Chapter V: Part 5

“_Homo natus_
Came to heauen gatus.
Sir, you doe come to latus,
With your shorne patus:
_Frequentia falsa Euangelii_,
For the loue of your bealie,
_Cum auro & argento_,
You loued the rules of Lento,
Whiche the Pope did inuento:
You are _spurius de muliere_.
Not legittimate nor lawful here:
_O quam[153] venenosa pestis,_
_Fur, periurus, latro, mechus,_
_Homicidis[154] tantum decus!_
_De salute animarum_,
Of Christes flocke thou hadest small carum:
Thou art _filius populi_:
Go, go to _Constantinopoli_,
To your maister the Turke;
There shall you lurke
Emong the heathen soules.
Somtyme your shorne brethren of Poules
Were as blacke as moules,
With their cappes fower forked,
Their shoes warme corked;
Nosed like redde grapes,
Constant as she apes,
In nature like blacke monkes,
And shoote in sparowes trunkes,
And boule when thei haue dinde,
And kepe them from the winde;
And thei whiche are not able
Doe sitte still at the table,
With colour scarlet pale,
So small is their good ale:
Thus from God thei did tourne,
Long before their church did burne.
Then when riche men wer sicke,
Either dedde or quicke,
_Valde diligenter notant_
_Vbi diuites egrotant;_
_Ibi currunt, nec cessabunt_
_Donec ipsos tumilabunt;_
_Oues alienas tondunt,_
_Et perochias confundunt._
These felowes pilde as ganders,
Muche like the friers of Flanders,
Whiche serue Sathan about the cloisters,
Thei loue red wine and oisters.
_Qui vult Satanæ seruire,_
_Claustrum debet introire_,
And euer haue suche an hedde
As bastarde Boner that is dedde.
He would for the Pope take pain;
Therfore help, you friers of Spain,
You enquisiters, take paine:
It is a greate maine
Vnto the Pope, your hedde,
That Boner is thus dedde,
And buried in a misers graue,
Like a common k[naue].
Lo, lo, now is he dedde,
That was so well fedde,
And had a softe bedde!
_Estote fortis in bello_,
Good Hardyng and thy fellowe;
If you be papistes right,
Come steale hym awaie by night,
And put hym in a shrine;
He was the Popes deuine;
Why, shall he be forgotten,
And lye still and rotten?
Come on, and doe not fainte;
Translate with spede your sainct,
And put hym in a tombe:
His harte is now at Rome.
Come forth, you loughtes of Louen,
And steale awaie this slouen:
You are so full of ire,
And popishe desire,
And Romishe derision,
And hellishe deuision,
Therefore I am sure
Your kyngdome will not dure.”

Sig. B iii.

...

“_Responde._
_Ne recorderis peccata_,
But open heauen gata,
Sainct Peter, with your kaies;
Shewe my lorde the right waies:
He dwelt ones at Poules,
And had cure of our soules:
I wisse, he was not a baste,
But holie, meke, and chaste;
It is a greate pitie
That he is gone from our citie;
A man of greate honor;
O holy sainct Boner!
You blessed friers
That neuer wer liers,
And you holy nunnes
That neuer had sonnes,
Set this child of grace
In some angelles place.”

Sig. B vii.

[153] _O quam, &c._] A line which ought to have rhymed with this one is wanting.

[154] _Homicidis_] Old ed. “Homicidus.”

* * * * *

From

_A Skeltonicall Salutation,_
_Or condigne gratulation,_
_And iust vexation_
_Of the Spanish Nation,_
_That in a bravado,_
_Spent many a Crusado,_
_In setting forth an Armado_
_England to invado._

_Imprinted at London for Toby Cooke._ 1589, 4to.

“O king of Spaine,
Is it not a paine
To thy heart and braine
And euery vaine,
To see thy traine
For to sustaine,
Withouten gaine,
The worlds disdaine,
Which doth dispise
As toies and lies,
With shoutes and cries,
Thy enterprise,
As fitter for pies
And butter-flies,
Then men so wise?
O waspish king,
Wheres now thy sting,
Thy dart or sling,
Or strong bow-string,
That should vs wring,
And vnderbring,
Who euery way
Thee vexe and pay,
And beare the sway
By night and day,
To thy dismay,
In battle aray,
And every fray?
O pufte with pride,
What foolish guide
Made thee provide
To over-ride
This land so wide
From side to side,
And then, vntride,
Away to slide,
And not to abide,
But all in a ring
Away to fling?
O conquering,
O vanquishing,
With fast flying,
And no replying,
For feare of frying!
...
But who but Philippus,
That seeketh to nip vs,
To rob vs, and strip vs,
And then for to whip vs,
Would ever haue ment,
Or had intent,
Or hither sent
Such ships of charge,
So strong and so large,
Nay, the worst barge,
Trusting to treason,
And not to reason,
Which at that season
To him was geson,
As doth appeare
Both plaine and cleare
To far and neere,
To his confusion,
By this conclusion,
Which thus is framed,
And must be named
_Argumentum a minore,_
_Cum horrore et timore?_
If one Drake o,
One poore snake o,
Make vs shake o,
Tremble and quake o,
Were it not, trow yee,
A madnes for me
To vndertake
A warre to make
With such a lande,
That is so mande,
Wherein there be
Of certaintie
As hungrie as he
Many a thousand more,
That long full sore
For Indian golde,
Which makes men bolde?” &c.

See also—_Jacke of the Northe_, &c. printed (most incorrectly) from C.C.C. MS. in Hartshorne’s _Anc. Met. Tales_, p. 288.—_A recantation of famous Pasquin of Rome. An. 1570. Imprinted at London by John Daye_, 8vo, which (known to me only from _Brit. Bibliog._ ii. 289) contains Skeltonical passages.—_The Riddles of Heraclitus and Democritus. Printed at London by Ann Hatfield for John Norton_, 1598, 4to, which (known to me only from _Restituta_, i. 175) has Skeltonical rhymes on the back of the title-page.—_The Wisdome of Doctor Dodypoll. As it hath bene sundrie times Acted by the Children of Powles_, 1600, 4to, which has some Skeltonical lines at sig. C 4.—_The Downfall of Robert Earle of Huntington_, &c. (by Anthony Munday), 1601, 4to, and _The Death of Robert, Earle of Hvntington_, &c. (by Anthony Munday and Henry Chettle), 1601, 4to, (two plays already noticed, p. lxxxvi.), in which are various Skeltonical passages.—_Hobson’s Horse-load of Letters, or a President for Epistles. The First Part_, 1617, 4to, which concludes with three epistles in verse, the last entitled “_A merry-mad Letter in Skeltons rime_,” &c.—_Poems: By Michael Drayton Esqvire_, &c., n. d., folio, which contains at p. 301 a copy of verses entitled “A Skeltoniad.”—_The Fortunate Isles_, &c. 1626, a masque by Ben Jonson (already noticed, p. lxxxvii.), in which are imitations of Skelton’s style.—_All The Workes of John Taylor The Water-poet_, &c. 1630, folio, which contains, at p. 245, “_A Skeltonicall salutation to those that know how to reade, and not marre the sense with hacking or mis-construction_” (printed as prose).—_Hesperides: or, The Works Both Humane & Divine of Robert Herrick Esq._, 1648, 8vo, among which, at pp. 10, 97, 268, are verses in Skelton’s favourite metre.—_The Works of Mr. John Cleveland, Containing his Poems, Orations, Epistles, Collected into One Volume_, 1687, 8vo, in which may be found, at p. 306, a piece of disgusting grossness (suggested by Skelton’s _Elynour Rummynge_), entitled “_The Old Gill_.”

A poem called _Philargyrie of greate Britayne_, 1551, printed (and no doubt written) by Robert Crowly, has been frequently mentioned as a “Skeltonic” composition, but improperly, as the following lines will shew;

“Geue eare awhyle,
And marke my style,
You that hath wyt in store;
For wyth wordes bare
I wyll declare
Thyngs done long tyme before.
Sometyme certayne
Into Britayne,
A lande full of plentie,
A gyaunte greate
Came to seke meate,
Whose name was Philargyrie,” &c.

“See also,” says Warton (_Hist. of E. P._ ii. 358, note, ed. 4to), “a doggrel piece of this kind, _in imitation of Skelton_, introduced into Browne’s _Sheperd’s Pipe_,”—a mistake; for the poem of Hoccleve (inserted in _Eglogue_ i.), to which Warton evidently alludes, is neither doggrel nor in Skelton’s manner.

POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN SKELTON.

OF THE DEATH[155] OF THE NOBLE PRINCE, KYNGE EDWARDE THE FORTH, PER SKELTONIDEM LAUREATUM.

_Miseremini mei_, ye that be my frendis!
This world[156] hath formed me downe to fall:
How may[157] I endure, when that eueri thyng endis?
What creature is borne to be eternall?
Now there[158] is no more but pray for me all:
Thus say I Edward, that late was youre kynge,
And twenty two[159] yeres ruled this imperyall,
Some vnto pleasure, and some to no lykynge:
Mercy I aske of my mysdoynge;
What auayleth it,[160] frendes, to be my foo, 10
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[161] erth vnto erth hath his reuerture:
What ordeyned God to be terestryall,
Without recours to the erth[162] of nature?
Who to lyue euer may himselfe assure?[163]
What is it[164] to trust on mutabilyte,
Sith that in this world nothing may indure?
For now am I gone, that late was in prosperyte: 20
To presume thervppon, it is but a vanyte,
Not certayne, but as a cheryfayre[165] 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; 30
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,[166] they leve that doble my ȝeris:
This[167] dealid this world with me as it lyst,[168]
And hathe me made, to ȝow that be my perys,
Example to thynke on Had I wyst: 40
I storyd my cofers and allso my chest[169]
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; 50
And more euer to incroche[170] 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[171] royall,
Wyndsore, Eltam,[172] and many other mo:
Yet at the last I went from them all,
_Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!_ 60

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[173] play?
As vanyte, to nought al is wandred[174] away.
O lady Bes, longe for me may ye call!
For I[175] 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, 70
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[176] 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[177] wormes ordeyned theyr flesh to frete?
And of Salomon, that was of wyt the well? 80
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[178] 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[179] would conserue me here in my place, 90
_In manus tuas, Domine_, my spirite vp I yelde,
Humbly[180] beseching thé, God, of thy[181] 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_!

[155] _Of the death_, &c.] From the ed. by Kynge and Marche of _Certaine bokes compyled by Mayster Skelton_, n. d.—collated with the same work, ed. Day, n. d., and ed. Lant, n. d.; with Marshe’s ed. of Skelton’s _Workes_, 1568; occasionally with the _Mirrour for Magistrates_, 1587 (in the earlier eds. of which the poem was incorporated), and with a contemporary MS. in the possession of Miss Richardson Currer, which last has furnished a stanza hitherto unprinted.

[156] _This world_, &c.] MS.:

“For the _world hathe_ conformid _me to fall_.”

[157] _may_] MS. “myzt.”

[158] _Now there_, &c.] MS.:

“_Now is ther no_ helpe _but pray for_ my sovle.”

[159] _twenty-two_] So MS. and _Mir. for Mag._ Eds. “xxiii.;” see notes.

[160] _it_] So other eds. Ed. of Kynge and Marche, “hit.”

[161] _That_] So MS. Eds. “As.”

[162] _the erth_] MS. “dethe.”

[163] _himselfe assure_] So _Mir. for Mag._ Eds. and MS., “be sure.”

[164] _What is it_, &c.] MS.:

“_What ys it to trust_ the _mutabylyte_
Of _this world_ whan _no thyng may endure_.”

[165] _cheryfayre_] MS. “cheyfeyre.”

[166] _I se wyll_, &c.] This stanza only found in MS.

[167] _This_] See notes.

[168] _lyst_] MS. “lust”—against the rhyme.

[169] _chest_] MS. “chestys”—against the rhyme.

[170] _euer to incroche_] Eds. of Day, and Marshe, “ouer _to_,” &c. MS. gives this line and the next thus:

“_And more to_ encrese _was_ myne entent
And _not_ beynge ware who _shuld it ocupye_.”

[171] _full_] So _Mir. for Mag._ Not in eds. or MS.

[172] _Wyndsore_, _Eltam,_ &c.] This line and the next given thus in MS.:

“_Wynsore_ and eton _and many oder mo_
As Westmynster _Eltham_ and sone _went I from all_.”

And so, with slight variation, in Nash’s _Quaternio_: see notes.

[173] _my_] So _Mir. for Mag._ Not in eds. or MS.

[174] _wandred_] _Mir. for Mag._ “wythered.”

[175] _For I_, &c.] MS.:

“Now are we _departid_ [i. e. parted] onto _domys day_.”

[176] _Seyth a man is but_, &c.] Day’s ed. “Seeth _a man is_ nothing _but_,” &c. Marshe’s ed. “Sythe _a man is_ nothing _but_,” &c. _Mir. for Mag._ “Saying _a man is but_,” &c. MS. “Seinge _a man ys a sak of_ sterqueryte.”

[177] _Were not_] So Lant’s ed. and _Mir. for Mag._ Ed. of Kynge and Marche, “Where no.” Eds. of Day, and Marshe, “Wher no.” MS. “Was _not_.”

[178] _This_] _Mir. for Mag._ “Thus;” but see note.

[179] _Nor nought_, &c.] _Mir. for Mag._:

“For _nought would conserue mee here in_ this _place_.”

MS.:

“Ne _nougt wold concerue me my place_.”

[180] _Humbly_] So other eds. Kynge and Marche’s ed. “Humble.”

[181] _thy_] Other eds. “his.”

POETA SKELTON[182] LAUREATUS LIBELLUM SUUM METRICE ALLOQUITUR.

_Ad dominum properato meum, mea pagina, Percy,_
_Qui Northumbrorum jura paterna gerit;_
_Ad nutum celebris tu prona repone leonis_
_Quæque suo patri tristia justa cano.[183]_
_Ast ubi perlegit, dubiam sub mente volutet_
_Fortunam, cuncta quæ malefida rotat._
_Qui leo sit felix, et Nestoris occupet annos;_
_Ad libitum, cujus ipse paratus ero._

[182] _Poeta Skelton_, &c.] From Marshe’s ed. of Skelton’s _Workes_, 1568, collated with a copy of the poem in a MS. vol now in the British Museum (_MS. Reg._ 18. D ii. fol. 165), which formerly belonged to the fifth Earl of Northumberland, son of the nobleman whose fate is here lamented: vide _Account of Skelton_, &c. This elegy was printed by Percy in his _Reliques of An. Engl. Poet._ (i. 95, ed. 1794), from the MS. just mentioned.

[183] _cano_] So MS. Not in Marshe’s ed.

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 10
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 nobles, 20
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[184] concente
Falsly to slee[185] 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[186] doth ken; 30
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[187] 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 o[w]ne[188] 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: 40
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[189] 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? 50
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 you[190] 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; 60
Your hap was vnhappy, to ill was your spede:
What moued you againe him to war or to fyght?
What alyde you to sle[191] 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. 70

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[192] 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; 80
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; 90
But al they fled from hym for falshode or fere.

Barones, knyghtes, squiers, one[193] and all,
Together with seruauntes of his famuly,
Turned their backis,[194] and let their master fal,
Of whos [life] they[195] counted not a flye;
Take vp whose wold, for ther[196] 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; 100
Yet[197] while[198] 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[199] 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;[200]
O dolorus chaunce of Fortunes froward hande! 110
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 120
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; 130
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,[201] discrete, circumspect, and wyse,
Tyll the chaunce ran agayne hym of Fortunes duble dyse. 140

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[202] myne homly Muse, that muste
Yet somwhat wright supprised with herty[203] 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, 150
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[204] 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, 160
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[205] 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, 170
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[206] death, whose pere is hard to fynd,
Algife Englond and Fraunce were thorow saught.
Al kynges, all princes, al dukes, well they ought, 180
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[207] perlese Prince of heuen emperyall! 190
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, 200
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[208] pere!
Pray to thy Son aboue the sterris clere,
He to vouchesaf, by thy mediacion,
To pardon thy seruaunt, and brynge to saluacion. 210

In joy triumphaunt the heuenly yerarchy,[209]
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[210] moste!

_Non sapit, humanis qui certam ponere rebus_
_Spem cupit: est hominum raraque ficta fides._

[184] _commonn_] So MS. Marshe’s ed. “cominion.”

[185] _slee_] MS. “slo,”—as in v. 35 (yet both Marshe’s ed. and MS. have “sleest” in v. 123).

[186] _world_] So MS. Marshe’s ed. “wold.”

[187] _not_] MS. “no.”

[188] _o[w]ne_] MS. “awne” (yet Percy gives “owne”).

[189] _holp_] MS. “help” (yet Percy gives “holp”).

[190] _you_] MS. “ye” (yet Percy gives “you”).

[191] _sle_] MS. “slo.”

[192] _bene_] MS. “be.”

[193] _one_] So MS. Not in Marshe’s ed.

[194] _backis_] So MS. Marshe’s ed. “backe.”

[195] _Of whos [life] they_, &c.] So Percy. Marshe’s ed. “_Of_ whome _they_,” &c. MS. “_Of whos they_,” &c.

[196] _ther_] So both Marshe’s ed. and MS. Percy printed the line thus;

“Take up whos wolde for _them_, they let hym ly.”

[197] _Yet_] So MS. Marshe’s ed. “Ye.”

[198] _while_] MS. “whils.”

[199] _cruelly_] MS. “cruell” (yet Percy gives “cruelly”).

[200] _lande_] MS. “sande” (yet Percy gives “lande”).

[201] _Prouydent_] So MS. Marshe’s ed. “Prudent.”

[202] _far_] So Percy. MS. and Marshe’s ed. “for.”

[203] _herty_] MS. “hartly.”

[204] _sle_] MS. “slo.”

[205] _the_] Omitted by Percy, though both in MS. and Marshe’s ed.

[206] _lordes_] So MS. rightly, making the word a dissyllable (yet Percy prints “lords”). Marshe’s ed. “lords.”

[207] _O_] So MS. Not in Marshe’s ed.

[208] _withouten_] So MS. Marshe’s ed. “without.”

[209] _yerarchy_] So Percy. Both Marshe’s ed. and MS. “gerarchy.”

[210] _myghtes_] So MS. (yet Percy prints “myghts”). Marshe’s ed. “myghts.”

TETRASTICHON[211] SKELTON. LAUREATI AD MAGISTRUM RUKSHAW, SACRÆ THEOLOGIÆ EGREGIUM PROFESSOREM.

_Accipe nunc demum, doctor celeberrime Rukshaw,_
_Carmina, de calamo quæ cecidere[212] meo;_
_Et quanquam[213] placidis non sunt modulata camenis,[214]_
_Sunt tamen ex nostro pectore prompta pio._

_Vale feliciter, virorum laudatissime._

[211] _Tetrastichon_, &c.] Follows the elegy on the Earl of Northumberland both in Marshe’s ed. and in the MS.

[212] _cecidere_] Marshe’s ed. and MS. “occidere.”

[213] _quanquam_] Marshe’s ed. and MS. “quaqua.”

[214] _camenis_] So MS. Marshe’s ed. “carmenis.”

SKELTON LAUREATE[215] 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[216] snapper and fall,
Which men the viii dedly syn[217] 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, 10
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 20
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! 30
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, 40
To poynte this proude page a place and a rome,
For Jak wold be a jentylman, that late was a grome.

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, 50
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[218] 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[219] dedit ægros_:
Yet bere ye not to bold, to braule ne to bark 60
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[220] 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. 70

[215] _Skelton Laureate_, &c.] This poem, and the three pieces which follow it, are given from a tract of four leaves, n. d., and without printer’s name (but evidently from the press of Pynson), collated with Marshe’s ed. of Skelton’s _Workes_, 1568.

[216] _they_] So Marshe’s ed. Pynson’s ed. “the.”

[217] _syn_] Marshe’s ed. “sins.”

[218] _Deuyas_] Marshe’s ed. “dellias.”

[219] _Sospitati_] Pynson’s ed. “_suspirari_.” Marshe’s ed. “Supitati,” which the editor of 1736 changed into “supinitati.”

[220] _occasyons_] Marshe’s ed. “occasion.”

CONTRA ALIUM CANTITANTEM ET ORGANISANTEM ASINUM, QUI IMPUGNABAT SKELTONIDA PIERIUM, SARCASMOS.

_Præponenda meis non sunt tua plectra camenis,_
_Nec quantum nostra fistula clara tua est:_
_Sæpe licet lyricos modularis arundine psalmos,_
_Et tremulos calamis concinis ipse modos;_
_Quamvis mille tuus digitus dat carmine plausus,_
_Nam tua quam tua vox est mage docta manus;_
_Quamvis cuncta facis tumida sub mente superbus,_
_Gratior est Phæbo fistula nostra tamen._
_Ergo tuum studeas animo deponere fastum,_
_Et violare sacrum desine, stulte, virum._

Qd[221] Skelton, laureat.

[221] _Qd_, &c.] Not in Marshe’s ed.

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 10
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[222] fell.
Then, by my councell,
Loke that ye spell 20
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 30
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? 40
O goodly chyld
Of Mary mylde,
Then be oure shylde!
That we be not exyld[223]
To the dyne dale
Of boteles[224] bale,
Nor to the lake
Of fendys blake.
But graunt vs grace
To se thy face, 50
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. 60

_Myrres vous y._

[222] _nor_] Marshe’s ed. “not.”

[223] _exyld_] So Marshe’s ed. Pynson’s ed. “exylyd.”

[224] _boteles_] Marshe’s ed. “botemles.”

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, 10
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? 20
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. 30

_Here folowythe dyuers Balettys[225] and Dyties solacyous, deuysyd by Master Skelton, Laureat._

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 bed 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; 10
He had forgoten all dedely syn.
He wantyd wyt her loue to wyn:
He trusted her payment, and lost all hys pray:[226]
She left hym slepyng, 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; 20
I wys he hath an heuy bed,
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 famylyaryte, the formar dalyaunce,
Causyth me that I can not myself refrayne
But that I must wryte for my plesaunt pastaunce:
Remembryng your passyng 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, 10
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,[227] 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 behynde is bare; 20
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, hys mynde is so fell,
That he dryuyth them doune with dyntes on ther day wach; 30
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 your jentyll husband sorowfull am I;
How be it,[228] he is not furst hath had a los:
Aduertysyng you, madame, to warke more secretly,
Let not all the world make an owtcry; 40
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;
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; 10
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; 20
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, 30
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, 40
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.

* * * * *

_Cuncta licet cecidisse putas discrimina rerum,_
_Et prius incerta nunc tibi certa manent,_
_Consiliis usure meis tamen aspice caute,_
_Subdola non fallat te dea fraude sua:_
_Sæpe solet placido mortales fallere vultu,_
_Et cute sub placida tabida sæpe dolent;_
_Ut quando secura putas et cuncta serena,[229]_
_Anguis sub viridi gramine sæpe latet._
Though ye suppose all jeperdys ar paste,
And all is done that ye lokyd for before, 10
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 festerd 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,
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! 10
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.

[225] _Here folowythe dyuers Balettys_, &c.] A tract so entitled, of four leaves, n. d. and without printer’s name, but evidently from the press of Pynson, consists of the five following pieces.

[226] _pray_] Qy. “pay?”

[227] _curtoyl_] Ed. “curtoyt.”

[228] _it_] Ed. “is.”

[229] _serena_] Ed. “serenas.”

MANERLY MARGERY[230] 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, 10
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: 20
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 fownd 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[231] is stale!
Go, Manerly Margery Mylk and Ale!
Gup, Cristian Clowte, gup, Jak of the vale! 30
With, Manerly Margery Mylk and Ale.

[230] _Manerly Margery_, &c.] From the Fairfax MS., which formerly belonged to Ralph Thoresby, and now forms part of the Additional MSS. (5465. fol. 109) in the British Museum. It was printed (together with the music), by Hawkins, _Hist. of Music_, iii. 2. This song was inserted also in the first edition of _Ancient Songs_, 1790, p. 100, by Ritson, who observes,—“Since Sir J. Hawkins’s transcript was made, the ms. appears to have received certain alterations, occasioned, as it should seem, but certainly not authorised, by the over-scrupulous delicacy of its late or present possessor.” p. 102.

[231] _breth_] Hawkins and Ritson print “broth.”

HERE BEGYNNETH A LYTELL TREATYSE, NAMED THE BOWGE OF COURTE.[232]

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, 10
Can touche a trouth[233] and cloke it[234] subtylly
Wyth fresshe vtteraunce full sentencyously;
Dyuerse in style, some spared not vyce to wryte,[235]
Some of moralyte[236] 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,[237]
And shewed that in this arte I[238] was not sure;
For to illumyne, she sayde, I was to dulle, 20
Auysynge[239] me my penne awaye to pulle,

And not to wryte;[240] for he so wyll atteyne
Excedynge ferther than his connynge is,
His hede maye be harde, but feble is his[241] 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[242] beste; 30
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[243] 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[244] an anker, and there she laye at rode.
Marchauntes her borded to see what she had lode:[245] 40
Therein they founde royall marchaundyse,
Fraghted with plesure of what ye coude deuyse.

But than I thoughte I wolde 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:[246]

The owner[247] therof is lady of estate, 50
Whoos name to tell is dame Saunce-pere;
Her[248] 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[249] of sylke fyne,
Of golde of tessew the fynest that myghte be,
In a trone whiche fer clerer[250] dyde shyne 60
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[251] 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 70

To be so perte to prese so proudly vppe:
She sayde she trowed that I had[252] 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 80
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,[253] 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: 90
Who spareth to speke, in fayth he spareth to spede.[254]

Maystres, quod I, I haue none aquentaunce,
That wyll for me be medyatoure and mene;
And[255] 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; 100
For I dare saye that there nys erthly man
But, an[256] 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[257] you er[258] 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, 110
Fortune gydeth and ruleth all oure shyppe:
Whome she hateth shall ouer the see boorde[259] skyp;

Whome she loueth, of all plesyre[260] is ryche,
Whyles she laugheth[261] and hath luste for to playe;
Whome she hateth,[262] she casteth in the dyche,
For whan she frouneth,[263] she thynketh to make a fray;
She cheryssheth[264] him, and hym she casseth[265] 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 120
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._[266]

DREDE.

The sayle is vp, Fortune ruleth our helme,
We wante no wynde to passe now ouer all;
Fauoure we haue tougher[267] than ony[268] elme,
That wyll abyde and neuer from vs fall: 130
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,[269] that well coude picke a male;
With other foure of theyr affynyte,
Dysdayne, Ryotte, Dyssymuler, Subtylte. 140

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 is so excellent;
Deynte to haue with vs suche one in store, 150
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[270] space,
Whan there were dyuerse that sore dyde you manace;
And, though I say it, I was myselfe your frende, 160
For here be dyuerse to you that be vnkynde.