John Skelton

Womanhood, wanton, ye want: Your meddling, mistress, is mannerless; Plenty of ill, of goodness scant, Ye rail at riot, reckless: To praise your port it is needless; For all your draff yet and your dregs, As well borne as ye full oft time begs. Why so coy and full of scorn? Mine horse is sold, I ween, you say; My new furrèd gown, when it is worn… Put up your purse, ye shall not pay! By crede, I trust to see the day, As proud a pea-hen as ye spread, Of me and other ye may have need! Though angelic be your smiling, Yet is your tongue an adder’s tail, Full like a scorpion stinging All those by whom ye have avail. Good mistress Anne, there ye do shail: What prate ye, pretty pigesnye? I trust to ’quite you ere I die! Your key is meet for every lock, Your key is common and hangeth out; Your key is ready, we need not knock, Nor stand long wresting there about; Of your door-gate ye have no doubt: But one thing is, that ye be lewd: Hold your tongue now, all beshrewd! To mistress Anne, that farly sweet, That wones at The Key in Thames Street.

Tell you I chyll, If that ye wyll A whyle be styll, Of a comely gyll That dwelt on a hyll: But she is not gryll, For she is somwhat sage And well worne in age; For her vysage It would aswage A mannes courage. Her lothely lere Is nothynge clere, But ugly of chere, Droupy and drowsy, Scurvy and lowsy; Her face all bowsy, Comely crynkled, Woundersly wrynkled, Lyke a rost pygges eare, Brystled wyth here. Her lewde lyppes twayne, They slaver, men sayne, Lyke a ropy rayne, A gummy glayre: She is ugly fayre; Her nose somdele hoked, And camously croked, Never stoppynge, But ever droppynge; Her skynne lose and slacke, Grained lyke a sacke; With a croked backe. Her eyen gowndy Are full unsowndy, For they are blered; And she gray hered; Jawed lyke a jetty; A man would have pytty To se how she is gumbed, Fyngered and thumbed, Gently joynted, Gresed and annoynted Up to the knockles; The bones of her huckels Lyke as they were with buckels Togyther made fast: Her youth is farre past: Foted lyke a plane, Legged lyke a crane; And yet she wyll jet, Lyke a jollyvet, In her furred flocket, And gray russet rocket, With symper the cocket. Her huke of Lyncole grene, It had ben hers, I wene, More then fourty yere; And so doth it apere, For the grene bare thredes Loke lyke sere wedes, Wyddered lyke hay, The woll worne away; And yet I dare saye She thynketh herselfe gaye Upon the holy daye, Whan she doth her aray, And gyrdeth in her gytes Stytched and pranked with pletes; Her kyrtel Brystow red, With clothes upon her hed That wey a sowe of led, Wrythen in wonder wyse, After the Sarasyns gyse With a whym wham, Knyt with a trym tram, Upon her brayne pan, Lyke an Egyptian, Capped about: When she goeth out Herselfe for to shewe, She dryveth downe the dewe Wyth a payre of heles As brode as two wheles; She hobles as a gose With her blanket hose Over the falowe; Her shone smered wyth talowe, Gresed upon dyrt That baudeth her skyrt. And this comely dame, I understande, her name Is Elynour Rummynge, At home in her wonnynge; And as men say She dwelt in Sothray, In a certayne stede Bysyde Lederhede. She is a tonnysh gyb; The devyll and she be syb. But to make up my tale, She breweth noppy ale, And maketh therof port sale To travellars, to tynkers, To sweters, to swynkers, And all good ale drynkers, That wyll nothynge spare, But drynke tyll they stare And brynge themselfe bare, With, "Now away the mare, And let us sley care, As wyse as an hare!" Come who so wyll To Elynour on the hyll, Wyth, "Fyll the cup, fyll," And syt there by styll, Erly and late: Thyther cometh Kate, Cysly, and Sare, With theyr legges bare, And also theyr fete, Hardely, full unswete; Wyth theyr heles dagged, Theyr kyrtelles all to-jagged, Theyr smockes all to-ragged, Wyth titters and tatters, Brynge dysshes and platters, Wyth all theyr myght runnynge To Elynour Rummynge, To have of her tunnynge: She leneth them on the same. And thus begynneth the game. Instede of coyne and monny, Some brynge her a conny, And some a pot with honny, Some a salt, and some a spone, Some theyr hose, some theyr shone; Some ran a good trot With a skellet or a pot; Some fyll theyr pot full Of good Lemster woll: An huswyfe of trust, Whan she is athrust, Suche a webbe can spyn, Her thryft is full thyn. Some go streyght thyder, Be it slaty or slyder; They holde the hye waye, They care not what men say, Be that as be maye; Some, lothe to be espyde, Start in at the backe syde, Over the hedge and pale, And all for the good ale. Some renne tyll they swete, Brynge wyth them malte or whete, And dame Elynour entrete To byrle them of the best. Than cometh an other gest; She swered by the rode of rest, Her lyppes are so drye, Without drynke she must dye; Therefore fyll it by and by, And have here a pecke of ry. Anone cometh another, As drye as the other, And wyth her doth brynge Mele, salte, or other thynge, Her harvest gyrdle, her weddyng rynge, To pay for her scot As cometh to her lot. Som bryngeth her husbandes hood, Because the ale is good; Another brought her his cap To offer to the ale-tap, Wyth flaxe and wyth towe; And some brought sowre dowe; Wyth, "Hey, and wyth, Howe, Syt we downe a-rowe, And drynke tyll we blowe, And pype tyrly tyrlowe!" Some layde to pledge Theyr hatchet and theyr wedge, Theyr hekell and theyr rele, Theyr rocke, theyr spynnyng whele; And some went so narrowe, They layde to pledge theyr wharrowe, Theyr rybskyn and theyr spyndell, Theyr nedell and theyr thymbell: Here was scant thryft Whan they made suche shyft Theyr thrust was so great, They asked never for mete, But drynke, styll drynke, "And let the cat wynke, Let us washe our gommes From the drye crommes!" But some than sat ryght sad That nothynge had There of theyre awne, Neyther gelt nor pawne; Suche were there menny That had not a penny, But, whan they should walke, Were fayne wyth a chalke To score on the balke, Or score on the tayle: God gyve it yll hayle! For my fyngers ytche; I have wrytten to mytche Of this mad mummynge Of Elynour Rummynge: Thus endeth the gest Of this worthy fest! Quod Skelton, Laureat.

Merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as a falcon Or hawk of the tower: With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly Her demeaning In every thing, Far, far passing That I can indite, Or suffice to write Of Merry Margaret As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower. As patient and still And as full of good will As fair Isaphill, Coriander, Sweet pomander, Good Cassander, Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought, Far may be sought Ere that ye can find So courteous, so kind As Merry Margaret, This midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower.

Ay, beshrew you! by my fay, These wanton clerks be nice alway! Avaunt, avaunt, my popinjay! What, will ye do nothing but play? Tilly, vally, straw, let be I say! Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale! With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale. By God, ye be a pretty pode, And I love you an whole cart-load. Straw, James Foder, ye play the fode, I am no hackney for your rod: Go watch a bull, your back is broad! Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale! With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale. Ywis ye deal uncourteously; What, would ye frumple me? now fy! What, and ye shall be my pigesnye? By Christ, ye shall not, no hardely: I will not be japèd bodily! Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale! With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale. Walk forth your way, ye cost me nought; Now have I found that I have sought: The best cheap flesh that I ever bought. Yet, for his love that all hath wrought, Wed me, or else I die for thought. Gup, Christian Clout, your breath is stale! Go, Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale! Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale! With Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale.

Quis consurget mecum adversus malignantes? aut quis stabit mecum adversus operantes iniquitatem? Nemo, Domine! What can it avail To drive forth a snail, Or to make a sail Of an herring’s tail; To rhyme or to rail, To write or to indict, Either for delight Or else for despight; Or books to compile Of divers manner of style, Vice to revile And sin to exile; To teach or to preach, As reason will reach? Say this, and say that, His head is so fat, He wotteth never what Nor whereof he speaketh; He crieth and he creaketh, He prieth and he peeketh, He chides and he chatters, He prates and he patters, He clitters and he clatters, He meddles and he smatters, He gloses and he flatters; Or if he speak plain, Then he lacketh brain, He is but a fool; Let him go to school, On a three footed stool That he may down sit, For he lacketh wit; And if that he hit The nail on the head, It standeth in no stead; The devil, they say, is dead, The devil is dead. It may well so be, Or else they would see Otherwise, and flee From worldly vanity, And foul covetousness, And other wretchedness, Fickle falseness, Variableness, With unstableness. And if ye stand in doubt Who brought this rhyme about, My name is Colin Clout. I purpose to shake out All my connying bag, Like a clerkly hag; For though my rhyme be ragged, Tattered and jagged, Rudely rain beaten, Rusty and moth eaten, If ye take well therewith, It hath in it some pith.

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, 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, Never halfe the payne Was betwene you twayne, Pyramus and Thesbe, As than befell to me: I wept and I wayled, The tearys downe hayled; But nothinge it avayled To call Phylyp agayne, Whom Gyb our cat hath slayne. Gib, I saye, our cat, Worrowyd her on that Which I loved best: It can not be exprest My sorowfull hevynesse, But all without redresse; For within that stounde, Halfe slumbrynge, in a swounde I fell downe to the grounde. Unneth I kest myne eyes Towarde the cloudy skyes: But whan I dyd beholde My sparow dead and colde, No creatuer but that wolde Have rewed upon me, To behold and se What hevynesse 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, 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, Wanne, and blewe as lead; The panges of hatefull death Wellnye had stopped my breath. Heu, heu, me, That I am wo for the! Ad Dominum, cum tribularer, clamavi: Of God nothynge els crave I But Phyllypes soule to kepe From the marees deepe Of Acherontes well, 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 rufflynge of Phillips fethers, And from her fyry sparklynges, 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 that hell-hounde, That lyeth in cheynes bounde, With gastly hedes thre, To Jupyter pray we That Phyllyp preserved may be! Amen, say ye with me! Do mi nus, Helpe nowe, swete Jesus! Levavi oculos meos in montes: Wolde God I had Zenophontes, Or Socrates the wyse To shew me their devyse, Moderatly to take This sorrow that I make For Phylyp Sparowes sake! So fervently I shake, I fele my body quake; So urgently I am brought Into carefull thought. Like Andromach, Hectors wyfe, Was wery of her lyfe, Whan she had lost her joye, 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 on a stole, And lerned after my scole For to kepe his cut, With, "Phyllyp, kepe your cut!" It had a velvet cap, And wold syt upon 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, 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. Alas, it wyll me slo, That Phillyp is gone me fro!