set your hole delyght,
And haue forgoten your old trew louyng knyght.

Wyth bound and rebound, bounsyngly take vp
Hys jentyll curtoyl, and set nowght by small naggys!
Spur vp at the hynder gyrth, with, Gup, morell, gup!
With, Jayst ye, jenet of Spayne, for your tayll waggys!
Ye cast all your corage vppon such courtly haggys.
Haue in sergeaunt ferrour, myne horse behynd is bare;
He rydeth well the horse, but he rydeth better the mare.

Ware, ware, the mare wynsyth wyth her wanton hele!
She kykyth with her kalkyns and keylyth with a clench;
She goyth wyde behynde, and hewyth neuer a dele:
Ware gallyng in the widders, ware of that wrenche!

It is perlous for a horseman to dyg in the trenche.
Thys greuyth your husband, that ryght jentyll knyght,
And so with youre seruantys he fersly doth fyght.

So fersly he fytyth, his mynde is so fell,
That he dryuyth them doune with dyntes on ther day wach;
He bresyth theyr braynpannys and makyth them to swell,
Theyre browys all to-brokyn, such clappys they cach;
Whose jalawsy malycyous makyth them to lepe the hach;
By theyr conusaunce knowing how they serue a wily py:
Ask all your neybours whether that I ly.

It can be no counsell that is cryed at the cros:
For youre jentyll husband sorowfull am I;
How be it, he is not furst hath had a los:
Aduertysyng you, madame, to warke more secretly,
Let not all the world make an owtcry;
Play fayre play, madame, and loke ye play clene,
Or ells with gret shame your game wylbe sene.

Qd Skelton, laureat.

[Knolege, aquayntance, resort, fauour with grace]

Knolege, aquayntance, resort, fauour with grace;
Delyte, desyre, respyte wyth lyberte;
Corage wyth lust, conuenient tyme and space;
Dysdayns, dystres, exylyd cruelte;
Wordys well set with good habylyte;
Demure demenaunce, womanly of porte;
Transendyng plesure, surmountyng all dysporte;

Allectuary arrectyd to redres
These feuerous axys, the dedely wo and payne
Of thoughtfull hertys plungyd in dystres;
Refresshyng myndys the Aprell shoure of rayne;
Condute of comforte, and well most souerayne;
Herber enverduryd, contynuall fressh and grene;
Of lusty somer the passyng goodly quene;

The topas rych and precyouse in vertew;
Your ruddys wyth ruddy rubys may compare;
Saphyre of sadnes, enuayned wyth indy blew;
The pullyshed perle youre whytenes doth declare;
Dyamand poyntyd to rase oute hartly care;
Geyne surfetous suspecte the emeraud comendable;
Relucent smaragd, obiecte imcomperable;

Encleryd myrroure and perspectyue most bryght,
Illumynyd wyth feturys far passyng my reporte;

Radyent Esperus, star of the clowdy nyght,
Lode star to lyght these louers to theyr porte,
Gayne dangerous stormys theyr anker of supporte,
Theyr sayll of solace most comfortably clad,
Whych to behold makyth heuy hartys glad:

Remorse haue I of youre most goodlyhod,
Of youre behauoure curtes and benynge,
Of your bownte and of youre womanhod,
Which makyth my hart oft to lepe and sprynge,
And to remember many a praty thynge;
But absens, alas, wyth tremelyng fere and drede
Abashyth me, albeit I haue no nede.

You I assure, absens is my fo,
My dedely wo, my paynfull heuynes;
And if ye lyst to know the cause why so,
Open myne hart, beholde my mynde expres:
I wold ye coud! then shuld ye se, mastres,
How there nys thynge that I couet so fayne
As to enbrace you in myne armys twayne.

Nothynge yerthly to me more desyrous
Than to beholde youre bewteouse countenaunce:
But, hatefull absens, to me so enuyous,
Though thou withdraw me from her by long dystaunce,
Yet shall she neuer oute of remembraunce;

For I haue grauyd her wythin the secret wall
Of my trew hart, to loue her best of all!

Qd Skelton, laureat.

[Though ye suppose all jeperdys ar paste]

Though ye suppose all jeperdys ar paste,
And all is done that ye lokyd for before,
Ware yet, I rede you, of Fortunes dowble cast,
For one fals poynt she is wont to kepe in store,
And vnder the fell oft festered is the sore:
That when ye thynke all daunger for to pas,
Ware of the lesard lyeth lurkyng in the gras.

Qd Skelton, laureat.

[Go, pytyous hart, rasyd with dedly wo]

Go, pytyous hart, rasyd with dedly wo,
Persyd with payn, bleding with wondes smart,
Bewayle thy fortune, with vaynys wan and blo.
O Fortune vnfrendly, Fortune vnkynde thow art,

To be so cruell and so ouerthwart,
To suffer me so carefull to endure,
That wher I loue best I dare not dyscure!

One ther is, and euer one shalbe,
For whose sake my hart is sore dyseasyd;
For whose loue, welcom dysease to me!
I am content so all partys be pleasyd:
Yet, and God wold, I wold my payne were easyd!
But Fortune enforsyth me so carefully to endure,
That where I loue best I dare not dyscure.

Skelton, laureat, At the instance of a nobyll lady.

MANERLY MARGERY MYLK AND ALE.

Ay, besherewe yow, be my fay,
This wanton clarkes be nyse all way;
Avent, avent, my popagay!
What, will ye do no thyng but play?
Tully valy, strawe, let be, I say!
Gup, Cristian Clowte, gup, Jak of the vale!
With, Manerly Margery Mylk and Ale.

Be God, ye be a praty pode,
And I loue you an hole cart lode.
Strawe, Jamys foder, ye play the fode,
I am no hakney for your rode;
Go watch a bole, your bak is brode;
Gup, Cristian Clowte, gup, Jak of the vale!
With, Manerly Margery Mylk and Ale.

I wiss ye dele vncurtesly;
What wolde ye frompill me? now, fy!
What, and ye shalbe my piggesnye?
Be Crist, ye shall not, no hardely;
I will not be japed bodely:
Gup, Cristian Clowte, gup, Jake of the vale!
With, Manerly Margery Mylk and Ale.

Walke forth your way, ye cost me nought;
Now haue I fowned that I haue sought,
The best chepe flessh that euyr I bought.
Yet, for His loue that all hath wrought,
Wed me, or els I dye for thought!
Gup, Cristian Clowte, your breth is stale!
Go, Manerly Margery Mylk and Ale!
Gup, Cristian Clowte, gup, Jak of the vale!
With, Manerly Margery Mylk and Ale.

HERE BEGYNNETH A LYTELL TREATYSE, NAMED THE BOWGE OF COURTE.

THE PROLOGUE TO THE BOWGE OF COURTE.

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.

DREDE.

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.

HERE AFTER FOLOWETH THE BOKE OF PHYLLYP SPAROWE.

COMPYLED BY MAYSTER SKELTON, POETE LAUREATE.

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.

THE COMMENDACIONS.

Beati in ma cu la ti in via,
O gloriosa fœmina!
Now myne hole imaginacion
And studyous medytacion
Is to take this commendacyon
In this consyderacion;
And vnder pacyent tolleracyon
Of that most goodly mayd
That Placebo hath sayd,
And for her sparow prayd
In lamentable wyse,
Now wyll I enterpryse,
Thorow the grace dyuyne
Of the Muses nyne,
Her beautye to commende,
If Arethusa wyll send
Me enfluence to endyte,
And with my pen to wryte;
If Apollo wyll promyse,
Melodyously it to deuyse,
His tunable harpe stryngges
With armony that synges
Of princes and of kynges
And of all pleasaunt thynges,
Of lust and of delyght,
Thorow his godly myght;
To whom be the laude ascrybed
That my pen hath enbybed

With the aureat droppes,
As verely my hope is,
Of Thagus, that golden flod,
That passeth all erthly good;
And as that flode doth pas
Al floodes that euer was
With his golden sandes,
Who so that vnderstandes
Cosmography, and the stremys
And the floodes in straunge remes,
Ryght so she doth excede
All other of whom we rede,
Whose fame by me shall sprede
Into Perce and Mede,
From Brytons Albion
To the Towre of Babilon.

I trust it is no shame,
And no man wyll me blame,
Though I regester her name
In the courte of Fame;
For this most goodly floure,
This blossome of fresshe coulour,
So Jupiter me socour,
She floryssheth new and new
In bewte and vertew;
Hac claritate gemina
O gloriosa fœmina,
Retribue servo tuo, vivifica me!
Labia mea laudabunt te.

But enforsed am I

Openly to askry,
And to make an outcri
Against odyous Enui,
That euermore wil ly,
And say cursedly;
With his ledder ey,
And chekes dry;
With vysage wan,
As swarte as tan;
His bones crake,
Leane as a rake;
His gummes rusty
Are full vnlusty;
Hys herte withall
Bytter as gall;
His lyuer, his longe
With anger is wronge;
His serpentes tonge
That many one hath stonge;
He frowneth euer;
He laugheth neuer,
Euen nor morow,
But other mennes sorow
Causeth him to gryn
And reioyce therin;
No slepe can him catch,
But euer doth watch,
He is so bete
With malyce, and frete
With angre and yre,
His foule desyre

Wyll suffre no slepe
In his hed to crepe;
His foule semblaunt
All displeasaunte;
Whan other ar glad,
Than is he sad;
Frantyke and mad;
His tong neuer styll
For to say yll,
Wrythyng and wringyng,
Bytyng and styngyng;
And thus this elf
Consumeth himself,
Hymself doth slo
Wyth payne and wo.
This fals Enuy
Sayth that I
Vse great folly
For to endyte,
And for to wryte,
And spend my tyme
In prose and ryme,
For to expres
The noblenes
Of my maistres,
That causeth me
Studious to be
To make a relation
Of her commendation;
And there agayne

Enuy doth complayne,
And hath disdayne;
But yet certayne
I wyll be playne,
And my style dres
To this prosses.

Now Phebus me ken
To sharpe my pen,
And lede my fyst
As hym best lyst,
That I may say
Honour alway
Of womankynd!
Trouth doth me bynd
And loyalte
Euer to be
Their true bedell,
To wryte and tell
How women excell
In noblenes;
As my maistres,
Of whom I thynk
With pen and ynk
For to compyle
Some goodly style;
For this most goodly floure,
This blossome of fresh coloure,
So Jupyter me socoure,
She flourissheth new and new
In beaute and vertew:

Hac claritate gemina
O gloriosa fœmina,
Legem pone mihi, domina, in viam justificationum tuarum!
Quemadmodum desiderat cervus ad fontes aquarum.

How shall I report
All the goodly sort
Of her fetures clere,
That hath non erthly pere?
Her fauour of her face
Ennewed all with grace,
Confort, pleasure, and solace,
Myne hert doth so enbrace,
And so hath rauyshed me
Her to behold and se,
That in wordes playne
I cannot me refrayne
To loke on her agayne:
Alas, what shuld I fayne?
It wer a plesaunt payne
With her aye to remayne.

Her eyen gray and stepe
Causeth myne hert to lepe;
With her browes bent
She may well represent
Fayre Lucres, as I wene,
Or els fayre Polexene,

Or els Caliope,
Or els Penolope;
For this most goodly floure,
This blossome of fresshe coloure,
So Jupiter me socoure,
She florisheth new end new
In beautye and vertew:
Hac claritate gemina
O gloriosa fœmina,
Memor esto verbi tui servo tuo!
Servus tuus sum ego.

The Indy saphyre blew
Her vaynes doth ennew;
The orient perle so clere,
The whytnesse of her lere;
The lusty ruby ruddes
Resemble the rose buddes;
Her lyppes soft and mery
Emblomed lyke the chery,
It were an heuenly blysse
Her sugred mouth to kysse.

Her beautye to augment,
Dame Nature hath her lent
A warte vpon her cheke,
Who so lyst to seke
In her vysage a skar,
That semyth from afar
Lyke to the radyant star,
All with fauour fret,

So properly it is set:
She is the vyolet,
The daysy delectable,
The columbine commendable,
The ielofer amyable;
[For] this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fressh colour,
So Jupiter me succour,
She florysheth new and new
In beaute and vertew:
Hac claritate gemina
O gloriosa fœmina,
Bonitatem fecisti cum servo tuo, domina,
Et ex præcordiis sonant præconia!

And whan I perceyued
Her wart and conceyued,
It cannot be denayd
But it was well conuayd,
And set so womanly,
And nothynge wantonly,
But ryght conuenyently,
And full congruently,
As Nature cold deuyse,
In most goodly wyse;
Who so lyst beholde,
It makethe louers bolde
To her to sewe for grace,
Her fauoure to purchase;

The sker upon her chyn,
Enhached on her fayre skyn,
Whyter than the swan,
It wold make any man
To forget deadly syn
Her fauour to wyn;
For this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fressh coloure,
So Jupiter me socoure,
She flouryssheth new and new
In beaute and vertew:
Hac claritate gemina
O gloriosa fœmina,
Defecit in salutatione tua anima mea;
Quid petis filio, mater dulcissima? babæ!

Soft, and make no dyn,
For now I wyll begyn
To haue in remembraunce
Her goodly dalyaunce,
And her goodly pastaunce:
So sad and so demure,
Behauynge her so sure,
With wordes of pleasure
She wold make to the lure
And any man conuert
To gyue her his hole hert.

She made me sore amased
Vpon her whan I gased,
Me thought min hert was crased,
My eyne were so dased;
For this most goodly flour,
This blossom of fressh colour,
So Jupyter me socour,
She flouryssheth new and new
In beauty and vertew:
Hac claritate gemina
O gloriosa fœmina,
Quomodo dilexi legem tuam, domina!
Recedant vetera, nova sint omnia.

And to amende her tale,
Whan she lyst to auale,
And with her fyngers smale,
And handes soft as sylke,
Whyter than the mylke,
That are so quyckely vayned,
Wherwyth my hand she strayned,
Lorde, how I was payned!
Vnneth I me refrayned,
How she me had reclaymed,
And me to her retayned,
Enbrasynge therwithall
Her goodly myddell small
With sydes longe and streyte;
To tell you what conceyte
I had than in a tryce,
The matter were to nyse,
And yet there was no vyce,

100

Nor yet no villany,
But only fantasy;
For this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fressh coloure,
So Jupiter me succoure,
She floryssheth new and new
In beaute and vertew:
Hac claritate gemina
O gloriosa fœmina,
Iniquos odio habui!
Non calumnientur me superbi.

But whereto shulde I note
How often dyd I tote
Vpon her prety fote?
It raysed myne hert rote
To se her treade the grounde
With heles short and rounde.
She is playnly expresse
Egeria, the goddesse,
And lyke to her image,
Emportured with corage,
A louers pylgrimage;
Ther is no beest sauage,
Ne no tyger so wood,
But she wolde chaunge his mood,
Such relucent grace
Is formed in her face;
For this most goodly floure,
This blossome of fresshe coloure,
So Jupiter me succour,

101

She flouryssheth new and new
In beaute and vertew:
Hac claritate gemina
O gloriosa fœmina,
Mirabilia testimonia tua!
Sicut novellæ plantationes in juventute sua.

So goodly as she dresses,
So properly she presses
The bryght golden tresses
Of her heer so fyne,
Lyke Phebus beames shyne.
Wherto shuld I disclose
The garterynge of her hose?
It is for to suppose
How that she can were
Gorgiously her gere;
Her fresshe habylementes
With other implementes
To serue for all ententes,
Lyke dame Flora, quene
Of lusty somer grene;
For this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fressh coloure,
So Jupiter me socoure,
She florisheth new and new
In beautye and vertew:
Hac claritate gemina
O gloriosa fœmina,
Clamavi in toto corde, exaudi me!
Misericordia tua magna est super me.

102

Her kyrtell so goodly lased,
And vnder that is brased
Such plasures that I may
Neyther wryte nor say;
Yet though I wryte not with ynke,
No man can let me thynke,
For thought hath lyberte,
Thought is franke and fre;
To thynke a mery thought
It cost me lytell nor nought.
Wolde God myne homely style
Were pullysshed with the fyle
Of Ciceros eloquence,
To prase her excellence!
For this most goodly floure,
This blossome of fressh coloure,
So Jupiter me succoure,
She flouryssheth new and new
In beaute and vertew:
Hac claritate gemina
O gloriosa fœmina,
Principes persecuti sunt me gratis!
Omnibus consideratis,
Paradisus voluptatis
Hæc virgo est dulcissima.

My pen it is vnable,
My hand it is vnstable,
My reson rude and dull
To prayse her at the full;
Goodly maystres Jane,
Sobre, demure Dyane;

103

Jane this maystres hyght
The lode star of delyght,
Dame Venus of all pleasure,
The well of worldly treasure;
She doth excede and pas
In prudence dame Pallas;
[For] this most goodly floure,
This blossome of fresshe colour,
So Jupiter me socoure,
She floryssheth new and new
In beaute and vertew:
Hac claritate gemina
O gloriosa fœmina!

Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine!
With this psalme, Domine, probasti me,
Shall sayle ouer the see,
With Tibi, Domine, commendamus,
On pylgrimage to saynt Jamys,
For shrympes, and for prayns,
And for stalkynge cranys;
And where my pen hath offendyd,
I pray you it may be amendyd
By discrete consyderacyon
Of your wyse reformacyon;
I haue not offended, I trust,
If it be sadly dyscust.
It were no gentle gyse
This treatyse to despyse
Because I haue wrytten and sayd
Honour of this fayre mayd;

104

Wherefore shulde I be blamed,
That I Jane haue named,
And famously proclamed?
She is worthy to be enrolde
With letters of golde.

Car elle vault.
Per me laurigerum Britonum Skeltonida vatem
Laudibus eximiis merito hæc redimita puella est:
Formosam cecini, qua non formosior ulla est;
Formosam potius quam commendaret Homerus.
Sic juvat interdum rigidos recreare labores,
Nec minus hoc titulo tersa Minerva mea est.
Rien que playsere.

Thus endeth the boke of Philip Sparow, and here foloweth an adicyon made by maister Skelton.

The gyse now a dayes
Of some ianglynge iayes
Is to discommende
That they cannot amend,
Though they wold spend
All the wyttes they haue.

What ayle them to depraue
Phillip Sparowes graue?
His Dirige, her Commendacyon
Can be no derogacyon,
But myrth and consolacyon
Made by protestacyon,

105

No man to myscontent
With Phillyppes enterement.

Alas, that goodly mayd,
Why shuld she be afrayde?
Why shuld she take shame
That her goodly name,
Honorably reported,
Sholde be set and sorted,
To be matriculate
With ladyes of estate?

I coniure thé, Phillip Sparow,
By Hercules that hell dyd harow,
And with a venemous arow
Slew of the Epidaures
One of the Centaures,
Or Onocentaures,
Or Hipocentaures;
By whose myght and mayne
An hart was slayne
With hornes twayne
Of glytteryng gold;
And the appels of gold
Of Hesperides withhold,
And with a dragon kept
That neuer more slept,
By marcyall strength
He wan at length;
And slew Gerion
With thre bodyes in one;
With myghty corage

106

Adauntid the rage
Of a lyon sauage;
Of Dyomedes stable
He brought out a rable
Of coursers and rounses
With leapes and bounses;
And with mighty luggyng,
Wrestlyng and tuggyng,
He plucked the bull
By the horned skull,
And offred to Cornucopia;
And so forth per cetera:

Also by Ecates bower
In Plutos gastly tower;

By the vgly Eumenides,
That neuer haue rest nor ease;

By the venemous serpent,
That in hell is neuer brent,
In Lerna the Grekes fen,
That was engendred then;

By Chemeras flames,
And all the dedly names
Of infernall posty,
Where soules frye and rosty;

By the Stygyall flood,
And the streames wood
Of Cocitus botumles well;

By the feryman of hell,
Caron with his beerd hore,
That roweth with a rude ore

107

And with his frownsid fore top
Gydeth his bote with a prop:

I coniure Phylyp, and call
In the name of kyng Saul;
Primo Regum expresse,
He bad the Phitonesse
To wytchcraft her to dresse,
And by her abusyons,
And dampnable illusyons
Of marueylus conclusyons,
And by her supersticyons,
And wonderfull condityons,
She raysed vp in that stede
Samuell that was dede;
But whether it were so,
He were idem in numero,
The selfe same Samuell,
How be it to Saull dyd he tell
The Philistinis shuld hym ascry,
And the next day he shuld dye,
I wyll my selfe dyscharge
To lettred men at large:

But, Phylyp, I coniure thee
Now by these names thre,
Diana in the woodes grene,
Luna that so bryght doth shene,
Procerpina in hell,
That thou shortly tell,
And shew now vnto me
What the cause may be
Of this perplexite!

108

Inferias, Philippe, tuas Scroupe pulchra Joanna
Instanter petiit: cur nostri carminis illam
Nunc pudet? est sero; minor est infamia vero.

Than suche as haue disdayned
And of this worke complayned,
I pray God they be payned
No worse than is contayned
In verses two or thre
That folowe as ye may se.

Luride, cur, livor, volucris pia funera damnas?
Talia te rapiant rapiunt quæ fata volucrem!
Est tamen invidia mors tibi continua.

109

HERE AFTER FOLOWETH THE BOOKE CALLED ELYNOUR RUMMYNGE.

THE TUNNYNG OF ELYNOUR RUMMYNG PER SKELTON LAUREAT.

Tell you I chyll,
If that ye wyll
A whyle be styll,
Of a comely gyll
That dwelt on a hyll:
But she is not gryll,
For she is somwhat sage
And well worne in age;
For her vysage
It would aswage
A mannes courage.

Her lothely lere
Is nothynge clere,
But vgly of chere,
Droupy and drowsy,
Scuruy and lowsy;
Her face all bowsy,

110

Comely crynklyd,
Woundersly wrynkled,
Lyke a rost pygges eare,
Brystled wyth here.

Her lewde lyppes twayne,
They slauer, men sayne,
Lyke a ropy rayne,
A gummy glayre:
She is vgly fayre;
Her nose somdele hoked,
And camously croked,
Neuer stoppynge,
But euer droppynge;
Her skynne lose and slacke,
Grained lyke a sacke;
With a croked backe.

Her eyen gowndy
Are full vnsowndy,
For they are blered;
And she gray hered;
Jawed lyke a jetty;
A man would haue pytty
To se how she is gumbed,
Fyngered and thumbed,
Gently ioynted,
Gresed and annoynted
Vp to the knockels;
The bones [of] her huckels
Lyke as they were with buckles
Togyther made fast:
Her youth is farre past:

111

Foted lyke a plane,
Legged lyke a crane;
And yet she wyll iet,
Lyke a iolly fet,
In her furred flocket,
And gray russet rocket,
With symper the cocket.
Her huke of Lyncole grene,
It had ben hers, I wene,
More then fourty yere;
And so doth it apere,
For the grene bare thredes
Loke like sere wedes,
Wyddered lyke hay,
The woll worne away;
And yet I dare saye
She thynketh herselfe gaye
Vpon the holy daye,
Whan she doth her aray,
And gyrdeth in her gytes
Stytched and pranked with pletes;
Her kyrtel Brystow red,
With clothes vpon her hed
That wey a sowe of led,
Wrythen in wonder wyse,
After the Sarasyns gyse,
With a whym wham,
Knyt with a trym tram,
Vpon her brayne pan,
Like an Egyptian,

112

Capped about:
Whan she goeth out
Herselfe for to shewe,
She dryueth downe the dewe
Wyth a payre of heles
As brode as two wheles;
She hobles as a gose
With her blanket hose
Ouer the falowe;
Her shone smered wyth talowe,
Gresed vpon dyrt
That baudeth her skyrt.

Primus passus.

And this comely dame,
I vnderstande, her name
Is Elynour Rummynge,
At home in her wonnynge;
And as men say
She dwelt in Sothray,
In a certayne stede
Bysyde Lederhede.
She is a tonnysh gyb;
The deuyll and she be syb.

But to make vp my tale,
She breweth noppy ale,

113

And maketh therof port sale
To trauellars, to tynkers,
To sweters, to swynkers,
And all good ale drynkers,
That wyll nothynge spare,
But drynke till they stare
And brynge themselfe bare,
With, Now away the mare,
And let vs sley care,
As wyse as an hare!

Come who so wyll
To Elynour on the hyll,
Wyth, Fyll the cup, fyll,
And syt there by styll,
Erly and late:
Thyther cometh Kate,
Cysly, and Sare,
With theyr legges bare,
And also theyr fete
Hardely full vnswete;
Wyth theyr heles dagged,
Theyr kyrtelles all to-iagged,
Theyr smockes all to-ragged,
Wyth tytters and tatters,
Brynge dysshes and platters,
Wyth all theyr myght runnynge

114

To Elynour Rummynge,
To haue of her tunnynge:
She leneth them on the same,
And thus begynneth the game.

Some wenches come vnlased,
Some huswyues come vnbrased,
Wyth theyr naked pappes,
That flyppes and flappes;
It wygges and it wagges,
Lyke tawny saffron bagges;
A sorte of foule drabbes
All scuruy with scabbes:
Some be flybytten,
Some skewed as a kytten;
Some wyth a sho clout
Bynde theyr heddes about;
Some haue no herelace,
Theyr lockes about theyr face,
Theyr tresses vntrust,
All full of vnlust;
Some loke strawry,
Some cawry mawry;
Full vntydy tegges,
Lyke rotten egges.
Suche a lewde sorte
To Elynour resorte
From tyde to tyde:
Abyde, abyde,

115

And to you shall be tolde
Howe hyr ale is solde
To Mawte and to Molde.

Secundus passus.

Some haue no mony
That thyder commy,
For theyr ale to pay,
That is a shreud aray;
Elynour swered, Nay,
Ye shall not beare away
My ale for nought,
By hym that me bought!

With, Hey, dogge, hay,
Haue these hogges away!
With, Get me a staffe,
The swyne eate my draffe!
Stryke the hogges with a clubbe,
They haue dronke vp my swyllynge tubbe!
For, be there neuer so much prese,
These swyne go to the hye dese,
The sowe with her pygges;
The bore his tayle wrygges,
His rumpe also he frygges
Agaynst the hye benche!
With, Fo, ther is a stenche!
Gather vp, thou wenche;
Seest thou not what is fall?
Take vp dyrt and all,
And bere out of the hall:

116

God gyue it yll preuynge
Clenly as yuell cheuynge!

But let vs turne playne,
There we lefte agayne.
For, as yll a patch as that,
The hennes ron in the mashfat;
For they go to roust
Streyght ouer the ale ioust,
And donge, whan it commes,
In the ale tunnes.
Than Elynour taketh
The mashe bolle, and shaketh
The hennes donge away,
And skommeth it into a tray
Whereas the yeest is,
With her maungy fystis:
And somtyme she blennes
The donge of her hennes
And the ale together;
And sayeth, Gossyp, come hyther,
This ale shal be thycker,
And flowre the more quicker;
For I may tell you,
I lerned it of a Jewe,
Whan I began to brewe,
And I haue founde it trew;
Drinke now whyle it is new;
And ye may it broke,
It shall make you loke
Yonger than ye be

117

Yeres two or thre,
For ye may proue it by me;
Beholde, she sayde, and se
How bryght I am of ble!
Ich am not cast away,
That can my husband say,
Whan we kys and play
In lust and in lykyng;
He calleth me his whytyng,
His mullyng and his mytyng,
His nobbes and his conny,
His swetyng and his honny,
With, Bas, my prety bonny,
Thou art worth good and monny.
This make I my falyre fonny,
Til that he dreme and dronny;
For, after all our sport,
Than wyll he rout and snort;
Than swetely together we ly,
As two pygges in a sty.

To cease me semeth best,
And of this tale to rest,
And for to leue this letter,
Because it is no better,
And because it is no swetter;
We wyll no farther ryme
Of it at this tyme;

118

But we wyll turne playne
Where we left agayne.

Tertius passus.

Instede of coyne and monny,
Some brynge her a conny,
And some a pot with honny,
Some a salt, and some a spone,
Some theyr hose, some theyr shone;
Some ran a good trot
With a skellet or a pot;
Some fyll theyr pot full
Of good Lemster woll:
An huswyfe of trust,
Whan she is athrust,
Suche a webbe can spyn,
Her thryft is full thyn.

Some go streyght thyder,
Be it slaty or slyder;
They holde the hye waye,
They care not what men say,
Be that as be maye;

119

Some, lothe to be espyde,
Start in at the backe syde,
Ouer the hedge and pale,
And all for the good ale.

Some renne tyll they swete,
Brynge wyth them malte or whete,
And dame Elynour entrete
To byrle them of the best.

Than cometh an other gest;
She swered by the rode of rest,
Her lyppes are so drye,
Without drynke she must dye;
Therefore fyll it by and by,
And haue here a pecke of ry.

Anone cometh another,
As drye as the other,
And wyth her doth brynge
Mele, salte, or other thynge,
Her haruest gyrdle, her weddynge rynge,
To pay for her scot
As cometh to her lot.
Som bryngeth her husbandes hood,
Because the ale is good;
Another brought her his cap
To offer to the ale tap,
Wyth flaxe and wyth towe;
And some brought sowre dowe;
Wyth, Hey, and wyth, howe,
Syt we downe a rowe,
And drynke tyll we blowe,
And pype tyrly tyrlowe!

120

Some layde to pledge
Theyr hatchet and theyr wedge,
Theyr hekell and theyr rele,
Theyr rocke, theyr spynnyng whele;
And some went so narrowe,
They layde to pledge theyr wharrowe,
Theyr rybskyn and theyr spyndell,
Theyr nedell and theyr thymbell:
Here was scant thryft
Whan they made suche shyft.

Theyr thrust was so great,
They asked neuer for mete,
But drynke, styll drynke,
And let the cat wynke,
Let vs washe our gommes
From the drye crommes.

Quartus passus.

Some for very nede
Layde downe a skeyne of threde,
And some a skeyne of yarne;
Some brought from the barne
Both benes and pease;
Small chaffer doth ease
Sometyme, now and than:
Another there was that ran
With a good brasse pan;
Her colour was full wan;
She ran in all the hast
Vnbrased and vnlast;

121

Tawny, swart, and sallowe,
Lyke a cake of tallowe;
I swere by all hallow,
It was a stale to take
The deuyll in a brake.

And than came haltyng Jone,
And brought a gambone
Of bakon that was resty:
But, Lorde, as she was testy,
Angry as a waspy!
She began to yane and gaspy,
And bad Elynour go bet,
And fyll in good met;
It was dere that was farre fet.

Another brought a spycke
Of a bacon flycke;
Her tonge was verye quycke,
But she spake somwhat thycke:
Her felow did stammer and stut,
But she was a foule slut,
For her mouth fomyd
And her bely groned:
Jone sayne she had eaten a fyest;
By Christ, sayde she, thou lyest,
I haue as swete a breth
As thou, wyth shamfull deth!

Than Elynour sayde, Ye callettes,
I shall breake your palettes,
Wythout ye now cease!
And so was made the peace.

122

Than thyder came dronken Ales;
And she was full of tales,
Of tydynges in Wales,
And of sainct James in Gales,
And of the Portyngales;
Wyth, Lo, gossyp, I wys,
Thus and thus it is,
There hath ben great war
Betwene Temple Bar
And the Crosse in Chepe,
And there came an hepe
Of mylstones in a route:
She speketh thus in her snout,
Sneuelyng in her nose,
As thoughe she had the pose;
Lo, here is an olde typpet,
And ye wyll gyue me a syppet
Of your stale ale,
God sende you good sale!
And as she was drynkynge,
She fyll in a wynkynge
Wyth a barlyhood,
She pyst where she stood;
Than began she to wepe,
And forthwyth fell on slepe.
Elynour toke her vp,
And blessed her wyth a cup
Of newe ale in cornes;
Ales founde therin no thornes,
But supped it vp at ones,
She founde therin no bones.

123

Quintus passus.

Nowe in cometh another rabell;
Fyrst one wyth a ladell,
Another wyth a cradell,
And wyth a syde sadell:
And there began a fabell,
A clatterynge and a babell
Of folys fylly
That had a fole wyth wylly,
With, Iast you, and, gup, gylly!
She coulde not lye stylly.

Then came in a genet,
And sware by saynct Benet,
I dranke not this sennet
A draught to my pay;
Elynour, I thé pray,
Of thyne ale let vs assay,
And haue here a pylche of gray;
I were skynnes of conny,
That causeth I loke so donny.

Another than dyd hyche her,
And brought a pottel pycher,
A tonnel, and a bottell,
But she had lost the stoppell;
She cut of her sho sole,
And stopped therwyth the hole.

Amonge all the blommer,
Another brought a skommer,

124

A fryinge pan, and a slyce;
Elynour made the pryce
For good ale eche whyt.

Than sterte in mad Kyt,
That had lyttle wyt;
She semed somdele seke,
And brought a peny cheke
To dame Elynour,
For a draught of lycour.

Than Margery Mylkeducke
Her kyrtell she did vptucke
An ynche aboue her kne,
Her legges that ye myght se;
But they were sturdy and stubbed,
Myghty pestels and clubbed,
As fayre and as whyte
As the fote of a kyte:
She was somwhat foule,
Crokenecked lyke an oule;
And yet she brought her fees,
A cantell of Essex chese
Was well a fote thycke,
Full of maggottes quycke;
It was huge and greate,
And myghty stronge meate
For the deuyll to eate;
It was tart and punyete.

Another sorte of sluttes,
Some brought walnuttes,
Some apples, some peres,
Some brought theyr clyppynge sheres,

125

Some brought this and that,
Some brought I wote nere what,
Some brought theyr husbandes hat,
Some podynges and lynkes,
Some trypes that stynkes.

But of all this thronge
One came them amonge,
She semed halfe a leche,
And began to preche
Of the tewsday in the weke
Whan the mare doth keke;
Of the vertue of an vnset leke;
Of her husbandes breke;
Wyth the feders of a quale
She could to Burdeou sayle;
And wyth good ale barme
She could make a charme
To helpe wythall a stytch.
She semed to be a wytch.

Another brought two goslynges,
That were noughty froslynges;
She brought them in a wallet,
She was a cumly callet:
The goslenges were untyde;
Elynour began to chyde,
They be wretchockes thou hast brought,
They are shyre shakyng nought!

Sextus passus.

Maude Ruggy thyther skypped:
She was vgly hypped,

126

And vgly thycke lypped,
Lyke an onyon syded,
Lyke tan ledder hyded:
She had her so guyded
Betwene the cup and the wall,
That she was there wythall
Into a palsey fall;
Wyth that her hed shaked,
And her handes quaked:
Ones hed wold haue aked
To se her naked:
She dranke so of the dregges,
The dropsy was in her legges;
Her face glystryng lyke glas;
All foggy fat she was;
She had also the gout
In all her ioyntes about;
Her breth was soure and stale,
And smelled all of ale:
Suche a bedfellaw
Wold make one cast his craw;
But yet for all that
She dranke on the mash fat.

There came an old rybybe;
She halted of a kybe,
And had broken her shyn
At the threshold comyng in,
And fell so wyde open
That one myght se her token,
The deuyll thereon be wroken!
What nede all this be spoken?

127

She yelled lyke a calfe:
Ryse vp, on Gods halfe,
Said Elynour Rummyng,
I beshrew thé for thy cummyng!
And as she at her did pluck,
Quake, quake, sayd the duck
In that lampatrams lap;
Wyth, Fy, couer thy shap
Wyth sum flyp flap!
God gyue it yll hap,
Sayde Elynour for shame,
Lyke an honest dame.
Vp she stert, halfe lame,
And skantly could go
For payne and for wo.

In came another dant,
Wyth a gose and a gant:
She had a wide wesant;
She was nothynge plesant;
Necked lyke an olyfant;
It was a bullyfant,
A gredy cormerant.

Another brought her garlyke hedes;
Another brought her bedes
Of iet or of cole,
To offer to the ale pole:
Some brought a wymble,
Some brought a thymble,
Some brought a sylke lace,
Some brought a pyncase,

128

Some her husbandes gowne,
Some a pyllow of downe,
Some of the napery;
And all this shyfte they make
For the good ale sake.

A strawe, sayde Bele, stande vtter,
For we haue egges and butter,
And of pygeons a payre.

Than sterte forth a fysgygge,
And she brought a bore pygge;
The fleshe therof was ranke,
And her brethe strongly stanke,
Yet, or she went, she dranke,
And gat her great thanke
Of Elynour for her ware,
That she thyther bare
To pay for her share.
Now truly, to my thynkynge;
This is a solempne drinkynge.

Septimus passus.

Soft, quod one, hyght Sybbyll,
And let me wyth you bybyll.
She sat downe in the place,
With a sory face
Wheywormed about;

129

Garnyshed was her snout
Wyth here and there a puscull,
Lyke a scabbyd muscull.
This ale, sayde she, is noppy;
Let vs syppe and soppy,
And not spyll a droppy,
For so mote I hoppy,
It coleth well my croppy.

Dame Elynoure, sayde she,
Haue here is for me,
A cloute of London pynnes;
And wyth that she begynnes
The pot to her plucke,
And dranke a good lucke;
She swynged vp a quarte
At ones for her parte;
Her paunche was so puffed,
And so wyth ale stuffed,
Had she not hyed apace,
She had defoyled the place.

Than began the sporte
Amonge that dronken sorte:
Dame Eleynour, sayde they,
Lende here a cocke of hey,
To make all thynge cleane;
Ye wote well what we meane.

But, syr, among all
That sat in that hall,
There was a pryckemedenty,
Sat lyke a seynty,

130

And began to paynty,
As thoughe she would faynty;
She made it as koy
As a lege de moy;
She was not halfe so wyse
As she was peuysshe nyse.
She sayde neuer a worde,
But rose from the borde,
And called for our dame,
Elynour by name.
We supposed, I wys,
That she rose to pys;
But the very grounde
Was for to compounde
Wyth Elynour in the spence,
To pay for her expence:
I haue no penny nor grote
To pay, sayde she, God wote,
For washyng of my throte;
But my bedes of amber
Bere them to your chamber.
Then Elynour dyd them hyde
Wythin her beddes syde.

But some than sat ryght sad
That nothynge had
There of theyr awne,
Neyther gelt nor pawne;
Suche were there menny
That had not a penny,
But, whan they should walke,

131

Were fayne wyth a chalke
To score on the balke,
Or score on the tayle:
God gyue it yll hayle!
For my fyngers ytche;
I haue wrytten to mytche
Of this mad mummynge
Of Elynour Rummynge.
Thus endeth the gest
Of this worthy fest.

Quod Skelton, Laureat.

132

POEMS AGAINST GARNESCHE.

SKELTON LAURIATE DEFEND[ER] AGENST M[ASTER] GARNESCHE CHALENGER, ET CETERA.

Sithe ye haue me chalyngyd, M[aster] Garnesche,
Ruduly revilyng me in the kynges noble hall,
Soche an odyr chalyngyr cowde me no man wysch,
But yf yt war Syr Tyrmagant that tyrnyd with out nall;
For Syr Frollo de Franko was neuer halfe so talle.
But sey me now, Syr Satrapas, what autoryte ye haue
In your chalenge, Syr Chystyn, to cale me knaue?

What, haue ye kythyd yow a knyght, Syr Dugles the dowty,
So currysly to beknaue me in the kynges place?

133

Ye stronge sturdy stalyon, so sterne and stowty,
Ye bere yow bolde as Barabas, or Syr Terry of Trace;
Ye gyrne grymly with your gomys and with your grysly face.
But sey me yet, Syr Satropas, what auctoryte ye haue
In your chalange, Syr Chesten, to calle me a knaue?

Ye fowle, fers, and felle, as Syr Ferumbras the ffreke,
Syr capten of Catywade, catacumbas of Cayre,
Thow ye be lusty as Syr Lybyus launces to breke,
Yet your contenons oncomly, your face ys nat fayer:
For alle your proude prankyng, your pride may apayere.
But sey me yet, Syr Satrapas, wat auctoryte ye haue
In your chalenge, Syr Chesten, to cal me a knaue?

Of Mantryble the Bryge, Malchus the murryon,
Nor blake Baltazar with hys basnet routh as a bere,
Nor Lycon, that lothly luske, in myn opynyon,
Nor no bore so brymly brystlyd ys with here,
As ye ar brystlyd on the bake for alle your gay gere.

134

[But sey me yet, Syr Satrapas, what auctoryte ye haue
In your chalenge, Syr Chesten, to calle me a knaue?]

Your wynde schakyn shankkes, your longe lothy legges,
Crokyd as a camoke, and as a kowe calfles,
Bryngges yow out of fauyr with alle femall teggys:
That mastres Punt put yow of, yt was nat alle causeles;
At Orwelle hyr hauyn your anggre was laules.
[But sey me yet, Syr Satrapas, what auctoryte ye haue
In your chalenge, Syr Chesten, to calle me a knaue?]

I sey, ye solem Sarson, alle blake ys your ble;
As a glede glowynge, your ien glyster as glasse,
Rowlynge in yower holow hede, vgly to see;
Your tethe teintyd with tawny; your semely snowte doth passe,
Howkyd as an hawkys beke, lyke Syr Topyas.
Boldly bend you to batell, and buske your selfe to saue:
Chalenge your selfe for a fole, call me no more knaue.
Be the kynges most noble commandement.

135

SKELTON LAURYATE DEFENDER AGENST M[ASTER] GARNESCHE CHALANGAR, WITH GRESY, GORBELYD GODFREY [ET] CETERA.

How may I your mokery mekely tollerate,
[Your] gronynge, ȝour grontynge, your groinynge lyke a swyne?
[Your] pride ys alle to peuiche, your porte importunate;
[You] mantycore, ye maltaperte, ye can bothe wins and whyne;
[Your] lothesum lere to loke on, lyke a gresyd bote dothe schyne.
Ye cappyd Cayface copious, your paltoke on your pate,
Thow ye prate lyke prowde Pylate, be ware yet of chek mate.

Hole ys your brow that ye brake with Deu[ra]ndall your awne sworde;
Why holde ye on yer cap, syr, then? your pardone ys expyryd:
Ye hobble very homly before the kynges borde;

136

Ye countyr vmwhyle to capcyously, and ar ye be dysiryd;
Your moth etyn mokkysh maneres, they be all to myryd.
Ye cappyd Cayface copyous, your paltoke on your pate,
Thow ye prate lyke prowde Pylate, be ware of cheke mate.

O Gabionyte of Gabyone, why do ye gane and gaspe?
Huf a galante Garnesche, loke on your comly cors!
Lusty Garnysche, lyke a lowse, ye jet full lyke a jaspe;
As wytles as a wylde goos, ye haue but small remorrs
Me for to chalenge that of your chalennge makyth so lytyll fors.
Ye capyd Cayfas copyous, your paltoke on your pate,
Tho ye prate lyke prowde Pylate, be ware of cheke mate.

Syr Gy, Syr Gawen, Syr Cayus, for and Syr Olyuere,
Pyramus, nor Priamus, nor Syr Pyrrus the prowde,
In Arturys auncyent actys no where ys prouyd your pere;

137

The facyoun of your fysnamy the devyl in a clowde;
Your harte ys to hawte, I wys, yt wyll nat be alowde.
Ye capyd Cayfas copyus, your paltoke on your pate,
Thow ye prate lyke prowde Pylate, be ware of cheke mate.

Ye grounde yow vpon Godfrey, that grysly gargons face,
Your stondarde, Syr Olifranke, agenst me for to splay:
Baile, baile at yow bothe, frantyke folys! follow on the chase!
Cum Garnyche, cum Godfrey, with as many as ȝe may!
I advyse yow be ware of thys war, rannge yow in aray.
Ye cappyd Cayfas copyous, [your paltoke on your pate,
Thow ye prate lyke prowde Pylate, be ware of cheke mate.]

Gup, gorbellyd Godfrey, gup, Garnysche, gaudy fole!
To turney or to tante with me ye ar to fare to seke:
For thes twayne whypslouens calle for a coke stole:

138

Thow mantycore, ye marmoset, garnyshte lyke a Greke,
Wranglynge, waywyrde, wytles, wraw, and nothyng meke.
Ye cappyd [Cayfas copyous, your paltoke on your pate,
Thow ye prate lyke prowde Pylate, be ware of cheke mate.]

Mirres vous y,
Loke nat to hy.

By the kynges most noble commaundment.

139

SKELTON LAWRYATE DEFENDER AGENYST LUSTY GARNYCHE WELLE BE SEYN CRYSTEOUYR CHALANNGER, ET CETERA.

I haue your lewde letter receyuyd,
And well I haue yt perseyuyd,
And your skrybe I haue aspyed,
That your mad mynde contryuyd.
Sauynge your vsscheres rod,
I caste me nat to be od
With neythyr of yow tewyne:
Wherfore I wryght ageyne;
How the fauyr of your face
Is voyd of all good grace;
For alle your carpet cousshons,
Ye haue knauyche condycyonns.
Gup, marmeset, jast ye, morelle!
I am laureat, I am no lorelle.
Lewdely your tyme ye spende,
My lyuyng to reprehende;
And wyll neuer intende
Your awne lewdnes to amende:
Your Englyshe lew[d]ly ye sorte,
And falsly ȝe me reporte.
Garnyche, ye gape to wyde:

140

Yower knavery I wyll nat hyde,
For to aswage your pride.

Whan ye war yonger of age,
Ye war a kechyn page,
A dyshwasher, a dryvyll,
In the pott your nose dedde sneuyll;
Ye fryed and ye broylyd,
Ye rostyd and ye boylyd,
Ye rostyd, lyke a fonne,
A gose with the fete vponne;
Ye slvfferd vp sowse
In my lady Brewsys howse.
Wherto xulde I wryght
Of soche a gresy knyght?
A bawdy dyscheclowte,
That bryngyth the worlde abowte
With haftynge and with polleynge,
With lyenge and controlleynge.

At Gynys when ye ware
But a slendyr spere,
Dekkyd lewdly in your gere;
For when ye dwelt there,
Ye had a knauysche cote
Was skantly worthe a grote;
In dud frese ye war schrynyd,
With better frese lynyd;
The oute syde euery day,
Ye myght no better a way;

141

The insyde ye ded calle
Your best gowne festyvalle.
Your drapry ȝe ded wante,
The warde with yow was skante.
When ye kyst a shepys ie,
------ mastres Andelby,
------ Gynys vpon a gonge,
------ sat sumwhat to longe;
------ hyr husbandes hed,
------ malle of lede,
------ that ye ther prechyd,
To hyr loue ye nowte rechyd:
Ye wolde haue bassyd hyr bumme,
So that sche wolde haue kum
On to your lowsy den;
But sche of all men
Had yow most in despyght,
Ye loste hyr fauyr quyt;
Your pyllyd garleke hed
Cowde hocupy there no stede;
She callyd yow Syr Gy of Gaunt,
Nosyd lyke an olyfaunt,
A pykes or a twybyll;
Sche seyd how ye ded brydell,
Moche lyke a dromadary;
Thus with yow sche ded wary,
With moche mater more
That I kepe in store.

142

Your brethe ys stronge and quike;
Ye ar an eldyr steke;
Ye wot what I thynke;
At bothe endes ye stynke;
Gret daunger for the kynge,
Whan hys grace ys fastynge,
Hys presens to aproche:
Yt ys to your reproche.
Yt fallyth for no swyne
Nor sowtters to drynke wyne,
Nor seche a nody polle
A pryste for to controlle.

Lytyll wyt in your scrybys nolle
That scrybblyd your fonde scrolle,
Vpon hym for to take
Agennst me for to make,
Lyke a doctor dawpate,
A lauryate poyete for to rate.
Yower termys ar to grose,
To far from the porpose,
To contaminate
And to violate
The dygnyte lauryate.

Bolde bayarde, ye are to blynde,
And grow all oute of kynde,
To occupy so your mynde;
For reson can I non fynde
Nor good ryme in yower mater;
I wondyr that ye smatyr,
So for a knaue to clatyr;

143

Ye wolde be callyd a maker,
And make moche lyke Jake Rakar;
Ye ar a comly crakar,
Ye lernyd of sum py bakar.
Caste vp your curyows wrytyng,
And your dyrty endytyng,
And your spyghtfull despyghtyng,
For alle ys nat worthe a myteyng,
A makerell nor a wyteyng:
Had ye gonne with me to scole,
And occupyed no better your tole,
Ye xulde haue kowththyd me a fole.

But now, gawdy, gresy Garnesche,
Your face I wyse to varnyshe
So suerly yt xall nat tarnishe.
Thow a Sarsens hed ye bere,
Row and full of lowsy here,
As heuery man wele seethe,
Ful of grett knauys tethe,
In a felde of grene peson
Ys ryme yet owte of reson;
Your wyt ys so geson,
Ye rayle all out of seson.

Your skyn scabbyd and scuruy,
Tawny, tannyd, and shuruy,
Now vpon thys hete
Rankely whan ye swete,
Men sey ye wyll wax lowsy,
Drunkyn, drowpy, drowsy.

144

Your sworde ye swere, I wene,
So tranchaunt and so kene,
Xall kyt both wyght and grene:
Your foly ys to grett
The kynges colours to threte.
Your brethe yt ys so felle
And so puauntely dothe smelle,
And so haynnously doth stynke,
That naythyr pump nor synke
Dothe sauyr halfe so souer
Ageynst a stormy shouer.
O ladis of bryght colour,
Of bewte that beryth the flower,
When Garnyche cummyth yow amonge
With hys brethe so stronge,
Withowte ye haue a confectioun
Agenst hys poysond infeccioun,
Els with hys stynkyng jawys
He wyl cause yow caste your crawes,
And make youer stomoke seke
Ovyr the perke to pryk.

Now, Garnyche, garde thy gummys;
My serpentins and my gunnys
Agenst ye now I bynde;
Thy selfe therfore defende.
Thou tode, thow scorpyone,
Thow bawdy babyone,
Thow bere, thow brystlyd bore,
Thou Moryshe mantycore,
Thou rammysche stynkyng gote,

145

Thou fowle chorlyshe parote,
Thou gresly gargone glaymy,
Thou swety slouen seymy,
Thou murrionn, thow mawment,
Thou fals stynkyng serpent,
Thou mokkyshe marmoset,
I wyll nat dy in they det.
Tyburne thou me assynyd,
Where thou xulddst haue bene shrynyd;
The nexte halter ther xall be
I bequeth yt hole to thé:
Soche pelfry thou hast pachchyd,
And so thy selfe houyr wachyd
That ther thou xuldyst be rachchyd,
If thow war metely machchyd.

Ye may wele be bedawyd,
Ye ar a fole owtelauyd;
And for to telle the gronde,
Pay Stokys hys fyue pownd.
I say, Syr Dalyrag,
Ye bere yow bold and brag
With othyr menys charge:
Ye kyt your clothe to large:
Soche pollyng paiaunttis ye pley,
To poynt yow fresche and gay.

And he that scryblyd your scrolles,
I rekyn yow in my rowllys,
For ij dronken sowllys.

146

Rede and lerne ye may,
How olde proverbys say,
That byrd ys nat honest
That fylythe hys owne nest.
Yf he wyst what sum wotte,
The flesche bastyng of his cote
Was sowyd with slendyr thre[de]:
God sende you wele good spede,
With Dominus vobiscum!
Good Latyn for Jake a thrum,
Tyll more matyr may cum.

By the kynges most noble commaundment.

SKELTON LAUREATE DEFENDAR AGEINST LUSTY GARNYSHE WELL BESEEN CRYSTOFER CHALANGAR, ET CETERA.

Garnyshe, gargone, gastly, gryme,
I haue receyuyd your secunde ryme.
Thowthe ye kan skylle of large and longe,
Ye syng allway the kukkowe songe:

147

Ye rayle, ye ryme, with Hay, dog, hay!
Your chorlyshe chauntyng ys all o lay.
Ye, syr, rayle all in deformite:
Ye haue nat red the properte
Of naturys workys, how they be
Myxte with sum incommodite,
As prouithe well, in hys Rethorikys olde,
Cicero with hys tong of golde.
That nature wrowght in yow and me,
Irreuocable ys hyr decre;
Waywardly wrowght she hath in thé,
Beholde thi selfe, and thou mayst se;
Thow xalte beholde no wher a warse,
They myrrour may be the deuyllys ars.
Wyth, knaue, syr knaue, and knaue ageine!
To cal me knaue thou takyst gret payne:
The prowdyst knaue yet of vs tewyne
Within thy skyn he xall remayne;
The starkest knaue, and lest good kan,
Thou art callyd of euery man;
The corte, the contre, wylage, and towne,
Sayth from thy to vnto thi croune,
Of all prowde knauys thow beryst the belle,
Lothsum as Lucifer lowest in helle.
On that syde, on thys syde thou dost gasy,
Thou thynkyst thy selfe Syr Pers de Brasy,

148

Thy caytyvys carkes cours and crasy;
Moche of thy maneres I can blasy.

Of Lumbardy Gorge Hardyson,
Thow wolde haue scoryd hys habarion;
That jentyll Jorge the Januay,
Ye wolde haue trysyd hys trowle away:
Soche paiantes with your fryndes ye play,
With trechery ye them betray.
Garnyshe, ye gate of Gorge with gaudry
Crimsin velvet for your bawdry.
Ye haue a fantasy to Fanchyrche strete,
With Lumbardes lemmanns for to mete,
With, Bas me, buttyng, praty Cys!
Yower lothesum lypps loue well to kyse,
Slaueryng lyke a slymy snayle;
I wolde ye had kyst hyr on the tayle!

Also nat fare from Bowgy row,
Ye pressyd pertely to pluk a crow:
Ye lost your holde, onbende your bow,
Ye wan nothyng there but a mow;
Ye wan nothyng there but a skorne;
Sche wolde nat of yt thow had sworne
Sche seyd ye war coluryd with cole dust;
To daly with yow she had no lust.
Sche seyd your brethe stanke lyke a broke;
With, Gup, Syr Gy, ye gate a moke.
Sche sware with hyr ye xulde nat dele,
For ye war smery, lyke a sele,
And ye war herey, lyke a calfe;
Sche praiid yow walke, on Goddes halfe!

149

And thus there ye lost yower pray;
Get ye anothyr where ye may.

Dysparage ye myn auncetry?
Ye ar dysposyd for to ly:
I sey, thow felle and fowle flessh fly,
In thys debate I thé askry.
Thow claimist thé jentyll, thou art a curre;
Haroldis they know thy cote armur:
Thow thou be a jantyll man borne,
Yet jentylnes in thé ys thred bare worne;
Haroldes from honor may thé devors,
For harlottes hawnte thyn hatefull cors:
Ye bere out brothells lyke a bawde;
Ye get therby a slendyr laude
Betweyn the tappett and the walle,—
Fusty bawdyas! I sey nat alle.
Of harlottes to vse soche an harres,
Yt bredth mothys in clothe of Arres.

What eylythe thé, rebawde, on me to raue?
A kyng to me myn habyte gaue:
At Oxforth, the vniversyte,
Auaunsid I was to that degre;
By hole consent of theyr senate,
I was made poete lawreate.
To cal me lorell ye ar to lewde:
Lythe and lystyn, all bechrewde!
Of the Musys nyne, Calliope
Hath pointyd me to rayle on thé.
It semyth nat thy pyllyd pate
Agenst a poyet lawreat

150

To take vpon thé for to scryue:
It cumys thé better for to dryue
A dong cart or a tumrelle
Than with my poems for to melle.

The honor of Englond I lernyd to spelle,
In dygnyte roialle that doth excelle:
Note and marke wyl thys parcele;
I yaue hym drynke of the sugryd welle
Of Eliconys waters crystallyne,
Aqueintyng hym with the Musys nyne.
Yt commyth thé wele me to remorde,
That creaunser was to thy sofre[yne] lorde:
It plesyth that noble prince roialle
Me as hys master for to calle
In hys lernyng primordialle.
Auaunt, rybawde, thi tung reclame!
Me to beknaue thow art to blame;
Thy tong vntawte, with poyson infecte,
Withowte thou leue thou shalt be chekt,
And takyn vp in such a frame,
That all the warlde wyll spye your shame.
Auaunt, auaunt, thow slogysh ------
And sey poetis no dys ------
It ys for no bawdy knaue
The dignite lawreat for to haue.

151

Thow callyst me scallyd, thou callyst me mad:
Thow thou be pyllyd, thow ar nat sade.
Thow ar frantyke and lakkyst wyt,
To rayle with me that thé can hyt.
Thowth it be now ful tyde with thé,
Yet ther may falle soche caswelte,
Er thow be ware, that in a throw
Thow mayst fale downe and ebbe full lowe:
Wherfore in welthe beware of woo,
For welthe wyll sone departe thé froo.
To know thy selfe yf thow lake grace,
Lerne or be lewde, I shrow thy face.

Thow seyst I callyd thé a pecok:
Thow liist, I callyd thé a wodcoke;
For thow hast a long snowte,
A semly nose and a stowte,
Prickyd lyke an vnicorne:
I wold sum manys bake ink horne
Wher thi nose spectacle case;
Yt wold garnyche wyll thy face.

Thow demyst my raylyng ouyrthwarthe;
I rayle to thé soche as thow art.
If thow war aquentyd with alle
The famous poettes saturicall,
As Percius and Iuuynall,
Horace and noble Marciall,
If they wer lyueyng thys day,
Of thé wote I what they wolde say;
They wolde thé wryght, all with one steuyn,
The follest slouen ondyr heuen,

152

Prowde, peuiche, lyddyr, and lewde,
Malapert, medyllar, nothyng well thewde,
Besy, braynles, to bralle and brage,
Wytles, wayward, Syr Wryg wrag,
Dysdaynous, dowble, ful of dyseyte,
Liing, spying by suttelte and slyght,
Fleriing, flatyryng, fals, and fykkelle,
Scornefull and mokkyng ouer to mykkylle.

My tyme, I trow, I xulde but lese
To wryght to thé of tragydese,
It ys nat mete for soche a knaue;
But now my proces for to saue,
I have red, and rede I xall,
Inordynate pride wyll haue a falle.
Presumptuous pride ys all thyn hope:
God garde thé, Garnyche, from the rope!
Stop a tyd, and be welle ware
Ye be nat cawte in an hempen snare.
Harkyn herto, ye Haruy Haftar,
Pride gothe before and schame commyth after.

Thow wrythtyst I xulde let thé go pley:
Go pley thé, Garnyshe, garnysshyd gay;
I care nat what thow wryght or sey;
I cannat let thé the knaue to play,
To dauns the hay or rune the ray:
Thy fonde face can me nat fray.
Take thys for that, bere thys in mynde,
Of thy lewdenes more ys behynde;
A reme of papyr wyll nat holde
Of thi lewdenes that may be tolde.

153

My study myght be better spynt;
But for to serue the kynges entent,
Hys noble pleasure and commandemennt,
Scrybbyl thow, scrybyll thow, rayle or wryght,
Wryght what thow wylte, I xall thé aquyte.

By the kyngys most noble commandemennt.

154

SKELTON LAVREATE, ORATORIS REGIS TERTIUS, AGAINST VENEMOUS TONGUES ENPOYSONED WITH SCLAUNDER AND FALSE DETRACTIONS, &C.

Quid detur tibi, aut quid apponatur tibi ad linguam dolosam? Psalm. c. xlij.

Deus destruet te in finem; evellet te, et emigrabit te de tabernaculo tuo, et radicem tuam de terra viventium. Psal. lxvii.

Al maters wel pondred and wel to be regarded,
How shuld a fals lying tung then be rewarded?
Such tunges shuld be torne out by the harde rootes,
Hoyning like hogges that groynis and wrotes.

Dilexisti omnia verba præcipitationis, lingua dolosa. Ubi s. &c.

For, as I haue rede in volumes olde,
A fals lying tunge is harde to withholde;
A sclaunderous tunge, a tunge of a skolde,
Worketh more mischiefe than can be tolde;

155

That, if I wist not to be controlde,
Yet somwhat to say I dare well be bolde,
How some delite for to lye thycke and threfolde.

Ad sannam hominem redigit comice et graphice.

For ye said, that he said, that I said, wote ye what?
I made, he said, a windmil of an olde mat:
If there be none other mater but that,
Than ye may commaunde me to gentil Cok wat.

Hic notat purpuraria arte intextas literas Romanas in amictibus post ambulonum ante et retro.

For before on your brest, and behind on your back,
In Romaine letters I neuer founde lack;
In your crosse rowe nor Christ crosse you spede,
Your Pater noster, your Aue, nor your Crede.
Who soeuer that tale vnto you tolde,
He saith vntruly, to say that I would
Controlle the cognisaunce of noble men
Either by language or with my pen.

Pædagogium meum de sublimiori Minerva constat esse: ergo, &c.

My scole is more solem and somwhat more haute
Than to be founde in any such faute.

156

Pædagogium meum male sanos maledicos sibilis complosisque manibus explodit, &c.

My scoles are not for vnthriftes vntaught,
For frantick faitours half mad and half straught;
But my learning is of an other degree
To taunt theim like liddrous, lewde as thei bee.

Laxent ergo antennam elationis suæ inflatam vento vanitatis. li. ille, &c.

For though some be lidder, and list for to rayle,
Yet to lie vpon me they can not preuayle:
Then let them vale a bonet of their proud sayle,
And of their taunting toies rest with il hayle.

Nobilitati ignobilis cedat vilitas, &c.

There is no noble man wil iudge in me
Any such foly to rest or to be:
I care muche the lesse what euer they say,
For tunges vntayde be renning astray;
But yet I may say safely, so many wel lettred
Embraudred, enlasid together, and fettred,
And so little learning, so lewdly alowed,
What fault find ye herein but may be auowed?
But ye are so full of vertibilite,
And of frenetyke folabilite,
And of melancoly mutabilite,
That ye would coarte and enforce me
Nothing to write, but hay the gy of thre,
And I to suffre you lewdly to ly
Of me with your language full of vilany!

157

Sicut novacula acuta fecisti dolum. Ubi s.

Malicious tunges, though they haue no bones,
Are sharper then swordes, sturdier then stones.

Lege Philostratum de vita Tyanæi Apollonii.

Sharper then raysors that shaue and cut throtes,
More stinging then scorpions that stang Pharaotis.

Venenum aspidum sub labiis eorum. Ps.

More venemous and much more virulent
Then any poysoned tode or any serpent.

Quid peregrinis egemus exemplis? ad domestica recurramus, &c. li. ille.

Such tunges vnhappy hath made great diuision
In realmes, in cities, by suche fals abusion;
Of fals fickil tunges suche cloked collusion
Hath brought nobil princes to extreme confusion.

Quicquid loquantur, ut effœminantur, ita effantur &c.

Somtime women were put in great blame,
Men said they could not their tunges atame;
But men take vpon theim nowe all the shame,
With skolding and sklaundering make their tungs lame.

158

Novarum rerum cupidissimi, captatores, delatores, adulatores, invigilatores, deliratores, &c. id genus. li. ille.

For men be now tratlers and tellers of tales;
What tidings at Totnam, what newis in Wales,
What shippis are sailing to Scalis Malis?
And all is not worth a couple of nut shalis:
But lering and lurking here and there like spies;
The deuil tere their tunges and pike out their ies!
Then ren they with lesinges and blow them about,
With, He wrate suche a bil withouten dout;
With, I can tel you what such a man said;
And you knew all, ye would be ill apayd.

De more vulpino, gannientes ad aurem, fictas fabellas fabricant. il. ille.

Inauspicatum, male ominatum, infortunatum se fateatur habuisse horoscopum, quicunque maledixerit vati Pierio, S[keltonidi] L[aureato], &c.

But if that I knewe what his name hight,
For clatering of me I would him sone quight;
For his false lying, of that I spake neuer,
I could make him shortly repent him for euer:
Although he made it neuer so tough,
He might be sure to haue shame ynough.

159

Cerberus horrendo barathri latrando sub antro Te rodatque voret, lingua dolosa, precor.

A fals double tunge is more fiers and fell
Then Cerberus the cur couching in the kenel of hel;
Wherof hereafter I thinke for to write,
Of fals double tunges in the dispite.

Recipit se scripturum opus sanctum, laudabile, acceptabile, memorabileque, et nimis honorificandum.

Disperdat Dominus universa labia dolosa et linguam magniloquam!

160

[Ye may here now, in this ryme]

Ye may here now, in this ryme,
How euery thing must haue a tyme.

Tyme is a thing that no man may resyst;
Tyme is trancytory and irreuocable;
Who sayeth the contrary, tyme passeth as hym lyst;
Tyme must be taken in season couenable;
Take tyme when tyme is, for tyme is ay mutable;
All thynge hath tyme, who can for it prouyde;
Byde for tyme who wyll, for tyme wyll no man byde.

Tyme to be sad, and tyme to play and sporte;
Tyme to take rest by way of recreacion;
Tyme to study, and tyme to use comfort;
Tyme of pleasure, and tyme of consolation:
Thus tyme hath his tyme of diuers maner facion:

161

Tyme for to eate and drynke for thy repast;
Tyme to be lyberall, and tyme to make no wast;

Tyme to trauell, and tyme for to rest;
Tyme for to speake, and tyme to holde thy pease;
Tyme would be vsed when tyme is best;
Tyme to begyn, and tyme for to cease;
And when tyme is, [to] put thyselfe in prease,
And when tyme is, to holde thyselfe abacke;
For tyme well spent can neuer haue lacke.

The rotys take theyr sap in tyme of vere;
In tyme of somer flowres fresh and grene;
In tyme of haruest men their corne shere;
In tyme of wynter the north wynde waxeth kene,
So bytterly bytynge the flowres be not sene;
The kalendis of Janus, with his frostes hore,
That tyme is when people must lyue vpon the store.

Quod Skelton, Laureat.

162

PRAYER TO THE FATHER OF HEAUEN.

O radiant Luminary of lyght intermynable,
Celestial Father, potenciall God of myght,
Of heauen and earth, O Lord incomperable,
Of all perfections the essencial most perfyght!
O Maker of mankynde, that formyd day and nyghte,
Whose power imperyal comprehendeth euery place!
Myne hert, my mynde, my thought, my hole delyght
Is, after this lyfe, to see thy glorious face:

Whose magnifycence is incomprehensybyll,
All argumentes of reason which far doth excede,
Whose Deite dowtles is indiuysybyll,
From whom all goodnes and vertue doth procede;
Of thy support all creatures haue nede:
Assyst me, good Lord, and graunte me of thy grace.
To lyue to thy pleasure in word, thoughte, and dede,
And, after this lyfe, to see thy glorious face.

163

TO THE SECONDE PARSON.

O benygne Jesu, my souerayne Lord and Kynge,
The only Sonne of God by filiacion,
The Seconde Parson withouten beginnynge,
Both God and man our fayth maketh playne relacion,
Mary the mother, by way of incarnacion,
Whose glorious passion our soules doth reuyue!
Agayne all bodely and goostely trybulacion
Defende me with thy piteous woundis fyue.

O pereles Prynce, payned to the deth,
Rufully rent, thy body wan and blo,
For my redempcion gaue vp thy vytall breth,
Was neuer sorow lyke to thy dedly wo!
Graunte me, out of this world when I shall go,
Thyne endles mercy for my preseruatyue;
Agaynst the world, the flesh, the deuyl also,
Defende me wyth thy pyteous woundis fyue.

TO THE HOLY GOOSTE.

O firy feruence, inflamed wyth all grace,
Enkyndelyng hertes with brandis charitable,

164

The endles reward of pleasure and solace,
To the Father and the Son thou art communicable
In unitate which is inseperable!
O water of lyfe, O well of consolacion!
Agaynst all suggestions dedly and dampnable
Rescu me, good Lorde, by your preseruacion:

To whome is appropryed the Holy Ghost by name,
The Thyrde Parson, one God in Trinite,
Of perfyt loue thou art the ghostly flame:
O myrrour of mekenes, pease, and tranquylyte,
My confort, my counsell, my parfyt charyte!
O water of lyfe, O well of consolacion!
Agaynst all stormys of harde aduersyte
Rescu me, good Lord, by thy preseruacion.

Amen.

Quod Skelton, Laureat.

165

[Woffully araid]

Woffully araid,
My blode, man,
For thé ran,
It may not be naid;
My body bloo and wan,
Woffully araid.

Beholde me, I pray thé, with all thi hole reson,
And be not so hard hartid, and ffor this encheson,
Sith I for thi sowle sake was slayne in good seson,
Begylde and betraide by Judas fals treson;
Vnkyndly entretid,
With sharpe corde sore fretid,
The Jewis me thretid,
They mowid, they grynned, they scornyd me,
Condempnyd to deth, as thou maist se,
Woffully araid.

166

Thus nakyd am I nailid, O man, for thy sake!
I loue thé, then loue me; why slepist thou? awake!
Remembir my tendir hart rote for thé brake,
With panys my vaynys constreyn[e]d to crake;
Thus toggid to and fro,
Thus wrappid all in woo,
Whereas neuer man was so,
Entretid thus in most cruell wyse,
Was like a lombe offerd in sacrifice,
Woffully araid.

Off sharpe thorne I haue worne a crowne on my hede,
So paynyd, so straynyd, so rufull, so red;
Thus bobbid, thus robbid, thus for thy loue ded,
Onfaynyd not deynyd my blod for to shed;
My fete and handes sore
The sturdy nailis bore;
What myȝt I suffir more
Than I haue don, O man, for thé?
Cum when thou list, wellcum to me,
Woffully araide.

Off record thy good Lord y haue beyn and schal bee;
Y am thyn, thou artt myne, my brother y call thee;

167

Thé love I enterly; see whatt ys befall me!
Sore bettyng, sore thretyng, too mak thee, man, all fre:
Why art thou wnkynde?
Why hast nott mee yn mynde?
Cum ȝytt, and thou schalt fynde
Myne endlys mercy and grace;
See how a spere my hert dyd race,
Woyfully arayd.

Deyr brother, noo other thyng y off thee desyre
Butt gyve me thyne hert fre to rewarde myn hyre:
Y wrouȝt thé, I bowgȝt thé frome eternal fyre;
Y pray thé aray thé tooward my hyȝt empyre,
Above the oryent,
Wheroff y am regent,
Lord God omnypotent,
Wyth me too reyn yn endlys welthe;
Remember, man, thy sawlys helthe.

Woofully arayd,
My blode, man,
For thé rane,
Hytt may nott be nayd;
My body blow and wane,
Woyfully arayde.

Explicit qd. Skelton.

168

[Now synge we, as we were wont]

Now synge we, as we were wont,
Vexilla regis prodeunt.

The kinges baner on felde is [s]playd,
The crosses mistry can not be nayd,
To whom our Sauyour was betrayd,
And for our sake;
Thus sayth he,
I suffre for thé,
My deth I take.

Now synge we, &c.

Beholde my shankes, behold my knees,
Beholde my hed, armes, and thees,
Beholde of me nothyng thou sees
But sorowe and pyne;
Thus was I spylt,
Man, for thy gylte,
And not for myne.

Now synge we, &c.

169

Behold my body, how Jewes it donge
With knots of whipcord and scourges strong;
As stremes of a well the blode out sprong
On euery syde;
The knottes were knyt,
Ryght well made with wyt,
They made woundes wyde.

Now synge we, &c.

Man, thou shalt now vnderstand,
Of my head, bothe fote and hand,
Are four c. and fyue thousand
Woundes and sixty;
Fifty and vii.
Were tolde full euen
Vpon my body.

Now synge we, &c.

Syth I for loue bought thé so dere.
As thou may se thy self here,
I pray thé with a ryght good chere
Loue me agayne,
That it lykes me
To suffre for thé
Now all this payne.

Now synge we, &c.

Man, vnderstand now thou shall,
In sted of drynke they gaue me gall,
And eysell mengled therwithall,

170

The Jewes fell;
These paynes on me
I suffred for thé
To bryng thé fro hell.

Now synge we, &c.

Now for thy lyfe thou hast mysled,
Mercy to aske be thou not adred;
The lest drop of blode that I for thé bled
Myght clense thé soone
Of all the syn
The worlde within,
If thou haddest doone.

Now synge we, &c.

I was more wrother with Judas,
For he wold no mercy aske,
Than I was for his trespas
Whan he me solde;
I was euer redy
To graunt hym mercy,
But he none wolde.

Now synge we, &c.

Lo, how I hold my armes abrode,
Thé to receyue redy isprode!
For the great loue that I to thé had
Well may thou knowe,
Some loue agayne
I wolde full fayne

171

Thou woldest to me shewe.

Now synge we, &c.

For loue I aske nothyng of thé
But stand fast in faythe, and syn thou fle,
And payne to lyue in honeste
Bothe nyght and day;
And thou shalt have blys
That neuer shall mys
Withouten nay.

Now synge we, &c.

Now, Jesu, for thy great goodnes,
That for man suffred great hardnes,
Saue vs fro the deuyls cruelnes,
And to blys us send,
And graunt vs grace
To se thy face
Withouten ende.

Now synge we, &c.

173

HERE AFTER FOLOWETH THE BOKE ENTYTULED WARE THE HAUKE, PER SKELTON, LAUREAT.

PROLOGUS SKELTONIDIS LAUREATI SUPER WARE THE HAWKE.

This worke deuysed is
For such as do amys;
And specyally to controule
Such as haue cure of soule,
That be so farre abused,
They cannot be excused
By reason nor by law;
But that they play the daw,
To hawke, or els to hunt
From the aulter to the funte,
With cry vnreuerent,
Before the sacrament,
Within the holy church bowndis,
That of our faith the grounde is.
That pryest that hawkys so,
All grace is farre him fro;

174

He semeth a sysmatyke,
Or els an heretyke,
For fayth in him is faynte.
Therefore to make complaynte
Of such mysaduysed
Parsons and dysgysed,
This boke we haue deuysed,
Compendiously comprysed,
No good priest to offende,
But suche dawes to amende,
In hope that no man shall
Be myscontent withall.

I shall you make relacion,
By waye of apostrofacion,
Vnder supportacion
Of youre pacyent tolleracion,
How I, Skelton Laureat,
Deuysed and also wrate
Vpon a lewde curate,
A parson benyfyced,
But nothing well aduysed:
He shall be as now nameles,
But he shall not be blameles,
Nor he shal not be shameles;
For sure he wrought amys,
To hawke in my church of Dis.
This fonde frantyke fauconer,
With his polutid pawtenar,
As priest vnreuerent;
Streyght to the sacrament

175

He made his hawke to fly,
With hogeous showte and cry.
The hye auter he strypt naked;
There on he stode, and craked;
He shoke downe all the clothis,
And sware horrible othes
Before the face of God,
By Moyses and Arons rod,
Or that he thens yede,
His hawke shoulde pray and fede
Vpon a pigeons maw.
The bloude ran downe raw
Vpon the auter stone;
The hawke tyrid on a bonne;
And in the holy place
She mutid there a chase
Vpon my corporas face.
Such sacrificium laudis
He made with suche gambawdis.

OBSERVATE.

His seconde hawke wexid gery,
And was with flying wery;
She had flowin so oft,
That on the rode loft
She perkyd her to rest.
The fauconer then was prest,
Came runnyng with a dow,
And cryed, Stow, stow, stow!
But she would not bow.

176

He then, to be sure,
Callid her with a lure.
Her mete was very crude,
She had not wel endude;
She was not clene ensaymed,
She was not well reclaymed:
But the fawconer vnfayned
Was much more febler brayned.
The hawke had no lyst
To come to hys fyst;
She loked as she had the frounce;
With that he gaue her a bounce
Full vpon the gorge:
I wyll not fayne nor forge;
The hawke with that clap
Fell downe with euyll hap.
The church dores were sparred,
Fast boltyd and barryd,
Yet wyth a prety gyn
I fortuned to come in,
This rebell to beholde,
Wherof I hym controlde;
But he sayde that he woulde,
Agaynst my mynde and wyll,
In my churche hawke styll.

CONSIDERATE.

On Sainct John decollacion
He hawked on this facion,
Tempore vesperarum,
Sed non secundum Sarum,

177

But lyke a Marche harum,
His braynes were so parum.
He sayde he would not let
His houndis for to fet,
To hunte there by lyberte
In the dyspyte of me,
And to halow there the fox:
Downe went my offerynge box,
Boke, bell, and candyll,
All that he myght handyll:
Cros, staffe, lectryne, and banner,
Fell downe on this manner.

DELIBERATE.

With, troll, cytrace, and trouy,
They ranged, hankin bouy,
My churche all aboute.
This fawconer then gan showte,
These be my gospellers,
These be my pystillers,
These be my querysters,
To helpe me to synge,
My hawkes to mattens rynge.
In this priestly gydynge
His hawke then flew vppon
The rode with Mary and John.
Delt he not lyke a fon?
Delt he not lyke a daw?
Or els is this Goddes law,
Decrees or decretals,

178

Or holy sinodals,
Or els prouincials,
Thus within the wals
Of holy church to deale,
Thus to rynge a peale
With his hawkis bels?
Dowtles such losels
Make the churche to be
In smale auctoryte:
A curate in speciall
To snappar and to fall
Into this open cryme;
To loke on this were tyme.

VIGILATE.

But who so that lokys
In the officiallis bokis,
Ther he may se and reed
That this is matter indeed.
How be it, mayden Meed
Made theym to be agreed,
And so the Scrybe was feed,
And the Pharasay
Than durst nothing say,
But let the matter slyp,
And made truth to trip;
And of the spiritual law
They made but a gewgaw,
And toke it out in drynke,
And this the cause doth shrynke:

179

The church is thus abused,
Reproched and pollutyd:
Correccion hath no place,
And all for lacke of grace.

DEPLORATE.

Loke now in Exodi,
And de arca Domini,
With Regum by and by;
The Bybyll wyll not ly;
How the Temple was kept,
How the Temple was swept,
Where sanguis taurorum,
Aut sanguis vitulorum,
Was offryd within the wallis,
After ceremoniallis;
When it was poluted,
Sentence was executed,
By wey of expiacion,
For reconciliacion.

DIVINITATE.

Then muche more, by the rode,
Where Christis precious blode
Dayly offred is,
To be poluted this;
And that he wyshed withall
That the dowues donge downe might fal

180

Into my chalis at mas,
When consecrated was
The blessed sacrament:
O prieest vnreuerent!
He sayde that he woulde hunt
From the aulter to the funt.

REFORMATE.

Of no tyrande I rede,
That so farre dyd excede;
Neyther yet Dioclesyan,
Nor yet Domisian,
Nor yet croked Cacus,
Nor yet dronken Bacus;
Nother Olibrius,
Nor Dionisyus;
Nother Phalary,
Rehersed in Valery;
Nor Sardanapall,
Vnhappiest of all;
Nor Nero the worst,
Nor Clawdius the curst;
Nor yet Egeas,
Nor yet Syr Pherumbras;
Nother Zorobabell,
Nor cruel Jesabell;
Nor yet Tarquinius,
Whom Tytus Liuius
In wrytynge doth enroll;
I haue red them poll by poll;

181

The story of Arystobell,
And of Constantinopell,
Whiche citye miscreantys wan,
And slew many a Christen man;
Yet the Sowden, nor the Turke,
Wrought neuer suche a worke,
For to let theyr hawkes fly
In the Church of Saint Sophy;
With much matter more,
That I kepe in store.

PENSITATE.

Then in a tabull playne
I wroute a verse or twayne,
Whereat he made dysdayne:
The pekysh parsons brayne
Cowde not rech nor attayne
What the sentence ment;
He sayde, for a crokid intent
The wordes were paruerted:
And this he ouerthwarted.
Of the which proces
Ye may know more expres,
If it please you to loke
In the resydew of this boke.

Here after followeth the tabull.

Loke on this tabull,
Whether thou art abull

182

To rede or to spell
What these verses tell.

Sicculo lutueris est colo būraarā
Nixphedras uisarum caniuter tuntantes
Raterplas Natābrian umsudus itnugenus.
18 . 10 . 2 . 11 . 19 . 4 . 13 . 3 . 3 . 1 . tēualet.
Chartula stet, precor, hæc nullo temeranda petulco:
Hos rapiet numeros non homo, sed mala bos.
Ex parte rem chartæ adverte aperte, pone Musam
Arethusam hanc.

Whereto should I rehers
The sentence of my vers?
In them be no scholys
For braynsycke frantycke folys:
Construas hoc,
Domine Dawcocke!
Ware the hawke!

Maister sophista,
Ye simplex syllogista,
Ye deuelysh dogmatista,
Your hawke on your fista,

183

To hawke when you lista
In ecclesia ista,
Domine concupisti,
With thy hawke on thy fisty?
Nunquid sic dixisti?
Nunquid sic fecisti?
Sed ubi hoc legisti
Aut unde hoc,
Doctor Dawcocke?
Ware the hawke!

Doctor Dialetica,
Where fynde you in Hypothetica,
Or in Categoria,
Latina sive Dorica,
To vse your hawkys forica
In propitiatorio,
Tanquam diversorio?
Unde hoc,
Domine Dawcocke?
Ware the hawke!

Saye to me, Jacke Harys,
Quare aucuparis
Ad sacramentum altaris?
For no reuerens thou sparys
To shake my pygeons federis
Super arcam fœderis:
Unde hoc,
Doctor Dawcocke?
Ware the hawke!

184

Sir Dominus vobiscum,
Per aucupium
Ye made your hawke to cum
Desuper candelabrum
Christi crucifixi
To fede vpon your fisty:
Dic, inimice crucis Christi,
Ubi didicisti
Facere hoc,
Domine Dawcocke?
Ware the hawke!

Apostata Julianus,
Nor yet Nestorianus,
Thou shalt no where rede
That they dyd suche a dede,
To let theyr hawkys fly
Ad ostium tabernaculi,
In quo est corpus Domini:
Cave hoc,
Doctor Dawcocke!
Ware the hawke!

This dowtles ye rauyd,
Dys church ye thus deprauyd;
Wherfore, as I be sauyd,
Ye are therefore beknauyd:
Quare? quia Evangelia,
Concha et conchylia,
Accipiter et sonalia,
Et bruta animalia,
Cætera quoque talia

185

Tibi sunt æqualia:
Unde hoc,
Domine Dawcocke?
Ware the hawke!

Et relis et ralis,
Et reliqualis,
From Granado to Galis,
From Wynchelsee to Walys,
Non est braynsycke talis,
Nec minus rationalis,
Nec magis bestialis,
That synggys with a chalys:
Construas hoc,
Doctor Dawcocke!
Ware the hawke!

Masyd, wytles, smery smyth,
Hampar with your hammer vpon thy styth,
And make hereof a syckyll or a saw,
For thoughe ye lyue a c. yere, ye shall dy a daw.
Vos valete,
Doctor indiscrete!

187

EPITHAPHE.

This tretise devysed it is
Of two knaues somtyme of Dis.
Though this knaues be deade,
Full of myschiefe and queed,
Yet, where so euer they ly,
Theyr names shall neuer dye.

Compendium de duobus versipellibus, John Jayberd, et Adam all a knaue, deque illorum notissima vilitate.

202

SKELTON LAUREATE AGAINST THE SCOTTES.

Agaynst the prowde Scottes clatterynge,
That neuer wyll leaue theyr tratlynge:
Wan they the felde, and lost theyr kynge?
They may well say, fye on that wynnynge!

Lo, these fonde sottes
And tratlynge Scottes,
How thei are blynde
In theyr owne mynde,
And wyll not know
Theyr ouerthrow
At Branxton more!
They are so stowre,
So frantyke mad,
They say they had
And wan the felde
With spere and shelde:

203

That is as trew
As blacke is blew
And grene is gray.
What euer they say,
Jemmy is ded
And closed in led,
That was theyr owne kynge:
Fy on that wynnynge!

At Floddon hyllys
Our bowys, our byllys,
Slewe all the floure
Of theyr honoure.
Are not these Scottys
Folys and sottys,
Suche boste to make,
To prate and crake,
To face, to brace,
All voyde of grace,
So prowde of hart,
So ouerthwart,
So out of frame,
So voyde of shame,
As it is enrolde,
Wrytten and tolde
Within this quayre?
Who lyst to repayre,
And therein reed,
Shall fynde indeed
A mad rekenynge,
Consyderynge al thynge,

204

That the Scottis may synge
Fy on the wynnynge!

When the Scotte lyued.

Joly Jemmy, ye scorneful Scot,
Is it come vnto your lot
A solempne sumner for to be?
It greyth nought for your degre
Our kynge of Englande for to syght,
Your souerayne lord, our prynce of might:
Ye for to sende such a citacion,
It shameth all your noughty nacion,
In comparyson but kynge Koppynge
Vnto our prince, annoynted kynge.
Ye play Hob Lobbyn of Lowdean;
Ye shew ryght well what good ye can;
Ye may be lorde of Locrian,—
Chryst sence you with a frying pan!—
Of Edingborrow and Saint Ionis towne:
Adieu, syr sumner, cast of youre crowne!

When the Scot was slayne.

Continually I shall remember
The mery moneth of September,
With the ix daye of the same,
For then began our myrth and game;
So that now I haue deuysed,
And in my minde I haue comprysed,

205

Of the prowde Scot, kynge Jemmy,
To wryte some lyttle tragedy,
For no maner consyderacion
Of any sorowful lamentacion,
But for the special consolacion
Of all our royall Englysh nacion.

Melpomone, O Muse tragediall,
Vnto your grace for grace now I call,
To guyde my pen and my pen to enbybe!
Illumyn me, your poete and your scrybe,
That with myxture of aloes and bytter gall
I may compounde confectures for a cordiall,
To angre the Scottes and Irysh keteringes withall,
That late were discomfect with battayle marcyall.

Thalia, my Muse, for you also call I,
To touche them with tauntes of your armony,
A medley to make of myrth with sadnes,
The hartes of England to comfort with gladnes:
And now to begyn I wyll me adres,
To you rehersynge the somme of my proces.

Kynge Jamy, Jemmy, Jocky my jo,
Ye summond our kynge,—why dyd ye so?
To you nothing it dyd accorde
To summon our kynge, your soueraygne lord.
A kyng, a sumner! it was great wonder:
Know ye not suger and salt asonder?
Your sumner to saucy, to malapert,
Your harrold in armes not yet halfe experte.
Ye thought ye dyd yet valyauntly,
Not worth thre skyppes of a pye:

206

Syr skyrgalyard, ye were so skyt,
Your wyll than ran before your wyt.

Your lege ye layd and your aly,
Your frantick fable not worth a fly,
Frenche kynge, or one or other;
Regarded ye should your lord, your brother.
Trowid ye, Syr Jemy, his nobul grace
From you, Syr Scot, would turne his face?
With, Gup, Syr Scot of Galawey!
Now is your pryde fall to decay.
Male vryd was your fals entent
For to offende your presydent,
Your souerayne lord most reuerent,
Your lord, your brother, and your regent.

In him is fygured Melchisedec,
And ye were disloyall Amalec.
He is our noble Scipione,
Annoynted kynge; and ye were none,
Thoughe ye vntruly your father haue slayne.
His tytle is true in Fraunce to raygne;
And ye, proud Scot, Dunde, Dunbar,
Pardy, ye were his homager,
And suter to his parliament:
For your vntruth now ar ye shent.
Ye bare yourselfe somwhat to bold,
Therfore ye lost your copyehold;
Ye were bonde tenent to his estate;
Lost is your game, ye are checkmate.

Vnto the castell of Norram,
I vnderstande, to sone ye came.

207

At Branxston more and Flodden hylles,
Our Englysh bowes, our Englysh bylles,
Agaynst you gaue so sharpe a shower,
That of Scotland ye lost the flower.
The Whyte Lyon, there rampaunt of moode,
He ragyd and rent out your hart bloode;
He the Whyte, and ye the Red,
The Whyte there slew the Red starke ded.
Thus for your guerdon quyt ar ye,
Thanked be God in Trinite,
And swete Sainct George, our ladies knyght!
Your eye is out; adew, good nyght!

Ye were starke mad to make a fray,
His grace beyng out of the way:
But, by the power and might of God,
For your owne tayle ye made a rod.
Ye wanted wit, syr, at a worde;
Ye lost your spurres, ye lost your sworde.
Ye myght haue buskyd you to Huntley bankys;
Your pryde was peuysh to play such prankys:
Your pouerte coude not attayne
With our kynge royal war to mayntayne.

Of the kyng of Nauerne ye might take heed,
Vngraciously how he doth speed:
In double delynge so he did dreme,
That he is kynge without a reme;
And, for example ye would none take,
Experiens hath brought you in suche a brake.
Your welth, your ioy, your sport, your play,
Your bragynge bost, your royal aray,

208

Your beard so brym as bore at bay,
Your Seuen Systers, that gun so gay,
All haue ye lost and cast away.
Thus fortune hath tourned you, I dare well saye,
Now from a kynge to a clot of clay:
Out of your robes ye were shaked,
And wretchedly ye lay starke naked.
For lacke of grace hard was your hap:
The Popes curse gaue you that clap.

Of the out yles the roughe foted Scottes,
We haue well eased them of the bottes:
The rude ranke Scottes, lyke dronken dranes,
At Englysh bowes haue fetched theyr banes.
It is not fytting in tower and towne
A sumner to were a kynges crowne:
Fortune on you therfore did frowne;
Ye were to hye, ye are cast downe.
Syr sumner, now where is your crowne?
Cast of your crowne, cast vp your crowne!
Syr sumner, now ye haue lost your crowne.

Quod Skelton laureate, oratoure to the Kynges most royall estate.

Scotia, redacta in formam provinciæ,
Regis parebit nutibus Angliæ
Alioquin, per desertum Sin, supeer cherubim,
Cherubin, seraphim, seraphinque, ergo, &c.

209

VNTO DIUERS PEOPLE THAT REMORD THIS RYMYNGE AGAYNST THE SCOT JEMMY.

I am now constrayned,
With wordes nothynge fayned,
This inuectiue to make,
For some peoples sake
That lyst for to iangyll
And waywardly to wrangyll
Agaynst this my makynge,
Their males therat shakynge,
At it reprehending,
And venemously stingynge,
Rebukynge and remordyng,
And nothing according.

Cause haue they none other,
But for that he was brother,
Brother vnnatural
Vnto our kynge royall,
Against whom he dyd fighte
Falsly agaynst all ryght,
Lyke that vntrue rebell
Fals Kayn agaynst Abell.

Who so therat pyketh mood,
The tokens are not good
To be true Englysh blood;
For, yf they vnderstood
His traytourly dispyght,
He was a recrayed knyght,

210

A subtyll sysmatyke,
Ryght nere an heretyke,
Of grace out of the state,
And died excomunycate.

And for he was a kynge,
The more shamefull rekemynge
Of hym should men report,
In ernest and in sport.
He skantly loueth our kynge,
That grudgeth at this thing:
That cast such ouerthwartes
Percase haue hollow hartes.

Si veritatem dico, quare non creditis mihi:

213

VILITISSIMUS SCOTUS DUNDAS ALLEGAT CAUDAS CONTRA ANGLIGENAS.

Caudatos Anglos, spurcissime Scote, quid effers? Effrons es, quoque sons, mendax, tua spurcaque bucca est.

Anglicus a tergo
caudam gerit;
est canis ergo.
Anglice caudate,
cape caudam
ne cadat a te.
Ex causa caudæ
manet Anglica
gens sine laude.

Diffamas patriam, qua non
est melior usquam.
Cum cauda plaudis dum
possis, ad ostia pultas
Mendicans; mendicus eris,
mendaxque bilinguis,

214

Scabidus, horribilis, quem
vermes sexque pedales
Corrodunt misere; miseris
genus est maledictum.

Skelton, nobilis poeta.

Gup, Scot,
Ye blot:
Laudate
Caudate,
Set in better
Thy pentameter.
This Dundas,
This Scottishe as,
He rymes and railes
That Englishmen haue tailes.

Skeltonus laureatus,
Anglicus natus,
Provocat Musas
Contra Dundas
Spurcissimum Scotum,
Undique notum,
Rustice fotum,
Vapide potum.
Skelton laureat
After this rate
Defendeth with his pen
All Englysh men
Agayn Dundas,
That Scottishe asse.

215

Shake thy tayle, Scot, lyke a cur,
For thou beggest at euery mannes dur:
Tut, Scot, I sey,
Go shake thy dog, hey!
Dundas of Galaway
With thy versyfyeng rayles
How they haue tayles.
By Jesu Christ,
Fals Scot, thou lyest:
But behynd in our hose
We bere there a rose
For thy Scottyshe nose,
A spectacle case
To couer thy face,
With tray deux ase.
A tolman to blot,
A rough foted Scot!
Dundas, sir knaue,
Why doste thow depraue
This royall reame,
Whose radiant beame
And relucent light
Thou hast in despite,
Thou donghyll knyght?
But thou lakest might,
Dundas, dronken and drowsy,
Skabed, scuruy, and lowsy,
Of vnhappy generacion
And most vngracious nacion.

216

Dundas,
That dronke asse,
That ratis and rankis,
That prates and prankes
On Huntley bankes,
Take this our thankes;
Dunde, Dunbar,
Walke, Scot,
Walke, sot,
Rayle not to far.

219

Why were ye Calliope embrawdred with letters of golde?

SKELTON LAUREATE, ORATO. REG. MAKETH THIS AUNSWERE, &c.

Calliope,
As ye may se,
Regent is she
Of poetes al,
Whiche gaue to me
The high degre
Laureat to be
Of fame royall;
Whose name enrolde
With silke and golde
I dare be bolde
Thus for to were.
Of her I holde
And her housholde;
Though I waxe olde
And somdele sere,
Yet is she fayne,

220

Voyde of disdayn,
Me to retayne
Her seruiture:
With her certayne
I wyll remayne,
As my souerayne
Moost of pleasure,
Maulqre touz malheureux.

221

THE BOKE OF THREE FOOLES.

M. SKELTON, POETE LAUREATE, GAUE TO MY LORD CARDYNALL.

THE FYRST FOOLE.

The man that doth wed a wyfe
For her goodes and her rychesse,
And not for lygnage femynatyfe,
Procureth doloure and dystresse,
With infynyte payne and heuynesse;
For she wyll do hym moche sorowe,
Bothe at euyn and at morowe.

THE SECONDE FOOLE.

The dartes ryght cursed of Enuye
Hath rayned sythe the worlde began,
Whiche bryngeth man euydently
Into the bondes of Sathan;
Wherfore he is a dyscrete man
That can eschewe that euyll synne
Where body and soule is lost in.

THE THYRD FOOLE.

Dyuers by voluptuousnes
Of women, the which be present,

222

Be brought into full great dystres,
Forgettyng vertues excellent
Of God, the whych is permanent,
And suffreth themselfe to be bounde
In cordes, as it were a hounde.

232

A replycacion agaynst certayne yong scholers abiured of late, &c.

[A lytell ragge of rethorike]

A lytell ragge of rethorike,
A lesse lumpe of logyke,
A pece or a patche of philosophy,
Than forthwith by and by
They tumble so in theology,
Drowned in dregges of diuinite,
That they iuge them selfe able to be
Doctours of the chayre in the Uyntre
At the Thre Cranes,
To magnifye their names:
But madly it frames,
For all that they preche and teche
Is farther than their wytte wyll reche.
Thus by demeryttes of their abusyon,

233

Finally they fall to carefull confusyon,
To beare a fagot, or to be enflamed:
Thus are they vndone and vtterly shamed.

234

[To the honour of our blessed lady]

To the honour of our blessed lady,
And her most blessed baby,
I purpose for to reply
Agaynst this horryble heresy
Of these yong heretikes, that stynke vnbrent,

235

Whom I nowe sommon and content,
That leudly haue their tyme spent,
In their study abhomynable,
Our glorious lady to disable,
And heynously on her to bable
With langage detestable;
With your lyppes polluted
Agaynst her grace disputed,
Whiche is the most clere christall
Of all pure clennesse virgynall,
That our Sauyour bare,
Whiche vs redemed from care.

I saye, thou madde Marche hare,
I wondre howe ye dare
Open your ianglyng iawes,
To preche in any clawes,
Lyke pratynge poppyng dawes,
Agaynst her excellence,
Agaynst her reuerence,
Agaynst her preemynence,
Agaynst her magnifycence,
That neuer dyde offence.

Ye heretykes recrayed,
Wotte ye what ye sayed
Of Mary, mother and mayed?
With baudrie at her ye brayed;
With baudy wordes vnmete
Your tonges were to flete;
Your sermon was nat swete;
Ye were nothyng discrete;

236

Ye were in a dronken hete.
Lyke heretykes confettred,
Ye count yourselfe wele lettred:
Your lernyng is starke nought,
For shamefully ye haue wrought,
And to shame your selfe haue brought.

Bycause ye her mysnamed,
And wolde haue her defamed,
Your madnesse she attamed;
For ye were worldly shamed,
At Poules crosse openly,
All men can testifye;
There, lyke a sorte of sottes,
Ye were fayne to beare fagottes;
At the feest of her concepcion
Ye suffred suche correction.

Sive per æquivocum,
Sive per univocum,
Sive sic, sive nat so,
Ye are brought to, Lo, lo, lo!
Se where the heretykes go,
Wytlesse wandring to and fro!
With, Te he, ta ha, bo ho, bo ho!
And suche wondringes many mo.
Helas, ye wreches, ye may be wo!
Ye may syng wele away,
And curse bothe nyght and day,
Whan ye were bredde and borne,
And whan ye were preestes shorne,
Thus to be laughed to skorne,

237

Thus tattred and thus torne,
Thorowe your owne foly,
To be blowen with the flye
Of horryble heresy.
Fayne ye were to reny,
And mercy for to crye,
Or be brende by and by,
Confessyng howe ye dyde lye
In prechyng shamefully.

Your selfe thus ye discured
As clerkes vnassured,
With ignorance obscured:
Ye are vnhappely vred.
In your dialeticall
And principles silogisticall,
If ye to remembrance call
Howe syllogisari
Non est ex particulari,
Neque negativis,
Recte concludere si vis,
Et cætera id genus,
Ye coude nat corde tenus,
Nor answere verbo tenus,
Whan prelacy you opposed;
Your hertes than were hosed,
Your relacions reposed;
And yet ye supposed.
Respondere ad quantum,
But ye were confuse tantum,
Surrendring your supposycions,

238

For there ye myst you[r] quosshons.

Wolde God, for your owne ease,
That wyse Harpocrates
Had your mouthes stopped,
And your tonges cropped,
Whan ye logyke chopped,
And in the pulpete hopped,
And folysshly there fopped,
And porisshly forthe popped
Your sysmaticate sawes
Agaynst Goddes lawes,
And shewed your selfe dawes!
Ye argued argumentes,
As it were vpon the elenkes,
De rebus apparentibus
Et non existentibus;
And ye wolde appere wyse,
But ye were folysshe nyse:
Yet be meanes of that vyse
Ye dyde prouoke and tyse,
Oftnar than ones or twyse,
Many a good man
And many a good woman,
By way of their deuocion
To helpe you to promocion,
Whose charite wele regarded
Can nat be vnrewarded.

I saye it for no sedicion,
But vnder pacient tuicyon,
It is halfe a supersticyon

239

To gyue you exhibycion
To mainteyne with your skoles,
And to proue your selfe suche foles.

Some of you had ten pounde,
Therwith for to be founde
At the vnyuersyte,
Employed whiche myght haue be
Moche better other wayes.
But, as the man sayes,
The blynde eteth many a flye:
What may be ment hereby,
Ye may soone make construction
With right lytell instruction;
For it is an auncyent brute,
Suche apple tre, suche frute.
What shulde I prosecute,
Or more of this to clatter?
Retourne we to our matter.

Ye soored ouer hye
In the ierarchy
Of Iouenyans heresy,
Your names to magnifye,
Among the scabbed skyes
Of Wycliffes flesshe flyes;
Ye strynged so Luthers lute,
That ye dawns all in a sute
The heritykes ragged ray,
That bringes you out of the way
Of holy churches lay;
Ye shayle inter enigmata

240

And inter paradigmata,
Marked in your cradels
To beare fagottes for babyls.

And yet some men say,
Howe ye are this day,
And be nowe as yll,
And so ye wyll be styll,
As ye were before.
What shulde I recken more?

Men haue you in suspicion
Howe ye haue small contrycion
Of that ye haue myswrought:
For, if it were well sought,
One of you there was
That laughed whan he dyd pas
With his fagot in processyon;
He counted it for no correction,
But with scornefull affection
Toke it for a sporte,
His heresy to supporte;
Whereat a thousande gased,
As people halfe amased,
And thought in hym smale grace
His foly so to face.

Some iuged in this case
Your penaunce toke no place,
Your penaunce was to lyght;
And thought, if ye had right,
Ye shulde take further payne
To resorte agayne

241

To places where ye haue preched,
And your lollardy lernyng teched,
And there to make relacion
In open predycacion,
And knowlege your offence
Before open audyence,
Howe falsely ye had surmysed,
And deuyllysshely deuysed
The people to seduce,
And chase them thorowe the muse
Of your noughty counsell,
To hunt them into hell,
With blowyng out your hornes,
Full of mockysshe scornes,
With chatyng and rechatyng,
And your busy pratyng:
Of the gospell and the pystels
Ye pyke out many thystels,
And bremely with your bristels
Ye cobble and ye clout
Holy Scripture so about,
That people are in great dout
And feare leest they be out
Of all good Christen order.
Thus all thyng ye disorder
Thorowe out euery bord[e]r.

It had ben moche better
Ye had neuer lerned letter,
For your ignorance is gretter,
I make you fast and sure,

242

Than all your lytterature.
Ye are but lydder logici,
But moche worse isagogici,
For ye haue enduced a secte
With heresy all infecte;
Wherfore ye are well checte,
And by holy churche correcte,
And in maner as abiecte,
For euermore suspecte,
And banysshed in effect
From all honest company,
Bycause ye haue eaten a flye,
To your great vyllony,
That neuer more may dye.

Come forthe, ye popeholy,
Full of melancoly;
Your madde ipocrisy,
And your idiosy,
And your vayne glorie,
Haue made you eate the flye,
Pufte full of heresy,
To preche it idolatry,
Who so dothe magnifye
That glorious mayde Mary;
That glorious mayde and mother,
So was there neuer another
But that princesse alone,
To whom we are bounde echone
The ymage of her grace
To reuerence in-euery place.

243

I saye, ye braynlesse beestes,
Why iangle you suche iestes,
In your diuynite
Of Luthers affynite,
To the people of lay fee,
Raylyng in your rages
To worshyppe none ymages,
Nor do pylgrymages?
I saye, ye deuyllysshe pages,
Full of suche dottages,
Count ye your selfe good clerkes,
And snapper in suche werkes?

Saynt Gregorie and saynt Ambrose,
Ye haue reed them, I suppose,
Saynt Jerome and saynt Austen,
With other many holy men,
Saynt Thomas de Aquyno,
With other doctours many mo,
Whiche de latria do trete;
They saye howe latria is an honour grete,
Belongyng to the Deite:
To this ye nedes must agre.

But, I trowe, your selfe ye ouerse
What longeth to Christes humanyte.
If ye haue reed de hyperdulia,
Than ye knowe what betokeneth dulia:
Than shall ye fynde it fyrme and stable,
And to our faithe moche agreable,
To worshyppe ymages of sayntes.
Wherfore make ye no mo restrayntes,

244

But mende your myndes that are mased;
Or els doutlesse ye shalbe blased,
And be brent at a stake,
If further busynesse that ye make.
Therfore I vyse you to forsake
Of heresy the deuyllysshe scoles,
And crye Godmercy, lyke frantyke foles.

Tantum pro secundo.

Peroratio ad nuper abjuratos quosdam hypotheticos hæreticos, &c.

Audite, viri Ismaelitæ, non dico Israelitæ;
Audite, inquam, viri Madianitæ, Ascalonitæ;
Ammonitæ, Gabaonitæ, audite verba quæ loquar.

Opus evangelii est cibus perfectorum;
Sed quia non estis de genere bonorum,
Qui caterisatis categorias cacodæmoniorum,

Ergo

Et reliqua vestra problemata, schemata,
Dilemmata, sinto anathemata!
Ineluctabile argumentum est.

245

A confutacion responsyue, or an ineuytably prepensed answere to all waywarde or frowarde altercacyons that can or may be made or obiected agaynst Skelton laureate, deuyser of this Replycacyon, &c.

Why fall ye at debate
With Skelton laureate,
Reputyng hym vnable
To gainsay replycable
Opinyons detestable
Of heresy execrable?

Ye saye that poetry
Maye nat flye so hye
In theology,
Nor analogy,
Nor philology,
Nor philosophy,
To answere or reply
Agaynst suche heresy.

Wherfore by and by
Nowe consequently
I call to this rekenyng
Dauyd, that royall kyng,
Whom Hieronymus,
That doctour glorious,
Dothe bothe write and call
Poete of poetes all,
And prophete princypall.

246

This may nat be remorded,
For it is wele recorded
In his pystell ad Paulinum,
Presbyterum divinum,
Where worde for worde ye may
Rede what Jerome there dothe say.

David, inquit, Simonides noster, Pindarus, et Alcæus, Flaccus quoque, Catullus, atque Serenus, Christum lyra personat, et in decachordo psalterio ab inferis excitat resurgentem. Hæc Hier.

The Englysshe.

Kyng Dauid the prophete, of prophetes principall,
Of poetes chefe poete, saint Jerome dothe wright,
Resembled to Symonides, that poete lyricall
Among the Grekes most relucent of lyght,
In that faculte whiche shyned as Phebus bright;
Lyke to Pyndarus in glorious poetry,
Lyke vnto Alcheus, he dothe hym magnify.

247

Flaccus nor Catullus with hym may nat compare,
Nor solempne Serenus, for all his armony
In metricall muses, his harpyng we may spare;
For Dauid, our poete, harped so meloudiously
Of our Sauyour Christ in his decacorde psautry,
That at his resurrection he harped out of hell
Olde patriarkes and prophetes in heuen with him to dwell.

Returne we to our former processe.

Than, if this noble kyng
Thus can harpe and syng
With his harpe of prophecy
And spyrituall poetry,
As saynt Jerome saythe,
To whom we must gyue faythe,
Warblyng with his strynges
Of suche theologicall thynges,
Why haue ye than disdayne
At poetes, and complayne
Howe poetes do but fayne?

Ye do moche great outrage,
For to disparage
And to discorage

248

The fame matryculate
Of poetes laureate.

For if ye sadly loke,
And wesely rede the Boke
Of Good Aduertysement,
With me ye must consent
And infallibly agre
Of necessyte,
Howe there is a spyrituall,
And a mysteriall,
And a mysticall
Effecte energiall,
As Grekes do it call,
Of suche an industry,
And suche a pregnacy,
Of heuenly inspyracion
In laureate creacyon,
Of poetes commendacion,
That of diuyne myseracion
God maketh his habytacion
In poetes whiche excelles,
And soiourns with them and dwelles.

By whose inflammacion
Of spyrituall instygacion
And diuyne inspyracion,
We are kyndled in suche facyon
With hete of the Holy Gost,
Which is God of myghtes most,
That he our penne dothe lede,
And maketh in vs suche spede,

249

That forthwith we must nede
With penne and ynke procede,
Somtyme for affection,
Somtyme for sadde dyrection,
Somtyme for correction,
Somtyme vnder protection
Of pacient sufferance,
With sobre cyrcumstance,
Our myndes to auaunce
To no mannes anoyance;
Therfore no greuance,
I pray you, for to take,
In this that I do make
Agaynst these frenetykes,
Agaynst these lunatykes,
Agaynst these sysmatykes,
Agaynst these heretykes,
Nowe of late abiured,
Most vnhappely vred:
For be ye wele assured,
That frensy nor ielousy
Nor heresy wyll neuer dye.

Dixi iniquis, Nolite inique agere; et delinquentibus, Nolite exaltare cornu.

Tantum pro tertio.

De raritate poetarum, deque gymnosophistarum, philosophorum, theologorum,
250

cæterorumque eruditorum infinita numerositate, Skel. L. epitoma.

Sunt infiniti, sunt innumerique sophistæ,
Sunt infiniti, sunt innumerique logistæ,
Innumeri sunt philosophi, sunt theologique,
Sunt infiniti doctores, suntque magistri
Innumeri; sed sunt pauci rarique poetæ.
Hinc omne est rarum carum: reor ergo poetas
Ante alios omnes divino flamine flatos.
Sic Plato divinat, divinat sicque Socrates;
Sic magnus Macedo, sic Cæsar, maximus heros
Romanus, celebres semper coluere poeta[s].

Thus endeth the Replicacyon of Skel. L. &c.

END OF VOL. I.

University of Virginia Library

I. VOLUME I.

OF THE DEATH OF THE NOBLE PRINCE, KYNGE EDWARDE THE FORTH, PER SKELTONIDEM LAUREATUM.

SKELTON LAUREAT VPON THE DOULOUR[U]S DETHE AND MUCHE LAMENTABLE CHAUNCE OF THE MOST HONORABLE ERLE OF NORTHUMBERLANDE.

SKELTON LAUREATE AGAYNSTE A comely coystrowne, that curyowsly chawntyd, and curryshly cowntred, and madly in hys musykkys mokkyshly made agaynste the ix Musys of polytyke poems and poettys matryculat.

SKELTON LAUREAT, Vppon a deedmans hed, that was sent to hym from an honorable jentyllwoman for a token, deuysyd this gostly medytacyon in Englysh couenable, in sentence comendable, lamentable, lacrymable, profytable for the soule.

[Womanhod, wanton, ye want]

Here folowythe dyuers Balettys and Dyties solacyous, deuysyd by Master Skelton, Laureat.

[With, Lullay, lullay, lyke a chylde]

[The auncient acquaintance, madam, betwen vs twayn]

[Knolege, aquayntance, resort, fauour with grace]

[Though ye suppose all jeperdys ar paste]

[Go, pytyous hart, rasyd with dedly wo]

MANERLY MARGERY MYLK AND ALE.

HERE BEGYNNETH A LYTELL TREATYSE, NAMED THE BOWGE OF COURTE.

THE PROLOGUE TO THE BOWGE OF COURTE.

HERE AFTER FOLOWETH THE BOKE OF PHYLLYP SPAROWE.

COMPYLED BY MAYSTER SKELTON, POETE LAUREATE.

THE COMMENDACIONS.

Thus endeth the boke of Philip Sparow, and here foloweth an adicyon made by maister Skelton.

HERE AFTER FOLOWETH THE BOOKE CALLED ELYNOUR RUMMYNGE.

THE TUNNYNG OF ELYNOUR RUMMYNG PER SKELTON LAUREAT.

Primus passus.

Secundus passus.

Tertius passus.

Quartus passus.

Quintus passus.

Sextus passus.

Septimus passus.

POEMS AGAINST GARNESCHE.

SKELTON LAURIATE DEFEND[ER] AGENST M[ASTER] GARNESCHE CHALENGER, ET CETERA.

SKELTON LAURYATE DEFENDER AGENST M[ASTER] GARNESCHE CHALANGAR, WITH GRESY, GORBELYD GODFREY [ET] CETERA.

SKELTON LAWRYATE DEFENDER AGENYST LUSTY GARNYCHE WELLE BE SEYN CRYSTEOUYR CHALANNGER, ET CETERA.

SKELTON LAUREATE DEFENDAR AGEINST LUSTY GARNYSHE WELL BESEEN CRYSTOFER CHALANGAR, ET CETERA.

SKELTON LAVREATE, ORATORIS REGIS TERTIUS, AGAINST VENEMOUS TONGUES ENPOYSONED WITH SCLAUNDER AND FALSE DETRACTIONS, &C.

[Ye may here now, in this ryme]

PRAYER TO THE FATHER OF HEAUEN.

TO THE SECONDE PARSON.

TO THE HOLY GOOSTE.

[Woffully araid]

[Now synge we, as we were wont]

HERE AFTER FOLOWETH THE BOKE ENTYTULED WARE THE HAUKE, PER SKELTON, LAUREAT.

PROLOGUS SKELTONIDIS LAUREATI SUPER WARE THE HAWKE.

OBSERVATE.

CONSIDERATE.

DELIBERATE.

VIGILATE.

DEPLORATE.

DIVINITATE.

REFORMATE.

PENSITATE.

Here after followeth the tabull.

EPITHAPHE.

SKELTON LAUREATE AGAINST THE SCOTTES.

When the Scotte lyued.

When the Scot was slayne.

VNTO DIUERS PEOPLE THAT REMORD THIS RYMYNGE AGAYNST THE SCOT JEMMY.

VILITISSIMUS SCOTUS DUNDAS ALLEGAT CAUDAS CONTRA ANGLIGENAS.

Why were ye Calliope embrawdred with letters of golde?

SKELTON LAUREATE, ORATO. REG. MAKETH THIS AUNSWERE, &c.

THE BOKE OF THREE FOOLES.

M. SKELTON, POETE LAUREATE, GAUE TO MY LORD CARDYNALL.

THE FYRST FOOLE.

THE SECONDE FOOLE.

THE THYRD FOOLE.

A replycacion agaynst certayne yong scholers abiured of late, &c.

[A lytell ragge of rethorike]

[To the honour of our blessed lady]

Tantum pro secundo.

Peroratio ad nuper abjuratos quosdam hypotheticos hæreticos, &c.

Ergo

A confutacion responsyue, or an ineuytably prepensed answere to all waywarde or frowarde altercacyons that can or may be made or obiected agaynst Skelton laureate, deuyser of this Replycacyon, &c.

The Englysshe.

Returne we to our former processe.

Tantum pro tertio.

De raritate poetarum, deque gymnosophistarum, philosophorum, theologorum, 250 cæterorumque eruditorum infinita numerositate, Skel. L. epitoma.

De raritate poetarum, deque gymnosophistarum, philosophorum, theologorum,
250

cæterorumque eruditorum infinita numerositate, Skel. L. epitoma.