HERE AFTER FOLOWETH A LYTELL BOKE,[115] WHICHE HATH TO NAME WHY COME YE NAT[116] TO COURTE? COMPYLED BY MAYSTER SKELTON, POETE LAUREATE.

All noble men,[118] 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 [in] intellegence, And to lyght in[119] credence; 10 Where these kepe resydence, Reson is banysshed thence, And also dame Prudence, With sober Sapyence.[120] All noble men, of this take hede, And beleue it as your Crede. Than without collusyon, Marke well this conclusyon, Thorow[121] suche abusyon, And by suche illusyon, 20 Vnto great confusyon A noble man may fall, And his honour appall; And[122] yf ye thynke this shall Not rubbe you on the gall, Than the deuyll take all! All noble men, of this take hede, And beleue it as your Crede. Hæc vates ille, De quo loquuntur mille.[123] 30 WHY COME YE NAT TO COURT? For age is a page For the courte full vnmete, For age cannat[124] 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[125] madly decayes, 40 That age for dottage Is reconed[126] now adayes: Thus age (a[127] graunt domage) Is nothynge set by, And rage in arerage Dothe rynne lamentably. So That rage must make pyllage, To catche that catche may, And with suche forage Hunte the boskage, 50 That hartes wyll ronne away; Bothe hartes and hyndes, With all good myndes: Fare well, than, haue good day! Than, haue good daye, adewe! For defaute of rescew, Some men may happely rew, And some[128] theyr hedes mew; The tyme dothe fast ensew, That bales begynne to brew: 60 I drede, by swete Iesu, This tale wyll be to trew; In faythe, dycken, thou krew, In fayth, dicken, thou krew, &c. Dicken, thou krew doutlesse; For, trewly to expresse, There hath ben[129] moche excesse, With banketynge braynlesse, With ryotynge rechelesse, With gambaudynge thryftlesse, 70 With spende and wast witlesse, Treatinge of trewse restlesse, Pratynge for peace peaslesse. The[130] countrynge at Cales Wrang vs on the males:[131] Chefe counselour was carlesse, Gronynge, grouchyng, gracelesse; And to none entente Our talwod is all brent, Our fagottes are all spent, 80 We may blowe at the cole: Our mare hath cast her fole, And Mocke hath lost her sho; What may she do therto? An ende of an olde song, Do ryght and do[132] no wronge, As ryght as a rammes horne; For thrifte is threde bare worne, Our shepe are shrewdly shorne, And trouthe is all to-torne; 90 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 and shauynge, With borowynge and crauynge,[133] With reuynge and rauynge, With swerynge and starynge, 100 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 110 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 buck: God sende vs better luck! 120 God sende vs better lucke, &c. Twit, Andrewe, twit, Scot,[134] 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 lylse wulse, Opus male dulce: The deuyll kysse his[135] cule! 130 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 Bothombar[136] We haue cast vp our war, And made[137] a worthy trewse, With, gup, leuell suse! Our mony madly lent,[138] 140 And mor madly spent: From Croydon to[139] Kent, Wote ye whyther they went? From Wynchelsey to Rye, And all nat[140] 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, 150 The Frenche men he doth fray, And vexeth them day by day With all the power he may; The French men he hath faynted, And made[141] 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; 160 Lyke foxes in theyr denne, Lyke cankerd cowardes all, Lyke vrcheons[142] in a stone wall, They kepe them in theyr holdes, Lyke henherted cokoldes. But yet they ouer shote vs Wyth crownes and wyth scutus; With scutis and crownes of gold I drede we are bought and solde; It is a wonders warke: 170 They shote all at one marke, At the Cardynals hat, They[143] shote all at that; Oute of theyr stronge townes They shote at him with crownes; With crownes of golde enblased They make him so amased, And his eyen so dased, That he ne se can To know God nor man. 180 He is set so hye In his ierarchy Of frantycke frenesy And folysshe fantasy, That in the Chambre of Starres[144] All maters there he marres; Clappyng his rod on the borde, No man dare speke a worde, For he hathe all the sayenge, Without any renayenge; 190 He rolleth in his recordes, He sayth, How saye ye, my lordes? Is nat[145] my reason good? Good euyn, good Robyn Hood![146] 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 syde 200 With pompe and with pryde, With, trompe vp, alleluya! For dame Philargerya[147] 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.[148] Adew, Philosophia, 210 Adew, Theologia! Welcome, dame Simonia, With dame Castrimergia, To drynke and for to eate Swete ypocras[149] and swete meate! To kepe his flesshe chast, In Lent for a repast He eateth capons[150] stewed, Fesaunt and partriche mewed, Hennes, checkynges, and pygges; 220 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.[151] What newes, what newes?[152] 230 Small newes the[153] true is, That be worth ii. kues; But at the naked stewes, I vnderstande how that The sygne of the Cardynall Hat, That inne is now shyt vp, With, gup, hore, gup, now gup, Gup, Guilliam[154] Trauillian, With, iast you, I say, Jullian! Wyll ye bere no coles? 240 A mayny of marefoles, That occupy theyr holys, Full of pocky molys. What here ye of Lancashyre? They were nat[155] payde their hyre; They are fel as any fyre. What here ye of Chesshyre? They haue layde all in the myre; They grugyd,[156] and sayde Theyr wages were nat[157] payde; 250 Some sayde they were afrayde Of the Scottysshe hoste,[158] For all theyr crack[159] and bost, Wylde fyre and thonder; For all this worldly wonder, A hundred myle asonder They were whan they[160] were next; That is a trew text. What here ye of the Scottes? They make vs all sottes, 260 Poppynge folysshe dawes; They make vs to pyll strawes; They play their olde pranckes, After Huntley bankes: At the streme of Banockes burne They dyd vs a shrewde turne, Whan Edwarde of Karnaruan Lost all that[161] his father wan. What here ye of the Lorde Dakers? He maketh vs Jacke Rakers; 270 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 thé. Whyles the red hat doth endure, He maketh himselfe cock sure; The red hat with his lure 280 Bryngeth all thynges vnder cure. But, as the worlde now gose, What here ye of the Lorde Rose? Nothynge to purpose, Nat[162] worth a cockly fose: Their hertes be in thyr hose. The Erle of Northumberlande Dare take nothynge on hande: Our barons be so bolde, Into a mouse hole they wolde 290 Rynne[163] away and crepe, Lyke a mayny of shepe; Dare nat[164] loke out at dur[165] For drede of the mastyue cur, 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 hande at the bar. For all their noble blode 300 He pluckes them by the hode, And shakes them by the eare, And brynge[s] them in suche feare; He bayteth them lyke a bere, Lyke an oxe or a bull: Theyr wyttes, he saith, are dull; He sayth they haue no brayne Theyr astate to mayntayne; And maketh them to[166] bow theyr kne Before his maieste. 310 Juges of the kynges lawes, He countys them foles and 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 them suche a wrenche, That all our lerned men Dare nat[167] set theyr penne 320 To plete a trew tryall Within Westmynster hall; In the Chauncery where he syttes, But suche as he admyttes None so hardy to speke; He sayth, thou huddypeke, Thy lernynge is to lewde, Thy tonge is nat[168] well thewde, To seke before our grace; And openly in that place 330 He rages and he raues, And cals them cankerd knaues: Thus royally he dothe deale Vnder the kynges brode seale; And in the Checker he them cheks; In the Ster Chambre he noddis and beks, And bereth him there so stowte, That no man dare rowte, Duke, erle, baron, nor lorde, But to his sentence must accorde; 340 Whether he be knyght or squyre, All men must[169] folow his desyre. What say ye of the Scottysh kynge? That is another thyng. He is but an yonglyng, A stalworthy[170] stryplyng: There[171] is a whyspring and a whipling, He shulde be hyder[172] brought; But, and it were well sought, I trow all wyll be nought, 350 Nat[173] 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 mountenaunce of two houres. But, as some men sayne, I drede of some false trayne 360 Subtelly wrought shall be Vnder a fayned treatee; But within 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: 370 For all your amyte, No better they agre. God saue my lorde admyrell! What here ye of Mutrell? There with I dare nat[174] 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 380 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! 390 Where euer 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[175] yet agayne Of you I wolde frayne, Why come ye nat[176] to court?— To whyche court? To the kynges courte, 400 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 conflewence, 410 Sutys and supplycacyons, Embassades of all nacyons. Strawe for lawe canon,[177] Or for the lawe common, 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, 420 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, Haue hym forthe by and by To the Marshalsy, Or to the Kynges Benche! 430 He dyggeth so in the trenche 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 credensynge his tales, That all is but nutshales 440 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[178] God, that me dere bought! He bereth the kyng[179] on hand, That he must pyll his lande, 450 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, and[180] so vicyous, And so supersticyous, 460 And so moche obliuyous From whens that he came, That he falleth into[181] a cæciam,[182] Whiche, truly to expresse, Is a forgetfulnesse, Or wylfull blyndnesse, Wherwith the Sodomites Lost theyr inward syghtes, The Gommoryans also Were brought to deedly wo, 470 As Scrypture recordis: A cæcitate cordis, In the Latyne synge we, Libera nos, Domine! But this madde Amalecke, Lyke to a Mamelek,[183] He regardeth lordes No more than potshordes; He is in suche elacyon Of his exaltacyon, 480 And the supportacyon Of our souerayne lorde, That, God to recorde, He ruleth all at wyll, Without reason or skyll: How be it the[184] primordyall Of his wretched originall, And his base progeny, And his gresy genealogy, He came of the sank royall, 490 That 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 togeder,[185] And call to his mynde How noble and how kynde To him he hathe founde Our souereyne lorde, chyfe grounde Of all this prelacy, 500 And set hym nobly In great auctoryte, Out from a low degre, Whiche he can nat[186] se: 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 510 Of the quatriuials, Nor yet of triuials, Nor of philosophy, Nor of philology, Nor of good pollycy, Nor of astronomy, Nor acquaynted worth a fly With honorable Haly, Nor with royall Ptholomy, Nor with Albumasar, 520 To treate of any star Fyxt or els mobyll; His Latyne tonge dothe hobbyll, He doth but cloute and cobbill In Tullis faculte, Called humanyte; Yet proudly he dare pretende How no man can him amende: But haue ye nat[187] harde this, How an one eyed man is 530 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[188] our prynce be Royall Henry the eyght, Take him in suche conceyght, That he set him on heyght, In exemplyfyenge 540 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 kynge, To make vp one of nought, And made to him be brought A wretched poore man, 550 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, 560 And ruled as he wolde. Suche is a kynges power, To make within 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,[189] As herafter ben notyd, 570 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 frende as his fo; 580 A prouerbe longe ago. Set vp a wretche on hye In a trone triumphantlye, Make him a great astate, And he wyll play checke mate With ryall[190] maieste, Counte him selfe as good as he; A prelate potencyall, To rule vnder Bellyall, As ferce and as cruell 590 As the fynd of hell. His seruauntes menyall He dothe reuyle, and brall, Lyke Mahounde in a play; No man dare him withsay: He hath dispyght and scorne At them that be well borne; He rebukes them and rayles, Ye horsons, ye vassayles, Ye knaues, ye churles sonnys, 600 Ye rebads, nat[191] worth two plummis, 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, 610 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, 620 His countynaunce lyke a kayser. My lorde is nat[192] at layser; Syr, ye must tary a stounde, Tyll better layser be founde; And, syr, ye must daunce attendaunce, 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, 630 Chuse them syt or flyt, Stande, walke, or ryde, And his layser abyde Parchaunce halfe a yere, And yet neuer the nere. This daungerous dowsypere, Lyke a kynges pere; And within this xvi. yere He wolde haue ben ryght fayne To haue ben a chapleyne, 640 And haue taken ryght gret payne With a poore knyght, What soeuer he hyght. The chefe of his owne counsell, They can nat[193] well tell Whan they with hym shulde mell, He is so fyers and fell; He rayles and he ratis, He calleth them doddypatis; He grynnes and he gapis, 650 As it were iack napis. Suche a madde bedleme For to rewle this reame,[194] It is a wonders[195] case: That the kynges grace Is toward him so mynded, And so farre blynded, That he can nat[196] parceyue How he doth hym disceyue, I dought, lest by sorsery, 660 Or suche other loselry, As wychecraft, or charmyng; For he is the kynges derlyng, And his swete hart rote, And is gouerned by this mad kote: For what is a man the better For the kynges letter? For he wyll tere it asonder; Wherat moche I wonder, How suche a hoddypoule 670 So boldely dare controule, And so malapertly withstande The kynges owne hande, And settys nat[197] by it a myte; He sayth the kynge doth wryte And writeth he wottith nat[198] what; And yet for all that, The kynge his clemency Despensyth with his demensy. But what his grace doth thinke, 680 I haue no pen nor inke That therwith can mell; But wele I can tell How Frauncis Petrarke, That moche noble clerke, Wryteth how Charlemayn Coude nat[199] him selfe refrayne, But was rauysht with a rage Of a lyke dotage: But how that came aboute, 690 Rede ye the story oute, And ye shall fynde surely It was by nycromansy, By carectes and coniuracyon, Vnder a certeyne constellacion, And a certayne fumygacion, Vnder a stone on a golde ryng, Wrought to Charlemayn the king, Whiche constrayned him forcebly For to loue a certayne body 700 Aboue all other inordinatly. This is no fable nor no lye; At Acon it was brought to pas, As by myne auctor tried it was. But let mi masters 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[200] suche abolete sciens; 710 For I abhore to smatter Of one so deuyllysshe a matter. But I wyll make further relacion Of this isagogicall 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 720 Of a poore wretchid man, Wherof moche care began. Iohannes Balua was his name, Myne auctor writeth the same; Promoted was he To a cardynalles dygnyte By Lewes the kyng aforesayd, With hym so wele apayd, That he made him his chauncelar To make all or to mar, 730 And to rule as him lyst, Tyll he cheked at the fyst, And agayne all reason Commyted open trayson And[201] against his lorde souerayn; Wherfore he suffred payn, Was hedyd, drawen, and quarterd, And dyed stynkingly marterd. Lo, yet for all that He ware a cardynals hat, 740 In hym was small fayth, As myne auctor sayth: Nat[202] for that I mene Suche a casuelte shulde be sene, Or suche chaunce shulde fall Vnto our cardynall. Allmyghty God, I trust, Hath for him dyscust That of force he must Be faythfull, trew, and iust 750 To our most royall kynge, Chefe rote of his makynge; Yet it is a wyly mouse That can bylde his dwellinge house Within the cattes eare[203] Withouten drede or feare. It is a nyce reconynge, To put all the gouernynge, All the rule of this lande Into one mannys hande: 760 One wyse mannys hede May stande somwhat in stede; But the wyttys of many wyse Moche better can deuyse, By theyr cyrcumspection, And theyr sad dyrrection, To cause the commune weale Longe to endure in heale. Christ kepe King Henry the eyght From trechery and dysceyght, 770 And graunt him grace to know The faucon from the crow, The wolfe from the lam, From whens that mastyfe cam! Let him neuer confounde The gentyll greyhownde: Of this matter the grownde Is easy to expounde, And soone may be perceyued,[204] How the worlde is conueyed. 780 But harke, my frende, one worde In ernest or in borde: Tell me nowe in this stede Is maister Mewtas dede, The kynges Frenshe secretary, And his vntrew aduersary? For he sent in writynge To Fraunces the French kyng Of our maisters counsel in eueri thing: That was a peryllous rekenyng!— 790 Nay, nay, he is nat[205] dede; But he was so payned in the hede, That he shall neuer ete more bred. Now he is gone to another stede, With a bull vnder lead, By way of commissyon, To a straunge iurisdictyon, Called Dymingis Dale, Farre byyonde Portyngale, And bathe his pasport to pas 800 Ultra Sauromatas, To the deuyll, syr Sathanas, To Pluto, and syr Bellyall, The deuyls vycare generall, And to his college conuentuall, As well calodemonyall As to cacodemonyall,[206] To puruey for our cardynall A palace pontifycall, To kepe his court prouyncyall, 810 Vpon artycles iudicyall, To contende and to stryue For his prerogatyue, Within that consystory To make sommons peremtory Before some prothonotory[207] Imperyall or papall. Vpon this matter mistycall I haue tolde you part, but nat[208] all: Herafter perchaunce I shall 820 Make a larger[209] memoryall, And a further rehersall, And more paper I thinke to blot, To the court why I cam not; Desyring you aboue all thynge To kepe you from laughynge Whan ye fall to redynge Of this wanton scrowle, And pray for Mewtas sowle, For he is well past and gone; 830 That wolde God euerychone Of his affynyte Were gone as well as he! Amen, amen, say ye, Of your inward charyte; Amen, Of your inward charyte. It were great rewth, For wrytynge of trewth Any man shulde be 840 In perplexyte Of dyspleasure; For I make you sure, Where trouth is abhorde, It is a playne recorde That there wantys grace; In whose place Dothe occupy, Full vngracyously, Fals flatery, 850 Fals trechery,[210] Fals brybery, Subtyle Sym Sly, With madde foly; For who can best lye, He is best set by. Than farewell to thé, Welthfull felycite! For prosperyte Away than wyll fle. 860 Than must we agre With pouerte; For mysery, With penury, Myserably And wretchydly Hath made askrye And outcry, Folowynge the chase To dryue away grace. 870 Yet sayst thou percase, We can lacke no grace, For my lordes grace, And my ladies grace, With trey duse ase, And ase in the face, Some haute and some base, Some daunce the trace Euer in one case: Marke me that chase 880 In the tennys play, For synke quater trey Is a tall man: He rod, but we ran, Hay, the gye and the gan! The gray gose is no swan; The waters wax wan, And beggers they ban, And they cursed Datan, De tribu Dan, 890 That this warke[211] began, Palam et clam, With Balak and Balam, The golden ram Of Flemmyng dam, Sem, Iapheth, or Cam. But howe comme to pas, Your cupbord that was Is tourned to glasse, From syluer to brasse, 900 From golde to pewter, Or els to a newter, To copper, to tyn, To lede, or alcumyn? A goldsmyth your mayre; But the chefe of your fayre Myght stande nowe by potters, And suche as sell trotters: Pytchars,[212] potshordis, This shrewdly accordis 910 To be a cupborde[213] for lordys. My lorde now and syr knyght, Good euyn and good nyght! For now, syr Trestram, Ye must weare bukram, Or canues of Cane, For sylkes are wane. Our royals that shone, Our nobles are gone Amonge the Burgonyons, 920 And Spanyardes onyons, And the Flanderkyns. Gyll swetis, and Cate spynnys, They are happy that wynnys; But Englande may well say, Fye on this wynnyng all way! Now nothynge but pay, pay, With, laughe and lay downe, Borowgh, cyte, and towne. Good Sprynge of Lanam 930 Must counte what became Of his clothe makynge: He is at suche takynge, Though his purse wax dull, He must tax for his wull By nature of a newe writ; My lordys grace nameth it A quia non satisfacit: In the spyght of his tethe He must pay agayne 940 A thousande or twayne Of his golde in store; And yet he payde before An[214] hunderd pounde and more, Whiche pyncheth him sore. My lordis grace wyll bryuge Downe this hye sprynge, And brynge it so lowe, It shall nat[215] euer flowe. Suche a prelate, I trowe, 950 Were worthy to rowe Thorow the streytes of[216] Marock To the gybbet of Baldock: He wolde dry vp the stremys Of ix. kinges realmys,[217] All ryuers and wellys, All waters that swellys; For with vs he so mellys That within Englande dwellys, I wolde he were somwhere ellys; 960 For els by and by He wyll drynke vs so drye, And suck vs so nye, That men shall scantly Haue peny or halpeny. God saue his noble grace, And graunt him a place Endlesse to dwell With the deuyll of hell! For, and he were there, 970 We nede neuer feere Of the fendys blake: For I vndertake He wolde so brag and crake, That he wolde than make The deuyls to quake, To shudder and to shake, Lyke a fyer drake, And with a cole rake Brose[218] them on a brake, 980 And bynde them to a stake, And set hell on fyer, At his owne desyer. He is suche a grym syer, And suche a potestolate, And suche a potestate, That he wolde breke the braynes Of Lucyfer[219] in his chaynes, And rule them echone In Lucyfers trone. 990 I wolde he were gone; For amonge vs is none That ruleth but he alone, Without all good reason, And all out of season: For Folam peason With him be nat[220] geson; They growwe very ranke Vpon euery banke Of his herbers grene, 1000 With my lady bryght and shene; On theyr game it is sene They play nat[221] all clene, And it be as I wene. But as touchynge dyscrecyon,[222] With sober dyrectyon, He kepeth them in subiectyon: They can haue no protectyon To rule nor to guyde, But all must be tryde, 1010 And abyde the correctyon Of his[223] wylfull affectyon. For as for wytte, The deuyll spede whitte! But braynsyk and braynlesse, Wytles and rechelesse, Careles and shamlesse, Thriftles and gracelesse, Together are bended, And so condyscended, 1020 That the commune welth Shall neuer haue good helth, But tatterd and tuggyd, Raggyd and ruggyd, Shauyn and shorne, And all threde bare worne. Suche gredynesse, Suche nedynesse, Myserablenesse, With wretchydnesse, 1030 Hath brought in dystresse And moche heuynesse And great dolowre Englande, the flowre Of relucent honowre, In olde commemoracion Most royall Englyssh nacion. Now all is out of facion, Almost in desolation; I speke by protestacion: 1040 God of his miseracyon Send better reformacyon! Lo, for to do shamfully He iugeth it no foly! But to wryte of his shame, He sayth we ar to blame. What a frensy is this, No shame to do amys, And yet he is ashamed To be shamfully named![224] 1050 And ofte prechours be blamed, Bycause they haue proclamed His madnesse by writynge, His symplenesse resytynge, Remordynge and bytynge, With chydyng and with flytynge,[225] Shewynge him Goddis lawis: He calleth the prechours dawis, And of holy scriptures sawis He counteth them for gygawis, 1060 And putteth them to sylence And[226] with wordis of vyolence, Lyke Pharao, voyde of grace, Dyd Moyses sore manase, And Aron sore he thret, The worde of God to let; This maumet in lyke wyse Against the churche doth ryse; The prechour he dothe dyspyse, With crakynge in suche wyse, 1070 So braggynge all with bost, That no prechour almost Dare speke for his lyfe Of my lordis grace nor his wyfe, For he hath suche a bull, He may take whom he wull, And as many as him lykys; May ete pigges in Lent for pikys, After the sectes of heretykis, For in Lent he wyll ete 1080 All maner of flesshe mete That he can ony[227] where gete; With other abusyons grete, Wherof for[228] to trete It wolde make the deuyll to swete, For all priuileged places He brekes and defaces, All placis of relygion He bathe them in derisyon, And makith suche prouisyon 1090 To dryue them at diuisyon, And fynally in conclusyon To bringe them to confusyon; Saint Albons to recorde Wherof this vngracyous lorde Hathe made him selfe abbot, Against their wylles, God wot. All this he dothe deale Vnder strength of the great seale, And by his legacy, 1100 Whiche madly he dothe apply Vnto an extrauagancy Pyked out of[229] all good lawe, With reasons that ben rawe. Yet, whan he toke first his hat, He said he knew what was what; All iustyce he pretended, All thynges sholde be amended, All wronges he wolde redresse, All iniuris he wolde represse, 1110 All periuris he wolde oppresse; And yet this gracelesse elfe, He is periured himselfe, As playnly it dothe appere, Who lyst to enquere In the regestry Of my Lorde of Cantorbury, To whom he was professed In thre poyntes expressed; The fyrst to do him reuerence, 1120 The seconde to owe hym obedyence,[230] The thirde with hole affectyon To be vnder his subiectyon: But now he maketh obiectyon, Vnder the protectyon Of the kynges great seale, That he setteth neuer a deale By his former othe, Whether God be pleased or wroth. He makith so proude pretens, 1130 That in his equipolens He iugyth him equiualent With God omnipotent: But yet beware the rod, And the stroke of God! The Apostyll Peter Had a pore myter And a poore cope Whan he was creat Pope, First in Antioche; 1140 He dyd neuer approche Of Rome to the see Weth suche dygnyte. Saynt Dunstane, what was he? Nothynge, he sayth, lyke to me:[231] There is a dyuersyte Bytwene him and me; We passe hym in degre, As legatus a latere. Ecce, sacerdos magnus, 1150 That wyll hed vs and hange vs, And streitly strangle vs And[232] he may fange vs! Decre and decretall, Constytucyon prouincyall, Nor no lawe canonicall, Shall let the preest pontyficall To syt in causa sanguinis. Nowe God amende that is amys! For I suppose that he is 1160 Of Ieremy the whyskynge rod, The flayle, the scourge of almighty God. This Naman Sirus, So fell and so irons, So full of malencoly, With a flap afore[233] his eye, Men wene that he is pocky, Or els his surgions they lye, For, as far as they[234] can spy By the craft of surgery, 1170 It is manus Domini. And yet this proude Antiochus, He is so ambicious, So elate, and so vicious, And so cruell hertyd, That he wyll nat[235] be conuertyd; For he setteth God apart, He is nowe so ouerthwart, And so payned with pangis, That all his trust hangis 1180 In Balthasor, whiche heled Domingos nose that was wheled; That Lumberdes nose meane I, That standeth yet awrye; It was nat[236] heled alderbest, It standeth somwhat on the west; I meane Domyngo Lomelyn, That was wont to wyn Moche money of the kynge At the cardys and haserdynge: 1190 Balthasor, that helyd Domingos nose[237] From the puskylde pocky pose,[238] Now with his gummys of Araby Hath promised to hele our cardinals eye; Yet sum surgions put a dout, Lest he wyll put[239] it clene out, And make him lame of his neder limmes: God sende him sorowe for his sinnes! Some men myght aske a question, By whose suggestyon 1200 I toke on hand this warke, Thus boldly for to barke? And men lyst to harke, And my wordes marke, I wyll answere lyke a clerke; For trewly and vnfayned, I am forcebly constrayned, At Iuuynals request, To wryght of this glorious gest, Of this vayne gloryous best, 1210 His fame to be encrest At euery solempne feest; Quia difficile est Satiram non scribere. Now, mayster doctor, howe say ye, What soeuer your name be? What though ye be namelesse, Ye shall nat[240] escape blamelesse, Nor yet shall scape shamlesse: Mayster doctor in your degre, 1220 Yourselfe madly ye ouerse; Blame Iuuinall, and blame nat[241] me: Maister doctor Diricum, Omne animi vitium, &c. As Iuuinall dothe recorde, A small defaute in a great lorde, A lytell cryme in a great astate, Is moche more inordinate, And more horyble to beholde, Than any other a thousand folde. 1230 Ye put to blame ye wot nere whom; Ye may weare a cockes come; Your fonde hed in your furred hood,[242] Holde ye your tong, ye can no goode: And at more conuenyent tyme I may fortune for to ryme Somwhat of your madnesse; For small is your sadnesse To put any man in lack, And say yll behynde his back: 1240 And my wordes marke truly, That ye can nat[243] byde thereby, For smegma non est cinnamomum, But de absentibus nil nisi bonum. Complayne, or do what ye wyll, Of your complaynt it shall nat[244] skyl: This is the tenor of my byl, A daucock ye be, and so shalbe styll.

Sequitur Epitoma De morbilloso Thoma, Necnon obscœno De Polyphemo, &c. Porro perbelle dissimulatum Illum Pandulphum,[245] tantum legatum, Tum formidatum nuper prælatum, Ceu Naman Syrum nunc elongatum,[246] In solitudine jam commoratum, Neapolitano morbo gravatum, Malagmate, cataplasmate stratum,[247] Pharmacopolæ[248] ferro foratum, Nihilo magis alleviatum, Nihilo melius aut medicatum, 10 Relictis famulis ad famulatum, Quo[249] tollatur infamia, Sed major patet insania; A modo ergo ganea Abhorreat ille ganeus, Dominus male creticus, Aptius dictus tetricus, Fanaticus, phreneticus, Graphicus sicut metricus Autumat. 20 Hoc genus dictaminis Non eget examinis In centiloquio Nec centimetro Honorati Grammatici Mauri.