Part 1 — CARDINAL WOLSEY.
Reading edition
[FROM "WHY COME YE NOT TO COURT?"]
He is set so hye In his ierarchye Of frantike frenesy, And folish fantasy, That in chambre of stars1 Al maters ther he mars, Clapping his rod on the borde, No man dare speake a worde: For he hath al the saying Without any renaying. He rolleth in his Recordes; He saith, "How say ye, my lordes? Is not my reason good?" Good!—even good—Robin Hood!— Borne up on every syde With pompe and with pryde, With trump up alleluya,2 For dame Philargyria3 Hath so his hart in hold. Adew, Philosophia! Adew, Theologia! Welcome, dame Simonia,4 With dame Castamergia,5 To drink and for to eate, Sweete ipocras6 and sweete meate. To keep his fleshe chaste In Lente, for his repaste He eateth capons stewed, Fesaunt and partriche mewed— Spareth neither mayd ne wife— This is a postel's7 life!
NOTES.
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.
John Skelton was born about the year 1460. In his earlier life he was the friend of Caxton, the first English printer, and of Percy, Earl of Northumberland. He was poet-laureate under Henry VII., and tutor of the young prince (afterwards Henry VIII.), and was described by Erasmus as litterarum Anglicarum lumen et decus. Later in life he was promoted to the rectory of Diss in Norfolk, but was severely censured by his bishop for his buffooneries in the pulpit and his satirical ballads against the mendicants. He finally became a hanger-on about the court of Henry VIII.; and, daring to write a rhyming libel on Cardinal Wolsey, was driven to take refuge in the sanctuary of Westminster Abbey. There he was kindly entertained and protected by Abbot Islip until his death in 1529. Some of his poems were printed in 1512, and others in 1568.
Taine calls Skelton "a virulent pamphleteer, who jumbles together French, English, Latin phrases, with slang and fashionable words, invented words, intermingled with short rhymes. Style, metre, rhyme, language, art of every kind, at an end; beneath the vain parade of official style there is only a heap of rubbish. Yet, as he says,
'Though my rhyme be ragged, Tatter'd and jagged, Rudely rain-beaten, Rusty, moth-eaten, Yf ye take welle therewithe, It hath in it some pithe.'"
As to the coarseness which characterizes his verses, it cannot be explained by saying that it is a reflection of the manners of the times in which he lived. For, as Warton says, Skelton "would have been a writer without decorum at any period." Yet, notwithstanding his faults, he is deserving of our notice, if for nothing else, on account of the complete originality of his style—a style unknown and unattempted by any former writer. His bold departure from the accepted rules of versification showed to those who followed him some of the possibilities in English poetical composition, and helped to open the way to the great outburst of song which followed.