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

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,

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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;

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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,

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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,

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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

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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

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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

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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,

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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.

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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,

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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.