Volume 2 — HERE AFTER[335] FOLOWETH THE BOKE OF PHYLLYP SPAROWE, COMPYLED BY MAYSTER SKELTON, POETE LAUREATE.

Pla ce bo, Who is there, who? Di le xi, Dame Margery; Fa, re, my, my, Wherfore and why, why? For the sowle of Philip Sparowe, That was late slayn at Carowe, Among the Nones Blake, For that swete soules sake, 10 And for all sparowes soules, Set in our bederolles, Pater noster qui, With an Ave Mari, And with the corner of a Crede, The more shalbe your mede. Whan I remembre agayn How mi Philyp was slayn, Neuer halfe the payne Was betwene you twayne, 20 Pyramus and Thesbe, As than befell to me: I wept and I wayled, The tearys downe hayled; But nothynge it auayled To call Phylyp agayne, Whom Gyb our cat hath slayne. Gib, I saye, our cat Worrowyd her on that Which I loued best: 30 It can not be exprest My sorowfull heuynesse, But all without redresse; For within that stounde, Halfe slumbrynge, in a sounde I fell downe to the grounde. Vnneth I kest myne eyes Towarde the cloudy skyes: But whan I dyd beholde My sparow dead and colde, 40 No creatuer but that wolde Haue rewed vpon me, To behold and se What heuynesse dyd me pange; Wherewith my handes I wrange, That my senaws cracked, As though I had ben racked, So payned and so strayned, That no lyfe wellnye remayned. I syghed and I sobbed, 50 For that I was robbed Of my sparowes lyfe. O mayden, wydow, and wyfe, Of what estate ye be, Of hye or lowe degre, Great sorowe than ye myght se, And lerne to wepe at me! Such paynes dyd me frete, That myne hert dyd bete, My vysage pale and dead, 60 Wanne, and blewe as lead; The panges of hatefull death Wellnye had[336] stopped my breath. Heu, heu, me, That I am wo for thé! Ad Dominum, cum tribularer, clamavi: Of God nothynge els craue I But Phyllypes soule to kepe From the marees deepe Of Acherontes well, 70 That is a flode of hell; And from the great Pluto, The prynce of endles wo; And from foule Alecto, With vysage blacke and blo; And from Medusa, that mare, That lyke a fende doth stare; And from Megeras edders, For[337] rufflynge of Phillips fethers, And from her fyry sparklynges, 80 For burnynge of his wynges; And from the smokes sowre Of Proserpinas bowre; And from the dennes darke, Wher Cerberus doth barke, Whom Theseus dyd afraye, Whom Hercules dyd outraye, As famous poetes say; From[338] that hell hounde, That lyeth in cheynes bounde, 90 With gastly hedes thre, To Jupyter pray we That Phyllyp preserued may be! Amen, say ye with me! Do mi nus, Helpe nowe, swete Jesus! Levavi oculos meos in montes:[339] Wolde God I had Zenophontes,[340] Or Socrates the wyse, To shew me their deuyse, 100 Moderatly to take This sorow that I make For Phyllip Sparowes sake! So feruently I shake, I fele my body quake; So vrgently I am brought Into carefull thought. Like Andromach,[341] Hectors wyfe, Was wery of her lyfe, Whan she had lost her ioye, 110 Noble Hector of Troye; In lyke maner also Encreaseth my dedly wo, For my sparowe is go. It was so prety a fole, It wold syt[342] on a stole, And lerned after my scole For to kepe his cut, With, Phyllyp, kepe your cut! It had a veluet cap, 120 And wold syt vpon my lap, And seke after small wormes, And somtyme white bred crommes; And many tymes and ofte Betwene my brestes softe It wolde lye and rest; It was propre and prest. Somtyme he wolde gaspe Whan he sawe a waspe; A fly or a gnat, 130 He wolde flye at that; And prytely he wold pant Whan he saw an ant; Lord, how he wolde pry After the butterfly! Lorde, how he wolde hop After the gressop! And whan I sayd, Phyp, Phyp, Than he wold lepe and skyp, And take me by the lyp. 140 Alas, it wyll me slo, That Phillyp is gone me fro! Si in i qui ta tes, Alas, I was euyll at ease! De pro fun dis cla ma vi, Whan I sawe my sparowe dye! Nowe, after my dome, Dame Sulpicia[343] at Rome, Whose name regystred was For euer in tables of bras, 150 Because that[344] she dyd pas In poesy to endyte, And eloquently[345] to wryte, Though she wolde pretende My sparowe to commende, I trowe she coude not amende Reportynge the vertues all Of my sparowe royall. For it wold come and go, And fly[346] so to and fro; 160 And on me it wolde lepe Whan I was aslepe, And his fethers[347] shake, Wherewith he wolde make Me often for to wake, And for to take him in Vpon my naked skyn; God wot, we thought no syn: What though[348] he crept so lowe? It was no hurt, I trowe, 170 He dyd nothynge perde But syt vpon my kne: Phyllyp, though he were nyse, In him it was no vyse; Phyllyp had leue to go To pyke my lytell too; Phillip myght be bolde And do what he wolde; Phillip wolde seke and take All the flees blake 180 That he coulde there espye With his wanton eye. O pe ra, La, soll, fa, fa, Confitebor tibi, Domine, in[349] toto corde meo. Alas, I wold ryde and go A thousand myle of grounde! If any such might be found, It were worth an hundreth pound Of kynge Cresus golde, 190 Or of Attalus[350] the olde, The ryche prynce of Pargame, Who so lyst the story to se. Cadmus, that his syster sought, And he shold be bought For golde and fee, He shuld ouer the see, To wete if he coulde brynge Any of the ofsprynge,[351] Or any of the blode. 200 But whoso vnderstode Of Medeas arte, I wolde I had a parte Of her crafty magyke! My sparowe than shuld be quycke With a charme or twayne, And playe with me agayne. But all this is in vayne Thus for to complayne. I toke my sampler ones, 210 Of purpose, for the nones, To sowe with stytchis of sylke My sparow whyte as mylke, That by representacyon Of his image and facyon, To me it myght importe Some pleasure and comforte For my solas and sporte: But whan I was sowing his beke, Methought, my sparow did speke, 220 And opened[352] his prety byll, Saynge, Mayd, ye are in wyll Agayne me for to kyll, Ye prycke me in the head! With that my nedle waxed[353] red, Methought, of Phyllyps blode; Myne hear ryght vpstode, And was in suche a fray, My speche was taken away. I kest downe that there was, 230 And sayd, Alas, alas, How commeth this to pas? My fyngers, dead and colde, Coude not my sampler holde; My nedle and threde I threwe away for drede. The best now that I maye, Is for his soule to pray: A porta inferi, Good Lorde, haue mercy 240 Vpon my sparowes soule, Wryten in my bederoule! Au di vi vo cem, Japhet, Cam, and Sem, Ma gni fi cat, Shewe me the ryght path To the hylles of Armony, Wherfore the birdes[354] yet cry Of your fathers bote, That was sometyme aflote, 250 And nowe they lye and rote; Let some poetes wryte Deucalyons flode it hyght: But as verely as ye be The naturall sonnes thre Of Noe the patryarke, That made that great arke, Wherin he had apes and owles, Beestes, byrdes, and foules, That if ye can fynde 260 Any of my sparowes kynde, God sende the soule good rest! I wolde haue yet[355] a nest As prety and as prest As my sparowe was. But my sparowe dyd pas All sparowes of the wode That were syns Noes flode, Was neuer none so good; Kynge Phylyp of Macedony 270 Had no such Phylyp as I, No, no, syr, hardely. That vengeaunce I aske and crye, By way of exclamacyon, On all the hole nacyon Of cattes wylde and tame; God send them sorowe and shame! That cat specyally That slew so cruelly My lytell prety sparowe 280 That I brought vp at Carowe. O cat of carlyshe[356] kynde, The fynde was in thy mynde Whan thou my byrde vntwynde! I wold thou haddest ben blynde! The leopardes sauage, The lyons in theyr rage, Myght catche thé in theyr pawes, And gnawe thé in theyr iawes! The[357] serpentes[358] of Lybany 290 Myght stynge thé venymously! The dragones with their tonges Might poyson thy lyuer and longes! The mantycors of the montaynes Myght fede them on thy braynes! Melanchates, that hounde That plucked Acteon to the grounde, Gaue hym his mortall wounde, Chaunged to a dere, The story doth appere, 300 Was chaunged to an harte: So thou, foule cat that thou arte, The selfe same hounde Myght thé confounde, That his owne lord bote, Myght byte asondre thy throte! Of Inde the gredy grypes Myght tere out all thy trypes! Of Arcady the beares Might plucke awaye thyne eares! 310 The wylde wolfe Lycaon Byte asondre thy backe bone! Of Ethna the brennynge hyll, That day and night brenneth styl, Set in thy tayle a blase, That all the world may gase And wonder vpon thé, From Occyan the greate se Vnto the Iles of Orchady, From Tyllbery fery 320 To the playne of Salysbery! So trayterously my byrde to kyll That neuer ought thé euyll wyll! Was neuer byrde in cage More gentle of corage In doynge his homage Vnto his souerayne. Alas, I say agayne, Deth hath departed vs twayne! The false cat hath thé slayne: 330 Farewell, Phyllyp, adew! Our Lorde thy soule reskew! Farewell without restore, Farewell for euermore! And it were[359] a Jewe, It wolde make one rew, To se my sorow new. These vylanous false cattes Were made for myse and rattes, And not for byrdes smale. 340 Alas, my face waxeth pale, Tellynge this pyteyus tale, How my byrde so fayre, That was wont to repayre, And go in at my spayre, And crepe in at my gore[360] Of my gowne before, Flyckerynge with his wynges! Alas, my hert it stynges, Remembrynge prety thynges! 350 Alas, myne hert it sleth My Phyllyppes dolefull deth, Whan I remembre it, How pretely it wolde syt, Many tymes and ofte, Vpon my fynger aloft! I played with him tyttell tattyll, And fed him with my spattyl, With his byll betwene my lippes; It was my prety Phyppes! 360 Many a prety kusse Had I of his[361] swete musse; And now the cause is thus, That he is slayne me fro, To my great payne and wo. Of fortune this the chaunce Standeth on[362] varyaunce: Oft tyme after pleasaunce Trouble and greuaunce; No man can be sure 370 Allway to haue pleasure: As well perceyue ye maye How my dysport and play From me was taken away By Gyb, our cat sauage, That in a[363] furyous rage Caught Phyllyp by the head, And slew him there starke dead. Kyrie, eleison, Christe, eleison, 380 Kyrie, eleison! For Phylyp Sparowes soule, Set in our bederolle, Let vs now whysper A Pater noster. Lauda, anima mea, Dominum! To wepe with me loke that ye come, All maner of byrdes in your kynd; Se none be left behynde. To mornynge loke that ye fall 390 With dolorous songes funerall, Some to synge, and some to say, Some to wepe, and some to pray, Euery byrde in his laye. The goldfynche, the wagtayle; The ianglynge iay to rayle, The fleckyd pye to chatter Of this dolorous mater; And robyn redbrest, He shall be the preest 400 The requiem masse to synge, Softly[364] warbelynge, With helpe of the red sparow, And the chattrynge swallow, This herse for to halow; The larke with his longe to; The spynke, and the martynet also; The shouelar with his brode bek; The doterell, that folyshe pek, And also the mad coote, 410 With a balde face to toote; The feldefare, and the snyte; The crowe, and the kyte; The rauyn, called Rolfe, His playne songe to solfe; The partryche, the quayle; The plouer with vs to wayle; The woodhacke, that syngeth chur Horsly, as he had the mur; The lusty chauntyng nyghtyngale; 420 The popyngay to tell her tale, That toteth oft in a glasse, Shal rede the Gospell at masse; The mauys with her whystell Shal rede there the pystell. But with a large and a longe To kepe iust playne songe, Our chaunters shalbe the cuckoue, The culuer, the stockedowue, With puwyt the lapwyng, 430 The versycles shall syng. The bitter[365] with his bumpe, The crane with his trumpe, The swan of Menander,[366] The gose and the gander, The ducke and the[367] drake, Shall watche at this wake; The pecocke so prowde, Bycause his voyce is lowde, And hath a glorious tayle, 440 He shall syng the grayle; The owle, that is[368] so foule, Must helpe vs to houle; The heron so gaunce,[369] And the cormoraunce,[370] With the fesaunte, And the gaglynge gaunte, And the churlysshe chowgh; The route and the kowgh;[371] The barnacle, the bussarde, 450 With the wilde[372] mallarde; The dyuendop to slepe; The water hen[373] to wepe; The puffin[374] and the tele Money they shall dele To poore folke at large, That shall be theyr charge; The semewe and the tytmose; The wodcocke with the longe nose; The threstyl with her warblyng; 460 The starlyng with her brablyng; The roke, with the ospraye That putteth fysshes to a fraye; And the denty curlewe, With the turtyll most trew. At this Placebo We may not well forgo The countrynge of the coe: The storke also, That maketh his nest 470 In chymneyes to rest; Within those walles No[375] broken galles May there abyde Of cokoldry syde, Or els phylosophy Maketh a great lye. The estryge, that wyll eate An horshowe so great, In the stede of meate, 480 Such feruent heat His stomake doth freat;[376] He can not well fly, Nor synge tunably, Yet at a brayde He hath well assayde To solfe aboue ela, Ga,[377] lorell, fa, fa; Ne quando Male cantando, 490 The best that we can, To make hym our belman, And let hym ryng the bellys; He can do nothyng ellys. Chaunteclere, our coke, Must tell what is of the clocke By the astrology That he hath naturally Conceyued and cought,[378] And was neuer tought[379] 500 By Albumazer The astronomer, Nor by Ptholomy Prince of astronomy, Nor yet by Haly; And yet he croweth dayly And nightly[380] the tydes That no man abydes, With Partlot his hen, Whom now and then 510 Hee plucketh by the hede Whan he doth her trede. The byrde of Araby, That potencyally May neuer dye, And yet there is none But one alone; A phenex it is This herse that must blys With armatycke gummes 520 That cost great summes,[381] The way of thurifycation To make a[382] fumigation, Swete of reflary,[383] And redolent of eyre,[384] This corse for to[385] sence With greate reuerence, As patryarke or pope In a blacke cope; Whyles[386] he senseth [the herse], 530 He shall synge the verse, Libera me, In de, la, soll, re, Softly bemole For my sparowes soule. Plinni sheweth all In his story naturall What he doth fynde Of the phenyx kynde; Of whose incyneracyon 540 There ryseth a new creacyon Of the same facyon Without alteracyon, Sauyng that olde age Is turned into corage Of fresshe youth agayne; This matter trew and playne, Playne matter indede, Who so lyst to rede. But for the egle doth flye 550 Hyest in the skye, He shall be the[387] sedeane, The quere to demeane, As prouost pryncypall, To teach them theyr ordynall; Also the noble fawcon, With the gerfawcon,[388] The tarsell gentyll, They shall morne soft and styll In theyr amysse of gray; 560 The sacre with them shall say Dirige for Phyllyppes soule; The goshauke shall haue a role The queresters to controll; The lanners and the[389] marlyons Shall stand in their morning gounes; The hobby and the muskette The sensers and the crosse shall fet; The kestrell in all this warke Shall be holy water[390] clarke. 570 And now the darke cloudy nyght Chaseth away Phebus bryght, Taking his course toward the west, God sende my sparoes sole good rest! Requiem æternam dona eis,[391] Domine! Fa, fa, fa, my, re, re,[392] A por ta in fe ri, Fa, fa, fa, my, my. Credo videre bona Domini, I pray God, Phillip to heuen may fly! 580 Domine, exaudi orationem meam! To heuen he shall, from heuen he cam! Do mi nus vo bis cum! Of al good praiers God send him sum! Oremus. Deus, cui proprium est misereri et parcere, On Phillips soule haue pyte! For he was a prety cocke, And came of a gentyll stocke, And wrapt in a maidenes smocke, 590 And cherysshed full dayntely, Tyll[393] cruell fate made him to dy: Alas, for dolefull desteny![394] But whereto shuld I Lenger morne or crye? To Jupyter I call, Of heuen emperyall, That Phyllyp may fly Aboue the starry sky, To treade the prety wren, 600 That is our Ladyes hen: Amen, amen, amen! Yet one thynge is behynde, That now commeth to mynde;[395] An epytaphe I wold haue For Phyllyppes graue: But for I am a mayde, Tymerous, halfe afrayde, That neuer yet asayde Of Elyconys well, 610 Where the Muses dwell; Though I can rede and spell, Recounte, reporte, and tell Of the Tales of Caunterbury, Some sad storyes, some mery; As Palamon and Arcet, Duke Theseus, and Partelet; And of the Wyfe of Bath, That[396] worketh moch scath Whan her tale is tolde 620 Amonge huswyues bolde, How she controlde Her husbandes as she wolde, And them to despyse In the homylyest wyse, Brynge other wyues in thought Their husbandes to set at nought: And though that rede haue I Of Gawen and syr Guy, And tell can a great pece 630 Of the Golden Flece, How Jason it wan, Lyke a valyaunt man; Of Arturs rounde table, With his knightes commendable, And dame Gaynour, his quene, Was somwhat wanton, I wene; How syr Launcelote de Lake Many a spere brake For his ladyes sake; 640 Of Trystram, and kynge Marke, And al the hole warke Of Bele Isold his wyfe, For whom was moch stryfe; Some say she was lyght, And made her husband knyght Of the comyne[397] hall, That cuckoldes men call; And of syr Lybius, Named Dysconius; 650 Of Quater Fylz Amund,[398] And how they were sommonde To Rome, to Charlemayne, Vpon a great payne, And how they rode eche one On Bayarde Mountalbon; Men se hym now and then[399] In the forest of[400] Arden: What though[401] I can frame The storyes by name 660 Of Judas Machabeus, And of Cesar Julious; And of the loue betwene Paris and Vyene; And of the duke Hannyball,[402] That[403] made the Romaynes all Fordrede and to quake; How Scipion dyd wake The cytye of Cartage, Which by his vnmerciful[404] rage 670 He bete downe to the grounde: And though I can expounde Of Hector of Troye, That was all theyr ioye, Whom Achylles slew, Wherfore all Troy dyd rew; And of the loue so hote That made Troylus to dote Vpon fayre Cressyde, And what they wrote and sayd, 680 And of theyr wanton wylles Pandaer bare the bylles From one to the other; His maisters loue to further, Somtyme a presyous thyng, An ouche, or els a ryng; From her to hym agayn Somtyme a prety chayn, Or a bracelet of her here, Prayd Troylus for to were 690 That token for her sake; How hartely he dyd it take, And moche therof dyd make; And all that was in vayne, For she dyd but fayne; The story telleth playne, He coulde not optayne, Though his father were a kyng, Yet there was a thyng That made the[405] male to wryng; 700 She made hym to syng The song of louers lay; Musyng nyght and day, Mournyng all alone, Comfort had he none, For she was quyte gone; Thus in conclusyon, She brought him in abusyon; In ernest and in game She was moch to blame; 710 Disparaged is her fame, And blemysshed is her name, In maner half with shame; Troylus also hath lost On her moch loue and cost, And now must kys the post; Pandara, that went betwene, Hath won nothing, I wene, But lyght for somer grene; Yet for a speciall laud 720 He is named Troylus baud, Of that name he is sure Whyles the world shall dure: Though I remembre the fable Of Penelope most stable, To her husband most trew, Yet long tyme she ne knew Whether he were on lyue or ded; Her wyt stood her in sted, That she was true and iust 730 For any bodely lust To Ulixes her make, And neuer wold him forsake: Of Marcus Marcellus A proces I could tell vs; And of Anteocus; And of Josephus De Antiquitatibus; And of Mardocheus, And of great Assuerus, 740 And of Vesca his queene, Whom he forsoke with teene, And of Hester his other wyfe, With whom he ledd a plesaunt life; Of kyng Alexander; And of kyng Euander; And of Porcena the great, That made the Romayns to sweat:[406] Though I haue enrold A thousand new and old 750 Of these historious tales, To fyll bougets and males With bokes that I haue red, Yet I am nothyng sped, And can but lytell skyll Of Ouyd or Virgyll, Or of Plutharke, Or[407] Frauncys Petrarke, Alcheus or Sapho, Or such other poetes mo, 760 As Linus and Homerus, Euphorion and Theocritus, Anacreon and Arion, Sophocles and Philemon, Pyndarus and Symonides,[408] Philistion[409] and Phorocides; These poetes of auncyente, They ar to diffuse for me: For, as I tofore haue sayd, I am but a yong mayd, 770 And cannot in effect My style as yet direct With Englysh wordes elect:[410] Our naturall tong is rude, And hard to be enneude With pullysshed termes lusty; Our language is so rusty, So cankered, and so full Of frowardes, and so dull, That if I wolde apply 780 To wryte ornatly,[411] I wot not where to fynd Termes to serue my mynde. Gowers Englysh is olde, And of no value told;[412] His mater is worth gold, And worthy to be enrold. In Chauser I am sped, His tales I haue red: His mater is delectable, 790 Solacious, and commendable; His Englysh well alowed, So as it is enprowed, For as it is enployd, There is no Englysh voyd, At those dayes moch commended, And now men wold haue amended His Englysh, whereat they barke, And mar all they warke: Chaucer, that famus clerke, 800 His termes were not darke, But plesaunt, easy, and playne; No[413] worde he wrote in vayne. Also Johnn Lydgate Wryteth after an hyer rate; It is dyffuse to fynde The sentence of his mynde, Yet wryteth he in his kynd, No man that can amend Those maters that he hath pende; 810 Yet some men fynde a faute, And say he wryteth to haute. Wherfore hold me excused If I haue not well perused Myne Englyssh halfe abused; Though it be refused, In worth I shall it take, And fewer wordes make. But, for my sparowes sake, Yet as a woman may, 820 My wyt I shall assay An epytaphe to wryght In Latyne playne and lyght, Wherof the elegy Foloweth by and by: Flos volucrum[414] formose, vale! Philippe, sub isto Marmore jam recubas, Qui mihi carus eras. Semper erunt nitido 830 Radiantia sidera cœlo; Impressusque meo Pectore semper eris. Per me laurigerum Britonum Skeltonida vatem Hæc cecinisse licet Ficta sub imagine texta. Cujus eras[415] volucris, Præstanti corpore virgo: Candida Nais erat, 840 Formosior ista Joanna est; Docta Corinna fuit, Sed magis ista sapit. Bien men souient. THE COMMENDACIONS. Beati im ma cu la ti in via, O gloriosa fœmina! Now myne hole imaginacion And studyous medytacion Is to take this commendacyon In this consyderacion; 850 And vnder pacyent tolleracyon Of that most goodly[416] mayd That Placebo hath sayd, And for her sparow prayd In lamentable wyse, Now wyll I enterpryse, Thorow the grace dyuyne Of the Muses nyne, Her beautye to commende, If Arethusa wyll send 860 Me enfluence to endyte, And with my pen to wryte; If Apollo wyll promyse Melodyously it to[417] deuyse His tunable harpe stryngges With armony that synges Of princes and of kynges And of all pleasaunt thynges, Of lust and of delyght, Thorow his godly myght; 870 To whom be the laude ascrybed That my pen hath enbybed With the aureat droppes, As verely my hope is, Of Thagus, that golden flod, That passeth all[418] erthly good; And as that flode doth pas Al floodes that euer was With his golden sandes, Who so that vnderstandes 880 Cosmography, and the stremys And the floodes in straunge remes, Ryght so she doth excede All other of whom we rede, Whose fame by me shall sprede Into Perce and Mede, From Brytons Albion To[419] the Towre of Babilon. I trust it is no shame, And no man wyll me blame, 890 Though I regester her name In the courte of Fame; For this most goodly floure, This blossome of fresshe coulour, So Jupiter me socour, She floryssheth new and new In bewte and vertew: Hac claritate gemina O gloriosa fœmina, Retribue servo tuo, vivifica me! 900 Labia mea laudabunt te. But enforsed am I Openly to askry, And to make an[420] outcri Against odyous Enui, That euermore wil ly, And say cursedly; With his ledder ey, And chekes dry; With vysage wan, 910 As swarte[421] as tan; His bones crake, Leane as a rake; His gummes rusty Are full vnlusty; Hys herte withall Bytter as gall; His lyuer, his longe[422] With anger is wronge; His serpentes tonge 920 That many one hath stonge; He frowneth euer; He laugheth neuer, Euen nor morow, But other mennes sorow Causeth him to gryn And reioyce therin; No slepe can him catch, But euer doth watch, He is so bete 930 With malyce, and frete With angre and yre, His foule desyre Wyll suffre no slepe In his hed to crepe; His foule[423] semblaunt All displeasaunte;[424] Whan other ar glad, Than is he sad; Frantyke and mad; 940 His tong neuer styll For to say yll, Wrythyng and wringyng, Bytyng and styngyng; And thus this elf Consumeth himself, Hymself doth slo Wyth payne and wo. This fals Enuy Sayth that I 950 Vse great folly For to endyte, And for to wryte, And spend my tyme In prose and ryme, For to expres The noblenes Of my maistres, That causeth me Studious to be 960 To[425] make a relation Of her commendation; And there agayne Enuy doth complayne, And hath disdayne; But yet certayne I wyll be[426] playne, And my style dres To this prosses. Now Phebus me ken 970 To sharpe my pen, And lede my fyst As hym best lyst, That I may say Honour alway Of womankynd! Trouth doth me bynd And loyalte Euer to be Their true bedell, 980 To wryte and tell How women excell In noblenes; As my maistres, Of whom I thynk With pen and ynk For to compyle Some goodly[427] style; For this most goodly[428] floure, This blossome of fresh coloure, 990 So Jupyter me socoure, She flourissheth new and new In beaute and vertew: Hac claritate gemina O gloriosa fœmina, Legem pone mihi, domina,[429] in viam justificationum tuarum! Quemadmodum desiderat cervus ad fontes aquarum. How shall I report All the goodly sort Of her fetures clere, 1000 That hath non erthly pere? Her[430] fauour of her face Ennewed all with[431] grace, Confort, pleasure, and solace, Myne hert doth so enbrace, And so hath rauyshed me Her to behold and se, That in wordes playne I cannot me refrayne To loke on[432] her agayne: 1010 Alas, what shuld I fayne? It wer a plesaunt payne With her aye to remayne. Her eyen gray and stepe Causeth myne hert to lepe; With her browes bent She may well represent Fayre Lucres, as I wene, Or els fayre Polexene, Or els Caliope, 1020 Or els Penolope; For this most goodly floure, This blossome of fresshe coloure, So Jupiter me socoure, She florisheth new and new In beautye and vertew: Hac claritate gemina O gloriosa fœmina, Memor esto verbi tui servo tuo! Servus tuus sum ego. 1030 The Indy saphyre blew Her vaynes doth ennew; The orient perle so clere, The whytnesse of her lere; The[433] lusty ruby ruddes Resemble the rose buddes; Her lyppes soft and mery Emblomed lyke the chery, It were an heuenly blysse Her sugred mouth to kysse. 1040 Her beautye to augment, Dame Nature hath her lent A warte vpon her cheke, Who so lyst to seke In her vysage a skar, That semyth from afar Lyke to the radyant star, All with fauour fret, So properly it is set: She is the vyolet, 1050 The daysy delectable, The columbine[434] commendable, The[435] ielofer amyable; [For][436] this most goodly floure, This blossom of fressh colour, So Jupiter me succour, She florysheth new and new In beaute and vertew: Hac claritate gemina O gloriosa fœmina, 1060 Bonitatem fecisti cum servo tuo, domina, Et ex præcordiis sonant præconia! And whan I perceyued Her wart and conceyued, It cannot be denayd But it was well conuayd, And set so womanly, And nothynge wantonly, But ryght conuenyently, And full congruently, 1070 As Nature cold deuyse, In most goodly wyse; Who so lyst beholde, It makethe louers bolde To her to sewe for grace, Her fauoure to purchase; The sker upon her chyn, Enhached[437] on her fayre skyn, Whyter than the swan, It wold make any man 1080 To forget deadly syn Her fauour to wyn; For this most goodly[438] floure, This blossom of fressh coloure, So Jupiter me socoure, She flouryssheth new and new In beaute and vertew: Hac claritate gemina O gloriosa fœmina, Defecit in salutatione tua[439] anima mea; 1090 Quid petis filio, mater dulcissima? babæ![440] Soft, and make no dyn, For now I wyll begyn To haue[441] in remembraunce Her goodly dalyaunce, And her goodly pastaunce: So sad and so demure, Behauynge her so sure, With wordes of pleasure She wold make to the lure 1100 And any man conuert To gyue her his hole hert. She made me sore amased Vpon her whan I gased, Me thought min hert was crased, My eyne were so dased; For this most goodly flour, This[442] blossom of fressh colour, So Jupyter me socour, She flouryssheth new and new 1110 In beauty and vertew: Hac claritate gemina O gloriosa fœmina, Quomodo dilexi legem tuam, domina! Recedant vetera, nova sint[443] omnia. And to amende her tale, Whan she lyst to auale, And with her fyngers smale, And handes soft as sylke, Whyter than the[444] mylke, 1120 That are so quyckely vayned, Wherwyth my hand she strayned, Lorde, how I was payned! Vnneth I me refrayned, How she me had reclaymed, And me to her retayned, Enbrasynge therwithall Her goodly[445] myddell small With sydes longe and streyte; To tell you what conceyte 1130 I had than in a tryce, The matter were to nyse, And yet there was no vyce, Nor yet no villany, But only fantasy; For this most goodly floure, This[446] blossom of fressh coloure, So Jupiter me succoure, She floryssheth new and new In beaute and vertew: 1140 Hac claritate gemina O gloriosa fœmina, Iniquos odio habui! Non calumnientur me superbi. But whereto shulde I note How often dyd I tote Vpon her prety fote? It raysed myne hert rote To se her treade the grounde With heles short and rounde. 1150 She is playnly expresse Egeria, the goddesse, And lyke to her image, Emportured with corage, A louers pylgrimage; Ther is no beest sauage, Ne no tyger so wood, But she wolde chaunge his mood, Such relucent grace Is formed in her face; 1160 For this most goodly floure, This blossome of fresshe coloure, So Jupiter me succour, She flouryssheth new and new In beaute and vertew: Hac claritate gemina O gloriosa fœmina, Mirabilia testimonia tua! Sicut novellæ plantationes in juventute sua. So goodly as she dresses, 1170 So properly[447] she presses The bryght golden tresses Of her heer so fyne, Lyke Phebus beames shyne. Wherto shuld I disclose The garterynge of her hose? It is for to suppose How that she can were Gorgiously her gere; Her fresshe habylementes 1180 With other implementes To serue for all ententes, Lyke dame Flora, quene Of lusty somer grene; For[448] this most goodly floure, This blossom of fressh coloure, So Jupiter me socoure, She florisheth new and new In beautye and vertew: Hac claritate gemina 1190 O gloriosa fœmina, Clamavi in toto corde, exaudi me! Misericordia tua magna est super me. Her kyrtell so goodly lased, And vnder that is brased Such plasures that I may Neyther wryte nor say; Yet though I wryte not with ynke, No man can let me thynke, For thought hath lyberte, 1200 Thought is franke and fre; To thynke a mery thought It cost me lytell nor[449] nought. Wolde God myne homely style Were pullysshed with the fyle Of Ciceros eloquence, To prase her excellence! For this[450] most goodly floure, This[451] blossome of fressh coloure, So Jupiter me succoure, 1210 She flouryssheth new and new In beaute and vertew: Hac claritate gemina O gloriosa fœmina, Principes persecuti sunt me gratis! Omnibus consideratis, Paradisus voluptatis Hæc virgo est dulcissima. My pen it is vnable, My hand it is vnstable, 1220 My reson rude and dull To prayse her at the full; Goodly maystres Jane, Sobre, demure Dyane; Jane this maystres hyght The lode star[452] of delyght, Dame Venus of all pleasure, The well of worldly treasure; She doth excede and pas In prudence dame Pallas; 1230 [For][453] this[454] most goodly floure, This blossome of fresshe colour, So Jupiter me socoure, She floryssheth new and new In beaute and vertew: Hac claritate gemina O gloriosa fœmina! Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine! With this psalme, Domine, probasti me, Shall sayle ouer the see, 1240 With Tibi, Domine, commendamus, On pylgrimage[455] to saynt Jamys, For shrympes, and for pranys, And for stalkynge[456] cranys; And where my pen hath offendyd, I pray you it may be amendyd By discrete consyderacyon Of your wyse reformacyon; I haue not offended, I trust, If it be sadly dyscust. 1250 It were no gentle gyse This treatyse to despyse Because I haue wrytten and sayd Honour of this fayre mayd; Wherefore shulde I be blamed, That I Jane haue[457] named, And famously proclamed? She is worthy to be enrolde With letters of golde. Car elle vault. 1260 Per me laurigerum Britonum Skeltonida vatem[458] Laudibus eximiis merito hæc redimita puella est: Formosam cecini,[459] qua non formosior ulla est; Formosam potius quam commendaret Homerus. Sic juvat interdum rigidos recreare labores, Nec minus hoc titulo tersa Minerva mea est. Rien que playsere. Thus endeth the boke of Philip Sparow, and here foloweth an adicyon made by maister Skelton. The gyse now a dayes Of some ianglynge iayes Is to discommende 1270 That they cannot amend, Though they wold spend All the wyttes they haue. What ayle them to depraue Phillip Sparowes graue? His Dirige, her Commendacyon Can be no derogacyon, But myrth and consolacyon Made by protestacyon, No man to myscontent 1280 With Phillyppes enterement. Alas, that goodly mayd, Why shuld she be afrayde? Why shuld she take shame That her goodly name, Honorably reported, Sholde be set and sorted, To be matriculate With ladyes of estate? I coniure thé, Phillip Sparow, 1290 By Hercules that hell dyd harow, And with a venemous arow Slew of the Epidaures One of the Centaures, Or Onocentaures, Or Hipocentaures;[460] By whose myght and mayne An hart was slayne With hornes twayne Of glytteryng gold; 1300 And the appels of gold Of Hesperides withhold, And with a dragon kept That neuer more slept, By marcyall strength He wan at length; And slew Gerion With thre bodyes in one; With myghty corage Adauntid[461] the rage 1310 Of a lyon sauage; Of Dyomedes stable He brought out a rable Of coursers and rounses With leapes and bounses; And with mighty luggyng, Wrestlyng and tuggyng, He plucked the bull By the horned skull, And offred to Cornucopia; 1320 And so forth per cetera: Also by Ecates bower In Plutos[462] gastly tower; By the vgly Eumenides, That neuer haue rest nor ease; By the venemous serpent, That in hell is neuer brent, In Lerna the Grekes fen, That was engendred then; By Chemeras flames, 1330 And all the dedly names Of infernall posty, Where soules frye and rosty;[463] By the Stygyall flood, And the streames wood Of Cocitus botumles well; By the feryman of hell, Caron with his beerd hore, That roweth with a rude ore And with his frownsid[464] fore top 1340 Gydeth his bote with a prop: I coniure[465] Phylyp, and call In the name of kyng Saul; Primo Regum expresse, He bad[466] the Phitonesse To wytchcraft her to dresse, And by her abusyons, And dampnable illusyons Of marueylus conclusyons, And by her supersticyons, 1350 And wonderfull condityons, She raysed vp in that stede Samuell that was dede; But whether it were so, He were idem in numero, The selfe same Samuell, How be it to Saull dyd he tell The Philistinis shuld hym ascry, And the next day he shuld dye, I wyll my selfe dyscharge 1360 To lettred men at large: But, Phylyp, I coniure thee Now by these names thre, Diana in the woodes grene, Luna that so bryght doth shene,[467] Procerpina in hell, That thou shortly tell, And shew now vnto me What the cause may be Of this perplexite! 1370 Inferias,[468] Philippe, tuas[469] Scroupe pulchra Joanna Instanter petiit:[470] cur nostri carminis illam Nunc pudet?[471] est sero; minor est infamia vero. Than suche as haue disdayned And of this worke complayned, I pray God they be payned No worse than is contayned In verses two or thre That folowe as you[472] may se. Luride, cur, livor, volucris pia funera damnas? 1380 Talia te rapiant rapiunt quæ fata volucrem![473] Est tamen invidia mors tibi continua.