Volume 2 — APPENDIX III. EXTRACTS FROM PIECES WHICH ARE WRITTEN IN, OR WHICH CONTAIN EXAMPLES OF, THE METRE CALLED SKELTONICAL.

“Blynde obstynacye Begate heresye, By a myschaunce, Of dame ignoraunce. Heresye begate Stryfe and debate. Debate and ambycyon Begate supersticyon. Supersticion playne Begate disdayne. Dysdayne of trowthe Begate slowthe. Slowthe & sluggyshnesse Begate wylfulnesse. Wylfulnesse, verelye Nygh cosyne to heresye, Begate myschefe, Father of Wyclefe, Which ded bringe inne His grandfather synne. After this brother Came forth an other; His name to discusse, Menne called him Husse; He and his cumpanye Began in Germanye. And after that Came in a gnat Of the same kynde, Whose sowle is blynde; His name you shall here, Menne call him Luthere. He by his meane Hath bannyshed cleane Out of that coste The Holye Ghoste, And hath brought inne Lyberte and synne. Next after him, Is his chefe lym One Melanchtonus, Nequaquam bonus. Next after this whelpe Came in to helpe One Oecolampadius, With his brother Zuinglius. ... And for this tyme Here endeth my ryme, The Genealogye Of stynkynge heresye: Wherin I requyre And humblye desyre All menne ywys That shall rede this, Aboue all thinge To praye for our kynge, And the quene also Where so euer she go, And for the sauegarde Of our prince Edwarde, Whom I praye Jesu Longe to contynewe! Amen.”

The bukler and defence Of mother holy kyrke, And weapē to driue hence Al that against her wircke.

“Wyll none in all this lande Step forth, and take in hande These felowes to withstande, In nombre lyke the sande, That with the Gospell melles, And wyll do nothynge elles But tratlynge tales telles Agaynst our holy prelacie And holy churches dygnitie, Sayinge it is but papistrie, Yea, fayned and hipocrisy, Erronious and heresye, And taketh theyr aucthoritie Out of the holy Euangelie, All customes ceremoniall And rytes ecclesiasticall, Not grounded on Scripture, No longer to endure? And thus, ye maye be sure, The people they alure And drawe them from your lore, The whiche wyll greve you sore; Take hede, I saye, therfore, Your nede was neuer more. But sens ye be so slacke, It greueth me, alacke, To heare behynde your backe Howe they wyll carpe and cracke, And none of you that dare With[150] one of them compare. Yet some there be that are So bolde to shewe theyr ware, And is no priest nor deacon, And yet wyll fyre his becone Agaynst suche fellowes frayle, Make out with tothe and nayle, And hoyste vp meyne sayle, And manfully to fyght, In holy prelates ryght, With penne and ynke and paper, And lyke no triflynge iaper To touche these felowes indede With all expedient spede, And not before it nede: And I indede am he That wayteth for to se Who dare so hardy be To encounter here with me; I stande here in defence Of some that be far hence, And can both blysse and sence, And also vndertake Ryght holy thynges to make, Yea, God within a cake; And who so that forsake His breade shall be dowe bake; I openly professe The holy blyssed masse Of strength to be no lesse Then it was at the fyrst: But I wolde se who durst Set that amonge the worst, For he shulde be accurst With boke, bell, and candell, And so I wolde hym handell That he shulde ryght well knowe Howe to escape, I trowe, So hardy on his heade, Depraue our holy breade, Or els to prate or patter Agaynst our holy watter. This is a playne matter, It nedeth not to flatter: They be suche holy thynges As hath ben vsed with kynges; And yet these lewde loselles, That bragge vpon theyr Gospelles, At ceremonies swelles, And at our christined belles, And at our longe gownes, And at your shauen crownes, And at your typ[i]ttes fyne, The iauelles wyll repyne. They saye ye leade euyll lyues With other mennes wyues, And wyll none of your owne, And so your sede is sowne In other mennes grounde, True wedlocke to confounde: Thus do they rayle and raue, Callynge euery priest knaue, That loueth messe to saye, And after ydle all daye: They wolde not haue you playe To dryue the tyme awaye, But brabble on the Byble, Whiche is but impossible To be learned in all your lyfe; Yet therin be they ryfe, Whiche maketh all this stryfe,” &c.

“Who hath not knowen or herd How we were made afeard That, magre of our beard, Our messe shulde cleane awaye, That we did dayly saye, And vtterly decaye For euer and for aye? So were we brought in doubte That all that are deuout Were like to go withoute The messe that hath no peere, Which longe hath taried here, Yea, many an hundreth yere, And to be destitute Of that whiche constitute Was of the highe depute Of Christe and his apostles; Althoughe none of the Gospels No mention maketh or tells, We must beleue (what ells?) Of things done by councells, Wherein the high professours, Apostlique successours, Take holde to be possessours; And some were made confessours; Some of them were no startars, But were made holi marters: Yet plowmen, smythes, & cartars, With such as be their hartars, Will enterprise to taxe Thes auncyent mens actes And holy fathers factes. Thoughe messe were made bi men, As popes nyne or ten, Or many more, what then? Or not of Scripture grounded, Is yt therfore confounded To be a supersticion? Nay, nay, they mysse the quission: Make better inquyssicion; Ye haue an euyll condicion To make suche exposicion; Ye thinke nothing but Scripture Is only clene and pure; Yes, yes, I you ensure, The messe shalbe hir better, As light as ye do set hir. The Scripture hath nothing Wherby profyte to bryng, But a lytyll preaching, With tattling and teaching; And nothing can ye espie Nor se with outwarde eye, But must your ears applie To learnyng inwardlye; And who so it will folowe, In goods though he may walow, If Scripture once him swalowe, She wyll vndo him holowe; Wherfore no good mes singers Will come within hir fyngers, But are hir vnder styngers, For she wolde fayne vndo All such as lyueth so. To the messe she is an enymye, And wolde distroye hir vtterlye, Wer not for sum that frendfully In time of nede will stand hir by. Yet is the messe and she as lyke As a Christian to an heretike: The messe hath holy vestures, And many gay gestures, And decked with clothe of golde, And vessells many folde, Right galaunt to beholde, More then may well be tolde, With basen, ewer, and towell, And many a prety jwelle, With goodly candellstyckes, And many proper tryckys, With cruetts gilt and chalys, Wherat some men haue malice, With sensers, and with pax, And many other knackys, With patent, and with corporas, The fynest thing that euer was. Alasse, is it not pitie That men be no more wittye But on the messe to iest, Of all suche thinge the best? For if she were supprest, A pyn for all the rest. ... A, good mestres Missa, Shal ye go from vs thissa? Wel, yet I muste ye kissa: Alacke, for payne I pyssa, To se the mone here issa, Because ye muste departe! It greueth many an herte That ye should from them start: But what then? tushe, a farte! Sins other shifte is none, But she must neades be gone, Nowe let vs synge eche one, Boeth Jak and Gyll and Jone, Requiem eternam, Lest penam sempiternam For vitam supernam, And vmbram infernam For veram lucernam, She chaunce to enherite, According to hir merite. Pro cuius memoria Ye maye wel be soria; Full smale maye be your gloria, When ye shal heare thys storia; Then wil ye crie and roria, We shal se[151] hir no moria: Et dicam vobis quare She may no longer stare, Nor here with you regnare, But trudge ad vltra mare, And after habitare In regno Plutonico Et euo acronyco, Cum cetu Babilonico Et cantu diabolico, With pollers and piller[s], And al hir well willers, And ther to dwel euer: And thus wil I leaue hir.”

“Gyue place, ye poetes fine, Bow doune now & encline; For nowe yᵉ Muses nyne, So sacred and diuine, In Parnase holy hyll Haue wrought theyr worthy wyll. And by theyr goodly skyll Vppon that myghty mountayne In Hellycons fountayne, &c. ... O poete so impudent, Whyche neuer yet was studente, To thee the goddes prudente Minerua is illudente! Thou wrytest thynges dyffuse, Incongrue and confuse, Obfuscate and obtuse; No man the lyke doth use Among the Turckes or Jewes; Alwayes inuentyng newes That are incomparable, They be so fyrme and stable: Lyke as a shyppe is able, Wythout ancre and cable, Roother, maste, or sayle, Pully, rope, or nayle, In wynde, weather, or hayle, To guyde both top and tayle, And not the course to fayle; So thys our poet maye, Wythout a stopp or staye, In cunnynge wend the way, As wel by darke as day, And neuer go astray, Yf yt be as they saye. O poet rare and recent, Dedecorate and indecent, Insolent and insensate, Contendyng and condensate, Obtused and obturate, Obumbylate, obdurate, Sparyng no priest or curate, Cyuylyan or rurate, That be alredy marryed, And from theyr vow bene varyed, Wherto the Scrypture them caried! They myght as wel haue taryed; I sweare by the north doore rood, That stowte was whyle he stood, That they had bene as good To haue solde theyr best blew hood; For I am in suche a moode, That for my power and parte, Wyth al my wyt and arte, Wyth whole intent and harte, I wyl so at them darte,” &c.

“Although I lacke intelligence, And can not skyll of eloquence, Yet wyll I do my diligence To say sumthing or I go hence, Wherein I may demonstrate The figure, gesture, and estate Of one that is a curate, That harde is and endurate, And ernest in the cause Of piuish popish lawes, That are not worth two strawes, Except it be with dawes, That knoweth not good from euels, Nor Gods worde from the deuels, Nor wyll in no wise heare The worde of God so cleare, But popishnes vpreare, And make the pope Gods peare. ... Now let vs go about To tell the tale out Of this good felow stout, That for no man wyll dout, But kepe his olde condicions For all the newe comyssions, And vse his supersticions, And also mens tradycions, And syng for dead folkes soules, And reade hys beaderolles, And all such thinges wyll vse As honest men refuse: But take hym for a cruse, And ye wyll tell me newes; For if he ons begyn, He leaueth nought therin; He careth not a pyn How much ther be wythin, So he the pot may wyn, He wyll it make full thyn; And wher the drinke doth please There wyll he take his ease, And drinke therof his fyll, Tyll ruddy be his byll; And fyll both cup and can, Who is so glad a man As is our curate than? I wolde ye knewe it, a curate Not far without Newgate; Of a parysh large The man hath mikle charge, And none within this border That kepeth such order, Nor one a this syde Nauerne Louyth better the ale tauerne: But if the drinke be small, He may not well withall; Tush, cast it on the wall! It fretteth out his gall; Then seke an other house, This is not worth a louse, As dronken as a mouse, Monsyre gybet a vous! And ther wyll byb and bouse, Tyll heuy be his brouse. ... Thus may ye beholde This man is very bolde, And in his learning olde Intendeth for to syt: I blame hym not a whyt, For it wolde vexe his wyt, And cleane agaynst his earning, To folow such learning As now a dayes is taught; It wolde sone bryng to naught His olde popish brayne, For then he must agayne Apply hym to the schole, And come away a fole, For nothing shulde he get, His brayne hath bene to het And with good ale so wet; Wherefore he may now set In feldes and in medes, And pray vpon his beades, For yet he hath a payre Of beades that be right fayre, Of corall, gete, or ambre, At home within his chambre; For in matins or masse Primar and portas, And pottes and beades, His lyfe he leades: But this I wota, That if ye nota How this idiota Doth folow the pota, I holde you a grota Ye wyll rede by rota That he may were a cota In Cocke Lorels[152] bota. Thus the durty doctour, The popes oune proctour, Wyll bragge and boost Wyth ale and a toost, And lyke a rutter Hys Latin wyll vtter, And turne and tosse hym, Wyth tu non possum Loquere Latinum; This alum finum Is bonus then vinum; Ego volo quare Cum tu drinkare Pro tuum caput, Quia apud Te propiciacio, Tu non potes facio Tot quam ego; Quam librum tu lego, Caue de me Apponere te: Juro per Deum Hoc est lifum meum, Quia drinkum stalum Non facere malum. Thus our dominus dodkin Wyth ita vera bodkin Doth leade his lyfe, Which to the ale wife Is very profitable: It is pytie he is not able To mayntayne a table For beggers and tinkers And all lusty drinkers, Or captayne or beddle Wyth dronkardes to meddle. Ye cannot, I am sure, For keping of a cure Fynde such a one well, If ye shulde rake hell: And therefore nowe No more to you, Sed perlegas ista, Si velis, papista; Farewell and adewe, With a whirlary whewe, And a tirlary typpe; Beware of the whyppe.”

“The fifte lesson. Homo natus. “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.

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.

“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.

“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.