For he was parde No doctor of deuinyte Nor doctor of the law Nor of none other saw But a poore maister of arte God wot had lytell parte Of the Quatriuials Nor yet of triuials Nor of philosophy Nor of Philology Nor of good pollycy Nor of astronomy Nor acquaynted worth a 〈◊〉 With honorable Haly Nor with royall Ptholomy Nor with Albumasar Totreate of any star Fyxtor els mobyll His latyne tonge dothe hobbyll He doth but cloute and cobbill In Cullis Faculte Called humanyte Yet proudly he dare pretende How no man can him amende But haue ye nat harde this How an one eyed man is Well syghted when He is amonge blynde men ¶ Than our processe for to stable This man was full vnable To reche to suche degre Had nat our prynce be Royall Henry the eyght Take him in suche conceyght That he set him on heyght In exemplyfyenge Great Alexander the kynge In writynge as we fynde Whiche of his royall mynde And of his noble pleasure Transcendynge out of mesure Thought to do a thynge That perteyneth to a kynde To make vp one of nought Aud made to him be brought A wretched poore man Whiche his lyuenge wan With plantyng of lekes By the dayes and by the wekes And of this poore vassall He made a kynge royall And gaue him a realme to rule That occupyed a showell A mattoke and a spade Before that he was made A kynge as I haue tolde And ruled as he wolde Suche is a kynges power To make with in an hower And worke suche a myracle That shall be a spectacle Of renowme and worldly fame In lykewyse now the same Cardynall is promoted Yet with lewde condicyons cotyd As herafter ben notyd Presumcyon and vayne glory Enuy wrath and lechery Couetys and glotony Slouthfull to do good Now frantick now starke wode Shulde this man of suche mode Rule the swerde of myght How can he do ryght For he wyll as sone smyght His trende as his fo A prouerbe longe a go ¶ Set vp a wretche on hye In a trone triumphantlye Make him a great astate And he wyll play checke mate with ryall maieste Counte him selfe as good as he A prelate potencyall To rule vnder Belly all As ferce and as cruell As the fynd of hell His seruauntes meny all He dothe reuyle and brall Lyke Mahounde in a play No man dare him with say He hath dispyght and scorne At them that be well borne He rebukes them and rayles Ye horsons ye bassayles Ye knaues ye churles sonnys Ye rebads nat worth two pluÌ„mis Ye raynbetyn beggers reiagged Ye recrayed ruffyns all ragged With stowpe thou hauell Rynne thou iauell Thou peuysshe pye pecked Thou losell longe necked Thus dayly they be decked Taunted and checked That they ar so wo They wot not whether to go No man dare come to the speche Of this gentell Iacke breche Of what estate he be Of spirituall dygnyte Nor duke of hye degre Nor Marques erle nor lorde Whiche shrewdly doth accorde Thus he borne so base All noble men shulde out face His countynaunce lyke a kayser My lorde is nat at layser Syr ye must tary a stounde Tyll better layser be founde And syr ye must dauÌ„ce attendauÌ„ce And take pacient sufferaunce For my lordes grace Hath nowe no tyme nor space To speke with you as yet ¶ And thus they shall syt Chuse them syt or flyt Stande walke or ryde And his layser abyde Parchaunce halfe a yere And yet neuer the nere This daungerous dowsy pere Lyke a kynges pere And within this xvi yere He wolde haue ben ryght fayne To haue ben a chapleyne And haue taken ryght gret payne With a poore knyght What soeuer he hyght The chefe of his owne counsell They can nat well â—ell Whan they with hym shulde mell He is so fyers and fell He rayles and he ratis He calleth them doddy patis He grynnes and he gapis As it were Iack napis Suche a madde bedleme For to rewle this reame It is a wonders case That the kynges grace Is toward him so mynded And so farre blynded That he can nat parâ—e yue How he doth hym discâ—â—ue I dought lest by Sorsery Or suche other loselry As wychecraft or charmyng For he is the kynges derlyng And his swete hart rott And is gouerned by this mad â—ote For what is a man the better For the kynges letter For he wyll tere it a sonder Wherat moche I wonder How suche a hoddy poule So boldely dare controule And so malapertly withstande The kynges owne hande And settys nat by it a myte He sayth the kynge doth wryte And writeth he wottith nat what And yet for all that The kynge his clemency Despensyth with his demensy ¶ But what his grace â—oth thiâ—e I haue no pen nor inke That ther with can mell But wâ—le I can tell How Frauncis Petrarke That moche noble clerke Wryteth how Charlemayn Coude nat him selfe refrayne But was rauysht with a rage Of a lyke dotage But how that came aboute Rede ye the story oute And ye shall fynde surely It was by â—ycromansy By carectes and coniuracyon Vnder a certeyne constellacion And a certayne fumygacion Vnder a stone on a golde ryng Wrought to Charlemayn y â— king Whiche constrayned him forcebly For to loue a certayne body Aboue all other inordinatly This is no fable nor no lye At Acon it was brought to paâ— As by myne auctor tried it was But leâ—mi nasters mathematical Tell you the rest for me they shal They haue the full intellygence And dare vse the experyens In there obsolute consciens To practyue suche abolete sciens For I abhore to smatter Of one so deuyllysshe a matter But I wyll make further relacioÌ„ Of this I sagogicall colation How maister Gaguine the crownycler Of the feytis of war That were done in Fraunce Maketh remembraunce How kynge Lewes of late Made vp a great astate Of a poore wretchid man Wherof moche care began IohaÌ„nes Balua was his name Myne nuctor writeth the same Promoted was he To a Cardynalles dygnyte By Lewes the kyng a foresayd With hym so wele apayd That he made hiÌ„ his chauncelar To make all or to mar And to rule as him lyst Tyll he cheked at the fyst And agayne all reason Commyted open trayson And against his lorde souerayn Wherfore he suffred payn Was hedyd drawen quarterd And dyed stynkingly marterd ¶ Lo yet for all that He ware a cardynals hat In hym was small fayth As myne auctor sayth Nat for that I mene Suche a casuelte shulde be sene Or suche chaunce shulde fall Vnto our cardynall All myghty god I trust Hath for hindyscust That of force he must Be faythfull trew and iust To our most royall kynge Chefe rote of his makynge Yet it is a wyly mouse That caÌ„ bylde his dwelliÌ„ge house With in the cattes eare Withouten drede or feare It is a nyce reconynge To put all the gouernynge All the rule of this lande In to one mannys hande One wyse
theyr crack and bost Wylde fyre and thonder For all this worldly wonder A hundred myle a sonder They were whan the were next That is a trew text What here ye of the scottes They make vs all sottes Poppynge folysshe dawes They make vs to pyll strawes They play their olde pranckes After huntley bankes At the streme of Banockâ— burne They dyd vs a shrewde turne Whan Edwarde of Karnaruan Lost all his father wan ¶ What here ye of y â— lorde Dakers He maketh vs Iacke rakers He sayes we ar but crakers He calleth vs England men Stronge herted lyke an hen For the scottes and he To well they do agre With do thou for me And I shall do for the Whyles the red hat doth endure He mketh him selfe rock sure The red hat with his lure Bryngeth all thyuges vnder cure But as the worlde now gose What here ye of the lorde Rose Nothynge to purpose Nat worth a cockly fose Their hertes be in thyr hose The erle of Northumberlande Dare take nothynge on hande Our barons be so bolde In to a mouse hole they wolde Rynne away and crepe Lyke a mayny of shepe Dare nat loke out at dur For drede of the mastyue â—ur For drede of the bochers dogge Wold wyrry them lyke an hogge For and this curre do gnar They must stande all a far To holde vp their haÌ„de at the bar For all their noble blode He pluckes them by the hode And shakes them by the eare And brynge them in suche feare He bayteth them lyke a bere Lyke an oxe or a bull Theyr wytâ—es he saith are dull He sayth they haue no brayne Theyr astate to mayntayne And maketh theÌ„ to bow theyr kne Be fore his maieste ¶ Iuges of the kynges lawes He countys them foles dawes Sergyantes of the coyfe eke He sayth they are to seke In pletynge of theyr case At the commune place Or at the kynges benche He wryngeth theÌ„ suche a wrenche That all our lerned men Dare nat set theyr pâ—nne To plete a trew tryall With in westmynster hall In the ChauÌ„cery where he syttâ—s But suche as he admyttes None so hatdy to speke He sayth thou buddy pâ—â—e Thy lernynge is to lewde Thy tonge is nat well â—hewde To â—â—ke before our grace And openly in that place He rages and he rauâ—s And cals them cankerd knauâ—s Thus royally he dothe deale Vnder the kynges brode seale And in the checket â—he them cheks In â—â—er chaÌ„bre he noddis beâ—s And berâ—â—h him thereso stâ—wte That no man dare rowte Duke erle baron nor lorde But to his sentence must accorde Whether he be knyght or â—â—uyre All men muâ—â— folow his dâ—syre What say ye of y â— scottysh kynge That is another thyng He is but an yonglyng A stal worthy stryplyng There is a whyspriÌ„g a whipliÌ„g He shulde be hyder brought But and it were well sought I trow all wyll be nought Nat worth a shyttel cocke Nor worth a sowre calstocke ¶ There goth many a lye Of the duke of Albany That of shulde go his hede And brought in quycke or dede And all Scotlande owers The mouÌ„tenannce of two houres But as some men sayne I drede of some false trayne Subtelly wrought shall be Vnder a fayned treatee But with in monethes thre Men may happely se The trechery and the prankes Of the Scottysshe bankes What here ye of Burgonyons And the Spainyardes onyons They haue slain our Englisshmen Aboue threscore and ten For all your amyte No better they agre God saue my lorde Admyrell What here ye of Mutrell There with I dare nat mell Yet what here ye tell Of our graunde counsell I coulde say some what But speke ye no more of that For drede of the red hat Take peper in the nose For than thyne heed of gose Of by the harde arse But there is some trauarse Bytwene some and some That makys our syre to glum It is some what wronge That his berde is so longe He morneth in blacke clothynge I pray god saue the kynge Where ener he go or ryde I pray god be his gyde Thus wyll I conclude my style And fall to rest a whyle ¶ And so to rest a whyle c. ONes yet agayne Of you I wolde frayne Why come ye nat to court To whyche court To the kynges courte Or to Hampton court Nay to the kynges court The kynges courte Shulde haue the excellence But Hampton court Hath the preemynence And yorkes place With my lordes grace To whose magnifycence Is all the conâ—â—ewence Sutys and supplycacyons Embassades of all nacyons Strawe for lawe conon Or for the lawe coÌ„mon Or for lawe cyuyll It shall be as he wyll Stop at law tancrete An obstract or a concrete Be it soure be it swete His wysdome is so dyscrete That in a fume or an hete Wardeyn of the flete Set hym fast by the fete And of his royall powre Whan him lyst to lowre Than haue him to the towre Saunz aulter remedy Hane hym forthe by and by To the marshalsy Or to the kynges benche He dyggeth so in the crenche Of the court royall That he ruleth them all So he dothe vndermynde And suche sleyghtes dothe fynde That the kynges mynde By hym is subuerted And so streatly coarted In credenfynge his tales That all is but nutshales That any other sayth He hath in him suche fayth ¶ Now yet all this myght be Suffred and taken in gre If that that he wrought To any good ende were brought But all he bringeth to nought By god that me dere bought He bereth the dkeyng on hand That he must pyll his lande To make his cofers ryche But he laythe all in the dyche And vseth suche abusyoun That in the conclusyoun All commeth to confusyon Perceyue the cause why To tell the trouth playnly He is so ambicyous So shamles an so vicyous And so supersticyous And so moche obliuyous From whens that he came That he falleth in to Acisâ—am Whiche truly to expresse Is a forgetfulnesse Or wylfull blyndnesse Wherwith the So domites Lost theyr inward syghtes The goÌ„moryans also Were brought to deedly wo As scrypture recordis A cecitate cordis In the latyne synge we Lybera nos domine But this madde Amalecke Lyke to Amamelek He regardeth lordes No more than pot shordes He is in suche clacyon Of his exaltacyon And the supportacyon Of our souerayne lorde That god to recorde He ruleth all at wyll With out reason or skyll How be it the primordyall Of his wretched originall And his base progeny And his gresy â—enealogy He came of the sank royall y â— was cast out of a bochers stall ¶ But how euer he was borne Men wolde haue the lesse scorne If he coulde consyder His byrth and rowme to geder And call to his mynde How noble and how kynds To him he hathe founde Our souereyne lorde chyfe grouÌ„de Of all this prelacy And set hym nobly In great aucâ—oryte Out from a low degre Whiche he cannat se
¶ Here after foloweth a lytell boke whiche hath to name why come ye nat to courte compyled by mayster Skelton poete Laureate ¶ All noble men of this take hede And beleue it as your Crede TO hasty of sentence To ferce for none offence To scarce of your expence To large in neglygence To slacke in recompence To haute in excellence To lyght intellegence And to lyght in credence where these kepe resydence Reson is banysshed thence And also dame prudence with sober sapyence All noble men c. ¶ Than withont collusyon Marke well this conclusyon Through suche abusyon And by suche Illusyon Vnto great confusyon Anoble man may fall And his honour appall And yf ye thynke this shall Not rubbe you on the gall Than the deuyll take all c. Hee vaâ—es ille de quo loquÌ„tur mille ¶ Why come ye nat to court â— Or age is a page For the courte full vnmete For age can nat rage Nor basse her swete swete But whan age seeth that rage Dothe aswage and refrayne Than wyll age haue a corage To come to court agayne But Helas sage ouerage So madly decayes That age for dottage Is recoâ—â—ed now adayes Thus age agraunt domage Is nothynge set by And rage in a rerage Lothe rynne lamâ—ntably So That rage must make â—yllage To catche that catche may And with suche forage Hunte the boskage That hartes wyll ronne away Bothe hartes and hyndes With all good myndes Fare well than haue good day ¶ Than haue good daye a dewe For defaute of rescew Some men may happely rew And some theyr hedes mew The tyme dothe fast ensew That bales begynne to brew I drede by swete Iesu This tale wyll be to trew In faythe dycken thou krew In fayth dicken thou krew c. O Icken thou krew doutlesse For trewly to expresse There hath ben moche excesse With banketynge braynlesse With tyotynge rechelesse With gambaudynge thryftlesse With spende and wast witlesse Creatinge of trewse restlesse Pratynge for peace peaslesse They countrynge at Cales Wrang vs on the wales Chefe counselour was carlesse Gronynge grouchyng gracelesse And to none entente Our talwod is all brent Our fagottes are all spent We may blowe at the cole Our mare hath cast her fole And mocke hath lost her sho What may she do ther to An ende of an olde song Do ryght and do no wronge As ryght as a rammes horne For thrifte is threde bare wornâ— Our shepe are shrewdly shorn And trouthe is all to torne Wysdom is laught to skorne Fauell is false forsworne Iauell is nobly borne Hauell and Haruy hafter Iack Trauell and Cole Crafter We shall here more herafter With pollynge aud shauynge With borowynge and crauyne With reuynge and rauynge With swerynge aud starynge Ther vayleth no resonynge For wyll dothe rule all thynge Wyll wyll wyll wyll wyll He ruleth alway styll Good reason and good skyll They may garlycke pyll Cary sackes to the myll Or pescoddes they may shyll Or elles go rost a stone There is no man but one That hathe the strokes alone Be it blacke or whight All that he dothe is ryght As right as a Cammocke croked This byll well ouer loked Clerely perceuye we may There went the hare away The hare the fox the gray The harte the hynde the buch God sende vs better luck ¶ God sende vs better lucke c. Twit Andrewe twit scote Ge heme ge scour thy pot For we haue spente our shot We shall haue a tot quot From the pope of Rome To weue all in one lome A webbe of Lyife wulse Opus male duâ—ce The deuyll kysse hes cuse For whyles he doth rule All is warse and warse The deuyll kysse his arse For whether he blesse or curse It can not be moche worse From Baumberow to BothoÌ„bar We haue cast vp our war And mad a worthy trewse With gup leuell suse Our mony madly lent And mor madly spent From Croydon into Kent Wote ye whyther they went From wynchelsey to Rye And all nat worth a flye From wentbridge to Hull Our armye waxeth dull With tourne all home agayne And neuer a scot slayne Yet the good erle of Surray The frenche men he doth fray And vexeth them day by day With all the power he may Tho french men he hath faynted And mad theyr hertes attaynted Of cheualry he is the floure Our lorde be his soccoure The french men he hathe so mated And theyr courage abated That they are but halfe men Lyke foxes in theyr denne Lyke cankerd cowardes all Lyke Vrcheons in a stone wall They kepe them in theyr holdes Lyke hen herted cokoldes ¶ But yet they ouer shote vs Wyth crownes wyth Scutus With Scutis crownes of gold I drede we are bought and solde It is a wonders warke They shote all at one marke At the Cardynals hat Thy shote all at that Oute of theyr stronge townes They shote at him with crownes With crownes of golde enblased They make him so a mased And his eyen so dased That he nese can To know god nor man He is set so hye In his Ierarchy Of frantycke frenesy And folysshe Fantasy That in the chambre of sterres All maters there he marres Clappyng his rod on the borde No man dare speke a worde For he hathe all the sayenge With out any renayenge He rolleth in his recordes He sayth how saye ye my lordes Is nat my reason good Good euyn good Robyn hode Some say yes And some Syt styll as they were dom Thus thwartyng ouer thom He ruleth all the roste With braggynge and with bost Borne vp on euery fyde With pompe and withpryde With trompe vp Alleluya For dame Philargera Hathe so his herte in holde He loueth nothyng but golde And Asmodeus of hell Maketh his membres swell With Dalyda to mell That wanton damosell ¶ Adew philosophia Aoew Theologia Welcome dame Simonia With dame Castrimergia To drynke and for to eate Swete ypocrus and swete meate To kepe his flesshe chast In lent for a repast He eateth copons stewed Fesaunt and partriche mewed Hennes checkynges and pygges He foynes and he frygges Spareth neither mayde ne wyfe This is a postels lyfe Helas my herte is sory To tell of vayne glory But now vpon this story I wyll no further ryme Tyll another tyme ¶ Tyll another tyme. c. What newes what news Small newes y â— true is That be worth 〈◊〉 kues But at y â— naked stewes I vnder stande how that The sygne of the Cardynall hat That Inne is now shyt vp With gup hore gup now gup Gup Guilliam Trauillian With â—ast you I say Iullian Wyll ye bere no coles A mayny of marefoles That occupy theyr holys â—ull of pocky molys What here ye of Lancashyre They were nat payde their hyre They are felas any fyre What here ye of Châ—sshyre They haue laâ—de all in the myre They grugyd and sayde Theyr wages were nat payde Some sayde they were afrayde Of the scortysshe hoost For all