Thersytes :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thersytes

Udall, Nicholas (1505-1556)

A NEW ENTERLUDE CALLED THERSYTES:

THERSITES

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Thersites commeth in fyrste havinge a clubbe uppon his necke
[Thersites]

Have in a ruffler foorth of the greke lande
Called Thersites if ye wyll me knowe.
Abacke, geve me roume! in my way do ye not stand,
For if ye do I wyll soone laye you lowe.
In Homere of my actes ye have red I trow:
Neyther Agamemnon nor Ulysses I spared to checke—
They coulde not bringe me to be at theyr becke.

Of late frome the sege of Troye I retourned
Where all my harnes excepte this clubbe I lost,
In an olde house there it was quyte burned
Whyle I was preparinge vytayles for the hoste.
I must nedes get me newe what so ever it cost.
I wyll go seke adventures for I can not be ydle;
I wyll hamper some of the knaves in a brydle.

It greveth me to heare howe the knaves do bragge
But, by supreme Jupiter, when I am harnessed well
I shall make the dasters to renne in to a bagge
To hyde them fro me as from the devyll of hell.
I doubte not but hereafter of me ye shall heare tell
Howe I have made the knaves for to play cowch quaile.
But nowe to the shop of Mulciber to go I wyll not faile.

Mulciber must have a shop made in the place and Thersites cometh before it sayinge a loude:

Mulciber, whom the poetes doth call the god of fyer,
Smith unto Jupiter kinge over all,
Come foorth! Of thy office I the desyre,
And graunte me my petiction; I aske a thinge but small.
I wyl none of thy lightning, that thou art wont to make
For the goddes supernall for yre when they do shake,

With whiche they thruste the gyauntes downe to hell
That were at a convention heaven to bye and sell;
But I woulde have some helpe of Lemnos and Ilva
That of theyr stele, by thy crafte, condatur mihi galea.

Mulciber
What, felowe Thersites, do ye speake latyn nowe?
Nay, then farewell. I make God a vowe,
I do not you understande—no latyn is in my palet.

And then he must do as he wolde go awaye.
Thersites
I say abyde, good Mulciber. I praye [thee] make me a sallet.

Mulciber
Why, Thersites, hast thou anye wytte in thy head?
Woldest thou have a sallet nowe, all the herbes are dead?
Besyde that it is not mete for a smyth
To gether herbes and sallettes to medle with.
Go get the to my lover Venus;
She hath sallettes ynough for all us.
I eate none suche sallettes for now I waxe olde
And for my stomacke they are verye coulde.

Thersites
Nowe I praye to Jupiter that thou dye a cuckolde.
I meane a sallet with whiche men do fyght.

Mulciber
It is a small tastinge of a mannes mighte
That he shoulde for any matter
Fyght with a fewe herbes in a platter—
No greate laude shoulde folowe that victorye.

Thersites
Goddes passion, Mulciber! where is thy wit and memory?
I wolde have a sallet made of stele.

Mulciber
Whye, syr, in youre stomacke longe you shall it fele,
For stele is harde for to digest.

Thersites

Mans bones and sydes, hee is worse then a beest!
I wolde have a sallet to were on my hed
Whiche under my chyn with a thonge red

Buckeled shall be.
Doest thou yet parceyve me?

Mulciber

Your mynde now I se.

Why thou pevysshe ladde
Arte thou almost madde

Or well in thy wytte?
Gette the a wallette!
Wolde thou have a sallette?
What woldest thou do with it?

Thersites
I pray the, good Mulciber, make no mo bones
But let me have a sallet made at ones.

Mulciber
I must do somewhat for this knave.
What maner of sallet, syr, woulde ye have?

Thersites
I wold have such a one that nother might nor mayne
Shoulde perse it thorowe or parte it in twayne,
Whiche nother gonstone nor sharpe speare
Shoulde be able other to hurte or teare.
I woulde have it also for to save my heade;
Yf Jupiter him selfe woulde have me dead
And if he in a fume woulde cast at me his fire
This sallet I woulde have to kepe me from his yre.

Mulciber

I perceave youre mynde.
Ye shall fynde me kynde.

I wyll for you prepare.

And then he goeth in to his shop and maketh a sallet for hym; at the laste he sayth:

Here, Thersites, do this sallet weare
And on thy head it beare
And none shall worke the care.

Then Mulciber goeth into his shop untyll he is called agayne.
Thersites
Now woulde I not feare with anye bull to fyghte
Or with a raumpinge lyon nother by daye nor nyghte.
O what greate strength is in my body so lusty
Whiche for lacke of exercise is nowe almost rustye!
Hercules in comparison to me was but a boye
When the bandogge Cerberus from hell he bare awaye,
When he kylled the lyons, hydra, and the bere so wylde.
Compare him to me and he was but a chylde.
Why, Sampson, I saye, hast thou no more wytte?
Woldest thou be as strong as I? Come suck they mothers tytte!
Wene you that David, that lyttle elvyshe boye,
Should with his slinge have take my life awaye?
Nay ywys, Golyath, for all his fyve stones
I woulde have quashed his little boysshe bones.
O howe it woulde do my harte muche good
To se some of the giauntes before Noes floud!

I woulde make the knaves to crye ‘creke’,
Or elles with my clubbe their braynes I wyll breake.
But, Mulciber, yet I have not with the do;
My heade is armed, my necke I woulde have to,
And also my shoulders with some good habergyn,
That the devyll if he shote at me coulde not enter in.
For I am determined greate battayle to make,
Excepte my fumishenes by some meanes may aslake.

Mulciber
Bokell on this habergyn as fast as thou canne
And feare for the metinge of nother beast nor manne.
Yf it were possible for one too shote an oke,
This habergyn wyll defende thee frome the stroke;
Let them throwe mylstones at the as thick as haile,
Yet the to kyll they shall their purpose faile;
Yf Malverne hylles shoulde on thy shoulders light,
They shall not hurte the nor suppresse thy mighte;
Yf Bevis of Hampton, Colburne and Guy
Will the assaye, set not by them a flye;
To be briefe: this habergyn shall the save
Bothe by lande and water. Nowe playe the lustye knave.

Then he goeth in to his shoppe againe.
Thersites

When I consider my shoulders that so brode be,
When the other partes of my bodye I do beholde,
I verely thynke that none in chrystente
With me to medele dare be so bolde.
Now have at [thee], lyons on Cotsolde!
I wyll neyther spare for heate nor for colde.

Where art thou, king Arthur, and the knightes of the rounde table?
Come brynge forth your horses out of the stable!
Lo with me to mete they be not able.
By the masse, they had rather were a bable!

Where arte thou, Gawyn the curtesse, and Cay the crabed?
Here be a couple of knightes cowardishe and scabbed.
Appere in thy likenesse, Syr Libeus Disconius,
Yf thou wilt have my clubbe lyghte on thy hedibus.
Lo ye maye see he beareth not the face
With me to trye a blowe in thys place.

Howe, syrray? Approche, syr Launcelot de Lake,
What, renne ye awaie and for feare quake?
Nowe he that did the a knight make
Thought never that thou any battaile shouldest take.

Yf thou wilt not come thy self, some other of thy felowes send!
To battaile I provoke them; them selfe let them defende!
Lo! for all the good that ever they se
They wyll not ones set hande to fight with me.

O, good lorde, howe brode is my brest
And stronge with all, for hole is my chest.
He that should medle with me shall have shrewde rest.

Beholde you my handes, my legges, and my feete!
Every parte is stronge, proportionable, and mete.
Thinke you that I am not feared in felde and strete?

Yes, yes, God wote! they geve me the wall
Or elles with my clubbe I make them to fall.
‘Backe, knaves!’ I saye to them—then for feare they quake
And take me then to the taverne and good chere me make.
The proctoure and his men I made to renne their waies
And some wente to hide them in Broken Heys.

I tell you, at a woorde,
I set not a torde
By none of them al.
Early and late I wyll walke
And London stretes stalke
Spyte of them greate and small.

For I thinke verely
That none, in heaven so hye
Nor yet in hell so lowe,
Whyle I have this clubbe in my hande,
Can be able me to withstande
Or me to overthrowe.

But, Mulciber, yet I must the desyre
To make me briggen yrons for myne armes
And then I will love the as mine owne syre,
For withoute them I can not be safe frome all harmes.

Those once had, I will not sette a strawe
By all the worlde for then I wyll by awe
Have all my mynde or elles, by the holye roode,
I wyl make them thinke the devyll caryeth them to the wood.
Yf no man wyll with me battayle take
A vyage to hell quickely I wyll make
And there I wyll bete the devyll and his dame
And bringe the soules awaye, I fullye entende the same.
After that in hell I have ruffled so,
[Streyghte] to olde purgatorye wyll I go.
I wyll cleane that so purge rounde aboute
That we shall nede no pardons to helpe them oute.
Yf I have not fyghte ynoughe this wayes
I wyll clymbe to heaven and fet awaye Peters kayes—
I wyll kepe them my selfe and let in a great route.
What shoulde suche a fysher kepe good felowes out?

Mulciber
Have here Thersites briggen yrons bright
And feare thou no man manly to fyghte;
Thoughe he be stronger then Hercules or Sampson,
Be thou prest and bolde to set him upon.
Nother Amazon nor Xerxes with their hole rable
The to assayle shall fynde it profytable.
I warrante the they wyll fle fro thy face
As doth an hare from the dogges in a chase.
Would not thy blacke and rustye grym berde
Nowe thou art so armed make anye man aferde?
Surely if Jupiter dyd see the in this gere
He woulde renne awaye and hyde hym for feare.
He wold thinke that Typhoeus the gyaunt were alive
And his brother Enceladus agayn with him to strive.
If that Mars, of battell the god stoute and bold,
In this aray shoulde chaunce the to beholde,
He would yelde up his sworde unto the
And god of battayle (he would say) thou shouldest be.
Now fare thou wel; go the world through
And seke adventures; thou arte man good ynough.

Thersites

Mulciber, whyle the starres shal shyne in the sky
And Phaetons horses with the sonnes charret shall fly,
Whyle the mornynge shall go before none
And cause the darkennesse to vanysshe away soone,
Whyle that the cat shall love well mylke,
And whyle that women shal love to go in sylke,

Whyle beggers have lyce
And cockneys are nyce,

Whyle pardoners can lye
Marchauntes can by
And chyldren crye,

Whyle all these laste and more
Whiche I kepe in store,
I do me faythfully bynde
Thy kyndnes to beare in mynde.
But yet, Mulciber, one thinge I aske more:
Haste thou ever a sworde now in store?

I would have suche a one that would cut stones
And pare a great oke down at once;
That were a sworde, lo, even for the nones.

Mulciber
Truely I have suche a one in my shoppe
That wil pare yron as it were a rope.
Have—here it is—gyrde it to thy syde.
Now fare thou well; Jupiter be thy guyde.

Thersites

Gramercye, Mulciber, wyth my hole harte;
Geve me thy hande and let us departe.

Mulciber goeth in to hys shoppe againe and Thersites saith foorth:

Nowe I go hence and put my selfe in prease;
I wyll seeke adventures, yea, and that I wyll not cease.

If there be any present here thys nyghte
That wyll take upon them with me to fighte,
Let them come quickly and the battayle shall be pyghte.

Where is Cacus? that knave not worthe a grote,
That was wont to blowe cloudes oute of his throte,
Which stale Hercules kine and hyd them in his cave.
Come hether Cacus, thou lubber and false knave,

I wyll teache all wretches by the to beware.
If thou come hether I trappe the in a snare;
Thou shalt have knocked breade and yll fare.

How say you, good godfather, that loke so stale,
Ye seeme a man to be borne in the vale—
Dare ye adventure wyth me a stripe or two?

Go coward! Go hide the as thou wast wonte to do.
What a sorte of dasterdes have we here?
None of you to battaile with me dare appeare.
What saie you, hart of gold, of countenaunce so demure?
Will you fighte with me? No, I am righte sure.
Fye! blusshe not, woman, I wyll do you no harme
Excepte I had you soner to kepe my backe warme.
Alas, lyttle pums, why are ye so sore afrayd?
I praye you, shew how longe it is sence ye were a mayd.
Tell me in myne eare. Syrs, she hathe me tolde
That gone was her mydenhead at thrustene yeare olde.
Byr ladye! she was lothe to kepe it to longe.
‘And I were a mayde agayne’ nowe maye be here songe.
Do after my counsel, of maydens the hoole bevye,
Quickly red your maydenhed for they are vengeaunce hevy.
Well, let all go. Whye, wyll none come in
With me to fyghte that I maye pare his skyn?

The Mater commeth in
Mater
What saye you my sonne, wyl ye fyght? God it defende!
For what cause to warre do you nowe pretende?
Wyll ye committe to battayles daungerous
Youre lyfe that is to me so precious?

Thersites

I wyll go, I wyll go! Stoppe not my waye.
Holde me not, good mother, I hartely you pray.

If there be any lyons or other wylde beest
That wyll not suffer the husband man in rest,
I wyll go seeche them and byd them to a feest.
They shall abye bytterlye the comminge of suche a gest.

I wyll searche for them bothe in busshe and shrubbe
And laye on a lode with this lustye clubbe.

Mater
O, my swete sonne, I am thy mother;
Wylt thou kyll me and thou hast none other?

Thersites
No, mother, no. I am not of suche iniquitye
That I wyll defyle my handes upon the.
But be contente, mother, for I wyll not rest
Tyll I have foughte with some man or wylde beast.

[Mater]
Truely, my sonne, yf that ye take thys way,
Thys shall be the conclusion—marke what I shall say:
Other I wyll drowne my selfe for sorowe
And fede fyshes with my body before to morowe,

Or wyth a sharpe swerde surely I wyll me kyll.
Nowe thou mayst save me if it be thy wyll.
I wyll also cut my pappes awaye
That gave the sucke so manye a daye
And so in all the worlde it shall be knowen
That by my owne sonne I was overthrowen.
Therefore, if my lyfe be to the pleasaunte,
That whiche I desyre, good sonne, do me graunte.

Thersites

Mother thou spendest thy winde but in wast;
The goddes of battayle hyr fury on me hath cast.
I am fullye fyxed battayle for to taste.
O, how many to deth I shall dryve in haste!

I wyll ruffle this clubbe aboute my hedde
Or els I pray god I never dye in my bedde.
There shall never a stroke be stroken with my hande
But they shall thynke [that] Jupiter doth thonder in the land.

Mater
My owne swete sonne, I, knelynge on my knee
And bothe my handes holdinge up to the,
Desyre the to ceasse and no battayle make.
Call to the pacience and better wayes take.

Thersites

Tusshe, mother, I am deafe; I wyll the not heare.
No, no! Yf Jupiter here him selfe nowe were
And all the goddes and Juno his wife
And lovinge Minerva that abhorreth all stryfe,

Yf all these, I saye, would desyre me to be content,
They dyd theyr wynde but in vaine spente.
I wyll have battayle in Wayles or in Kente
And some of the knaves I wyll all to rent.

Where is the valiaunt knighte, syr Isenbrase?
Appere, syr, I praye you. Dare ye not shewe your face?
Where is Robin John and Little Hode?
Approche hyther quickely if ye thinke it good.
I wyll teache suche outlawes, wyth Chrystes curses,
How they take hereafter awaye abbottes purses.
Whye, wyll no adventure appeare in thys place?
Where is Hercules with his greate mase?
Where is Busyris that fed hys horses,
Full lyke a tyraunte, with dead mens corses?

Come any of you bothe
And I make an othe
That yer I eate anye breade
I wyll dryve a wayne,
Ye for neede twayne,
Betwene your bodye and your heade.

Thus passeth my braynes.
Wyll none take the paynes
To trye wyth me a blowe?
O what a fellowe am I
Whome everye man dothe flye
That dothe me but once knowe.

Mater

Sonne all do you feare
That be presente here;
They wyll not wyth you fyghte.
You, as you be worthye,
Have nowe the victorye
Wythoute tastynge of youre myghte.

Here is none I trowe
That profereth you a blowe—
Man, woman nor chylde.
Do not set your mynde
To fyghte with the wynde;
Be not so madde nor wylde.

Thersites

I saye aryse who so ever wyll fighte;
I am to battayle here readye dyghte.
Come hyther other swayne or knyghte;
Let me see who dare presente him to my syghte.

Here with my clubbe readye I stande,
Yf anye wyll come to take them in hand.

Mater

There is no hope left in my brest
To bring my sonne unto better rest.
He wyll do nothinge at my request;
He regardeth me no more then a best.

I see no remedye but styll I wyll praye
To God my sonne to gyde in his waye
That he maye have a prasperous tournynge
And to bee save at his returnynge.

Sonne, God above graunte thys my oration
That when in battaile thou shalt have concertacion
With your ennemies other fare or nere,
No wounde in them nor in you may appere

So that ye nother kyll nor be kylled.

Thersites

Mother, thy peticion I praye God be fulfylled
For then no knaves bloude shall be spilled.

[Aside]

Felowes, kepe my counsell: by the masse, I doo but crake—
I wyll be gentyll enoughe and no busenesse make.
But yet I wyll make her beleve that I am a man.
Thincke you that I wyll fight? No, no, but wyth the can,
Excepte I finde my enemye on thys wyse
That he be aslepe or els can not aryse.
Yf his armes and his fete be not fast bounde,
I wyll not profer a stripe for a thousande pound.

Fare well mother and tarrye here no longer,
For after proves of chivalry I do both thyrste and honger;
I wyll beate the knaves as flatte as a conger.

Then the mother goeth in the place which is prepareth for her.

What! how long shal I tary? Be your hartes in your hose?
Will there none of you in battayl me appose?
Come prove me! Whye stande you so in doubte?
Have you any wylde bloude that ye would have let oute?
Alacke that a mans strengthe can not be [knowen]
Because that he lacketh ennemies to be [overthrowen].

Here a snaile muste appere unto him and hee muste loke fearefully uppon the snaile, saienge:

But what a monster do I see nowe
Comminge hetherwarde with an armed browe?
What is it? Ah, it is a sowe!

No, by Gods body, it is but a grestle
And on the backe it hath never a brystle.

It is not a cow—ah there I fayle
For then it should have a long tayle.
What the devyll! I was blynde—it is but a snayle.

I was never so afrayde in east nor in south;
My harte at the fyrste syght was at my mouth.
Mary, syr, fy, fy, fy! I do sweate for feare—
I thoughte I had craked but to tymely here.

Hens thou beest and plucke in thy hornes
Or I sweare, by him that crowned was with thornes,
I will make [thee] drincke worse than good ale in the cornes.

Haste thou nothynge elles to doo
But come wyth hornes and face me so?
Howe, how, my servauntes, get you shelde and spere
And let us werye and kyll thys monster here.

Here Miles cometh in.
Miles
Is not thys a worthye knyghte
That wyth a snayle dareth not fight
Excepte he have hys servauntes ayde?
Is this the chaumpyon that maketh al men afraid?
I am a pore souldiour come of late from Calice;
I trust, or I go, to debate some of his malyce.
I wyll tarrye my tyme tell I do see
Betwixt hym and the snayle what the ende wyll be.

Thersites
Whye ye horeson knavys, regard ye not my callinge?
Whye do ye not come and wyth you weapons brynge?
Why, shall this monster so escape kyllinge?
No, that he shal not and God be wyllinge.

Miles

I promyse you thys is as worthye a knyghte
As ever shall brede oute of a bottell byte.
I thinke he be Dares, of whom Virgyll doth write,

That woulde not let Entellus alone
But ever provoked and ever called on.
But yet at the last he tooke a fall
And so within a whyle, I trowe, I make [thee] shall.

Thersites
By Gods passion, knaves, if I come I wyll you fetter!
Regarde ye my callinge and cryinge no better?

Why, horesons, I saye! Wyll ye not come?
By the masse! the knaves be all from home.
They had better have fette me an errande at Rome.

Miles
By my trothe I thynke that very skante
This lubber dare adventure to fighte with an ant.

Thersites
Well, seinge my servauntes come to me will not
I must take hede that this monster me spyll not;
I wyll joparde with it a joynte
And, other with my clubbe or my sweardes poynte,
I wyll reche it suche woundes
As I woulde not have for [forty thousand] poundes.
Plucke in thy hornes thou unhappy beast.
What! facest thou me? Wilte not thou be in reste?
Why! wylte not thou thy hornes in holde?
Thinkest thou that I am a cockolde?
Goddes armes! the monster cometh towarde me styll;
Excepte I fyghte manfully, it wyll me surely kyll.

Then he must fyghte against the snayle with his club.
Miles
O Jupiter! Lorde, doest thou not see and heare
How he feareth the snayle as it were a bere?

Thersites

Well with my clubbe I have had good lucke;
Nowe with my sworde have at the a plucke!

And he must cast his club awaye

I wyll make the or I go for to ducke
And thou were as tale a man as Frier Tucke.

I saye yet agayne thy hornes in drawe
Or elles I wyll make the to have woundes rawe!

Arte not thou aferde
To have thy bearde
Pared with my swearde?

Here he must fighte then with his sworde against the snayle and the snayle draweth her hornes in.

Ah well, nowe no more!
Thou mightest have done so before.
I layed at it so sore
That it thoughte it shoulde have be lore.

And it had not drawen in his hornes againe
Surelye I woulde the monster have slaine.
But now farewell, I wyll worke the no more payne.

Nowe my fume is paste
And dothe no longer laste
That I did to the monster cast.

Now in other countreis both farre and neare
Mo dedes of chyvalrye I wyll go inquere.

Miles
Thou nedes not seke any further for redy I am here;
I wyll debate anone I trowe thy bragginge chere.

Thersites
Nowe where is any mo that wyll me assayle?
I wyll turne him and tosse him bothe toppe and tayle
Yf he be stronger then Sampson was,
Who with his bare handes kylde lyons apas.

Miles

What nedeth this booste? I am here at hande
That with [thee] will fighte. Kepe [thy] heade and stande!

Surelye for al thy hye wordes I wyll not feare
To assaye the a towche tyll some bloude apeare.
I wyll geve the somewhat for the gifte of a newe yeare.

And he begynth to fight with him but Thersites must ren awaye and hyde hym behynde hys mother backe sayinge:
Thersites
O mother, mother, I praye the me hyde!
Throwe some thinge over me and cover me every syde!

Mater
O my sonne, what thynge eldyth the?

Thersites
Mother, a thousande horsemen do persecute me.

Mater

Marye, sonne, then it was time to flye;
I blame the not then thoughe afrayde thou be.

A deadlye wounde thou mightest there sone catche.
One against so manye is no indyfferente matche.

Thersites
No, mother, but if they had bene but ten to one
I woulde not have avoyded but set them uppon,
But seinge they be so many I ran awaye.
Hyde me, mother, hyde me, I hartely the pray!
For if they come hyther and here me fynde
To their horses tayles they wyll me bynde
And after that fasshyon hall me and kyll me;
[OMITTED]
And thoughe I were never so bolde and stoute,
To fyghte againste so manye I shoulde stande in doubte.

Miles
Thou that doest seke giauntes to conquere
Come foorth if thou dare and in this place appere!
Fy, for shame! doest thou so sone take flighte?
Come forth and shewe somewhat of thy myghte!

Thersites
Hyde me, mother, hyde me, and never worde saye!

Miles
Thou, olde trotte, seyst thou any man come thys waye
Well armed and weaponed and readye to fighte?

Mater
No forsothe, maister, there came none in my sight.

Miles
He dyd avoyde in tyme for withoute doubtes
I woulde have set on his backe some clowtes.
Yf I may take him I wyll make all slowches
To beware by him that they come not in my clowches.

Then he goeth oute and the Mother saith:
Mater
Come foorth, my sonne, youre enemy is gone;
Be not afrayed for hurte thou canst have none.

Then he loketh aboute if he be gone or not at the last he sayth:
Thersites
Ywys thou didest wisely, who so ever thou be,
To tarrye no longer to fighte with me,
For with my clubbe I woulde have broken thy skull,
Yf thou were as bigge as Hercules bull.
Why, thou cowardely knave, no stronger then a ducke,
Darest thou trye maystries with me a plucke,
Whiche fere nother giauntes nor Jupiters fire bolte
Nor Beelzebub the mayster devyll as ragged as a colte?
I woulde thou wouldest come hyther ones againe;
I thincke thou haddest rather alyve to be flayne.
Come againe and I sweare by my mothers wombe

I wyll pull the in peeces no more then my thombe
And thy braines abrode I wyll so scatter
That all knaves shall feare against me to clatter.
Then cometh in Telemachus bringinge a letter from his father Ulisses and Thersites saieth:
What, little Telemachus,
What makest thou here amonge us?

Telemachus
Syr my father, Ulysses, doth hym commende
To you most hartely and here he hath you sende
Of hys mynde a letter
Whiche shewe you better
Every thynge shall
Then I can make rehersall.

Here he must delyver hym the letter.
Thersites

Lo frendes ye maye see
What great men wryte to mee:

Here he must redde the letter.

‘As entyrely as harte can thyncke
Or scryvener can wryte with yncke,
I sende you lovynge gretynge,
Thersytes, myne owne swetynge.
I am very sorye
When I cast in memory
The great unkyndnes
And also the blyndnes
That hath be in my brest
Agaynst you ever prest;
I have be prompt and dylygent
Ever to make you shent,

To appale your good name,
And to mynysshe your fame;
In that I was to blame.

But well al this is gone
And remedy there is none
But onely repentaunce
Of all my olde grevaunce

With whiche I dyd you moleste
And gave you sorye reast;
The cause was thereof truely
Nothinge but verye envye.
Wherefore nowe, gentyll esquier,
Forgeve me I you desyre
And helpe, I you beseche,
Telemachus to a leche,
That hym maye wyselye charme
From the wormes that do hym harme.
In that ye maye do me pleasure,
For he is my chyefe treasure.
I have hearde menne say,
That come by the way,
That better charmer is no other
Then is youre owne deare mother.
I praye you of her obtayne
To charme away his paine.
Fare ye well and come to my house
To dryncke wyne and eate a peece of sowse
And we wyll have minstrelsy
That shall pype ‘Hankyn Boby’.
My wyfe Penelobe
Doth grete you well by me:
Wrytinge at my house on Candelmasse daye
Mydsomer moneth the Calendars of Maye
By me Ulisse[s], beynge verye gladde
That the victorye of late of the monster ye hadde.’

‘Ah syrraye’ quod he! How saye you frendes all?
Ulisses is glad for my favoure to call.
Well, thoughe we ofte have swerved
And he small love deserved,
Yet I am well contente
Seinge he dothe repente

To let olde matters go
And to take him no more so
As I have do hyther to
For my mortall fo.

Come go with me Telemachus; I wyll the bringe
Unto my mother to have her cherminge.

I doubte not but by that tyme that she hathe done,
Thou shalte be the better seven yeares agone.

Then Thersytes goeth to his mother sayinge

Mother, Christe thee save and see,
Ulysses hathe sende his sonne to thee

That thou shouldest hym charme
From the wormes that hym harme.

Mater

Sonne, ye be wise kepe ye warme.

Whye shoulde I for Ulysses doo,
That never was kynde us to?
He was readye in warre
Ever the, sonne, to marre.
Then had bene all my joye
Exiled cleane awaye.

Thersites
Wel, mother, all that is past;
Wroth maye not alwaye laste,
And seinge we be mortall all
Let not our wroth be immortall.

Mater
Charme that charme wyll; he shal not be charmed of me.

Thersites
Charme! or, by the masse, with my club I wil charme the!

Mater
Why, sonne, arte thou so wicked to beate thy mother?

Thersites
Ye, that I wyll, by goddes deare brother!
Charme, olde witche, in the devils name
Or I wyll sende the to him to be his dame!

Mater
Alas, what a sonne have I
That thus dothe order me spitefullye!
Cursed be the time that ever I hym fedde;
I woulde in my bely he had be deade.

Thersites
Cursest thou olde hore? Blesse me againe
Or I wyll blesse the that shall be to thy payne!

Then he must take hyr by the armes and she crieth oute as foloweth:
Mater
He will kyll me!
He wyll spyll me!
He wyll brose me!
He wyll lose me!
He wyll pricke me!
He wyll stycke me!

Thersites.

The devyll stycke the, olde wytherde witch,
For I wyll sticke nother the nor none suche.

But come [off]! geve me thy blessinge againe.
I saye, let me have it or elles certayne
With my clubbe I wyll laye the on the brayne.

Mater
Well, seinge thou threatenest to me affliction,
Spite of my harte have nowe my benediction:
Nowe Christes swete blessinge and mine
Lighte above and beneath the bodye of thyne
And I beseche, with all my devotion,
That thou mayste come to Amans promotion.
He that forgeve Mary Mawdalene hyr synne
Make [thee] hyghest of all thy kynne!

Thersites
In this wordes is double intellimente:
Wouldest thou have me hanged mother, veramente?

Mater
No, sonne, no, but too have you hye
In promocion is my mynde, verelye.

Thersites
Well then, mother, let all this goo
And charme this chylde that you is sende to.
And loke hereafter to curse ye be not gredye.
Curse me no more; I am cursed ynoughe all readye.

Mater
Well, sonne, I wyll curse you no more,
Excepte ye provoke me to to sore.
But I mervaile whye ye do me move
To do for Ulisses that dothe not us love.

Thersites
Mother, by hys sonne he hathe sende me a letter
Promysynge heareafter to be to us better
And you and I, with my greate clubbe,
Muste walke to him and eate a solybubbe,
And we shall make merye
And synge ‘tyrle on the berye’
With Simkyn Sydnam, somner,
That kylde a catte at Comner.
There the tryflinge tabborer, trowbler of tunys,
Wyll pyke Peter Pybaker a penyworth of prunes.
Nycholl Nevergood a nette and a nightcappe
Knytte wyll for Kyt whose knee cawghte a knappe.
David Dowghtye, dyghter of datys,
Gren with Godfrey Goodal wyll gretely at the gates
Thom Tombler of Tewxbury, turninge at a tryce,
Wyll wype Wylliam Waterman if he be not wyse.

Symon Sadler of Sudeley that served the sowe
Hytte wyll Henrye Hartlesse he harde not yet how.
Jynkyn Jaxon, that jobbed jolye Jone,
Grynde wyll gromelsede untyll he grone.
Prowde Peris Pykethancke, that pyked Pernels purse,
Cut wyll the cakes thoughe Cate do crye and curse.
Roughe Robyn Rover, rufflinge in ryghte rate,
Balde Bernarde Braynles wyll bete and Benet bate.
Folyshe Frederycke, furburer of a farte,
Dynge Daniell Deintye to deathe wyll with a darte.
Mercolfe Movyles, moreninge for mad Marye,
Tyncke wyll the tables thoughe he there not tary.
Andrewe Allknave, alderman of Andwarpe,
Hoppe wyll with holy hockes and harken Humfreys harpe.
It is to to, mother, the pastyme and good chere
That we shall see and have when that we come there.
Wherefore, gentyll mother, I the hartely praye
That thou wylte charme for wormes this pretye boye.

Mater
Well sonne, seinge the case and mater standeth so,
I am contente all thy request to do.
Come hyther, pretye childe,
I will [thee] charme frome the wormes wylde,
But firste do thou me thy name tell.

Telemachus
I am called Telemachus there as I dwell.

Mater
Telemachus, lye downe uprighte on the grounde
And styrre not ones for a thousande pounde.

Telemachus
I am readye here preste
To doo all youre requeste.

Then he must lay hym down with his bely upward and shee muste blesse hym frome above too beneath sayinge a[s] foloweth:
Mater
The cowherd of Comertowne with his croked spade
Cause frome the the wormes soone to vade.
And jolye Jacke Jumbler, that juggleth with a horne,
Graunte that thy wormes soone be all to torne.
Good graundsyre Abraham, godmother to Eve,
Graunte that this wormes no longer this chylde greve.
All the courte of conscience in Cockoldshyres:
Tynkers and tabberers, typplers, taverners,
Tyttyfylles, tryfullers, turners, and trumpers,
Tempters, traytoures, travaylers, and thumpers,

Thryftlesse, thevyshe, thycke, and thereto thynne,
The maladye of this wormes cause for too blynne.
The vertue of the tayle of Isaackes cow,
That before Adam in Paradyse dyd lowe,
Also the joyste of Moses rod,
In the Mounte of Calvarye that spake with God.
Facie ad faciem, turninge tayle to tayle,
Cause all these wormes quickly to fayle.
The bottome of the shyppe of Noe,
And also the legge of the horse of Troe,
The peece of the tounge of Balaams asse,
The chawbone of the oxe that at Christes byrth was,
The eye tothe of the dogge that wente on pylgremage
With yonge Thobye, these wormes sone may swage.
The butterflye of Bromemycham that was borne blinde,
The blaste of the bottell that blowed Aelous wynde,
The buttocke of the bytter boughte at Buckyngame,
The bodye of the bere that wyth Bevis came,
The backster of Balockburye with her bakinge pele,
Chylde, fro thy wormes, I praye maye sone the hele.
The tapper of Tavyestocke, and the tapsters potte,
The tothe of the tytmus, the torde of the gote,
In the towre of tenysballes tostyd by the fyer,
The table of Tantalus turned trym in myre,
The tombe of Tom Thredbare that thruste Tyb through the smock,
Make al thy wormes, chylde, to come forth at thy docke.
Sem, Cam, and Japhat, and Coll, the myllars mare,
The fyve stones of Davyd that made Goliath stare,
The wing with whiche Seint Mychaell dyd fly to his mount,
The counters wherwith cherubyn did cheristones count,
The hawke with whiche Assuerus kylde the wylde bore,
Helpe that these wormes, my chylde, hurt the no more.
The mawe of the morecocke that made Mawd to mowe,
When Martylmas at Moreton morened for the snowe,
The spere of spanysshe spylbery, sprente with spiteful spottes,
The lyghtes of the laverocke, layde at London lottes,
The shynbon of Saint Samuell, shyninge so as the sunne,
Graunt, child, of the wormes that sone thy paines be don.
Mother Bryce of Oxforde and greate Gyb of Hynxey,
Also Mawde of Thrutton and Mable of Chartesey,
And all other wytches that walke in Dymminges dale,
Clytteringe and clatteringe there youre pottes with ale,

Inclyne youre eares and heare this my peticion
And graunte this childe of healthe to have fruition.
The blessinge that Jorden to his godsonne gave,
Lyghte on my chylde and from the wormes him save.
Now stand uppe little Telemachus anone
I warrante the by tomorow thy wormes wyll be gone.

Telemachus
I thanke you, mother, in my most hartelye wise.
Wyll ye, syr, to my father commaunde me anye service?

Thersites
No, pretye boye, but do thou us two commende
To thy father and mother; tell them that we entende,
Bothe my mother and I,
To see them shortelye.

Telemachus
Ye shall be hartelye welcome to them I dare well say.
Fare ye well, by youre leave, now I wyll departe awaye.

Thersites
Sonne, geve me thy hande. Fare well.

Mater

I praye God kepe the from parell.

Telemachus goeth oute and the mother sayeth:

Ywys it is a proper chylde
And in behavioure nothinge wylde.
Ye maye see what is good education;
I woulde every man after this fasshion

Had their children up broughte,
Then manye of them woulde not have bene so noughte.
A chylde is better unborne then untaughte.

Thersites
Ye saye truthe, mother, well let all this go
And make you ready Ulisses to go to
With me anone. Be ye so contente?

Mater

I am well pleased; to youre wyll I assente,
For all thoughe that I love hym but verye evyll,
It is good to set a candell before the devyll.
Of moste parte of greate men, I sweare by thys fyer,
Lyghte is the thancke but heavye is the ire.

Fare well, sonne, I wyll go me to prepare.

Thersites

Mother, God be wyth you, and keepe you frome care.

The mother goeth out and Thersites sayeth forth:

What somever I saye, syrs, I thyncke: ‘yll might she [fare]!’

I care not if the olde wytche were deade;
It were an almoys dede to knocke hyr in the heade
And saye on the wormes that she dyd dye,
For there be manye that my landes woulde bye.
By Goddes blessed brother,
Yf I were not seke of the mother!
Thys totheles trotte kepethe me harde
And suffereth no money in my warde
But, by the blessed trinitye,
Yf she will no soner ded be,
I wyll with a coyshion stoppe hyr breath
Tyll she have forgotte Newemarketh heth.

Yll myghte I fare
Yf that I care
Hyr to spare.

Aboute the house she hoppeth
And hyr nose ofte droppeth
When the wortes she choppeth.

When that she dothe brewe
I maye saye to you
I am redy to spew,

The droppes to see downe renne,
By all chrysten menne,
Frome hyr nose to hyr knen.

Fye, Goddes bodye! it maketh me to spitte
To remember howe that she doth sytte
By the fyer brallynge,
Scratchinge and scrallynge,
And in everye place
Leyenge oysters apase;
She dothe but lacke shelles—
The devyll have [thy] whytte elles.

At nyghte when to bedde she goys
And plulcketh of her hose
She knappeth me in the nose

With ryppe rappe,
Flypppe flappe,

That an yll happe
Come to that tappe

That venteth so,
Where so ever she go.
So muche she daylye dryncketh
That hyr breath at both endes styncketh.

That a horsecombe and an halter
Hyr soone uppe talter
Tyll I saye Davydes psalter;

That shall be at Nevermas,
Whyche never shall be nor never was.

[holds up fingers]

By this tenne bones,
She served me ones
A touche for the nones:

I was sicke and laye in my bedde;
She broughte me a kerchyfe to wrappe on my heade
And—I praye God that I be deade

Yf that I lye any whytte—
When she was aboute the kerchefe to knytte,
Breake did one of the formes fete

That she dyd stande on,
And downe fell she anone,
And foorth withall
As she dyd fall

She gyrded oute a farte
That me made to starte.
I thyncke hyr buttockes dyd smarte.
Excepte it hadde be a mare in a carte,

I have not harde suche a blast.
I cryed and byd hyr holde fast;
With that she, nothinge agast,

Saide to me that no woman in this lande
Coulde holde faste that whyche was not in hyr hande.
Nowe, syrs, in that hole pitche and fyre brande!

Of that bagge so fustye,
So stale and so mustye,
So cankered and so rustye,
So stinckynge and so dustye—

God sende hyr as muche joye
As my nose hathe alwaye
Of hyr unsaverye spice,
Yf that I be not wyse
And stoppe my nose quickelye,
When she letteth goo merelye.
But let all this go! I had almoste forget
The knave that here yerewhyles dyd jet
Before that Telemachus did come in.
I wyll go seeche hym; I wyll not blynne

Untyll that I have hym,
Then so God save hym
I wyll so ‘beknave’ hym
That I wyll make to rave hym,
Wyth this swearde I wyll shave hym,
And strypes, when I have gave hym,
Better I wyll deprave him
That you shall knowe for a slave him.

Then Miles cometh in sayinge:
Miles

Wylte thou so in deede?
Hye the, make good spede!
I am at hande here prest;
Put awaye tongue shakynge
And this folysshe crakynge;
Let us trye for the best.

Cowardes make speake apase,
[Strypes] prove the manne.
Have nowe at thy face—
Keepe [off] if thou canne!

And then he muste stryke at hym and Thersytes muste runne awaye and leave his clubbe and sworde behynde.

Whye, thou lubber, runnest thou awaye
And leavest thy swearde and thy clubbe thee behynde?
Nowe thys is a sure carde nowe, I maye well saye,
That a cowarde crakinge here I dyd fynde.

Maysters, ye maye see by this playe in sighte
That great barking dogges do not most byte,
And oft it is sene that the best men in the hoost
Be not suche that use to bragge moste.
Yf ye wyll avoyde the daunger of confusion,
Printe my wordes in harte and marke this conclusion:
Suche gyftes of God that ye excelle in moste
Use them wyth sobernesse and youre selfe never bost.
Seke the laude of God in all that ye doo;
So shall vertue and honoure come you too.
But if you geve youre myndes to the sinne of pryde,
Vanisshe shall your vertue; your honoure away wil slide.
For pryde is hated of God above
And meekenesse sonest obtaineth his love.
To youre rulers and parentes be you obediente,
Never transgressinge their lawefull commaundemente.
Be ye merye and joyfull at borde and at bedde.
Imagin no traitourye againste youre prince and heade.
Love God, and feare him, and after him youre kinge
Whiche is as victorious as anye is lyvinge.
Praye for His Grace, with hartes that dothe not fayne,
That longe he maye rule us withoute grefe or paine.
Beseche ye also that God maye save his quene,
Lovely Ladie Jane, and the prince that he hath send them betwen
To augment their joy and the comons felicitie.
Fare ye wel, swete audience, God graunt you al prosperite.
Amen

IMPRINTED AT LONDON BY JOHN TYSDALE AND ARE TO BE SOLDE AT HYS SHOP IN THE UPPER ENDE OF LOMBARD STRETE IN ALHALLOWES CHURCHE YARDE NEARE UNTOO GRACE CHURCH