University of Virginia Library

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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;

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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

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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.

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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,

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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,

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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:

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179

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

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

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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;

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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.

Here after followeth the tabull.

Loke on this tabull,
Whether thou art abull

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182

To rede or to spell
What these verses tell.

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

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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!

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184

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

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185

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