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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421840" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Tunning of Elenor Rumming</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tell you I chyll,<br>If that ye wyll<br>A whyle be styll,<br>Of a comely gyll<br>That dwelt on a hyll:<br>But she is not gryll,<br>For she is somwhat sage<br>And well worne in age;<br>For her vysage<br>It would aswage<br>A mannes courage.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her lothely lere<br>Is nothynge clere,<br>But ugly of chere,<br>Droupy and drowsy,<br>Scurvy and lowsy;<br>Her face all bowsy,<br>Comely crynkled,<br>Woundersly wrynkled,<br>Lyke a rost pygges eare,<br>Brystled wyth here.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her lewde lyppes twayne,<br>They slaver, men sayne,<br>Lyke a ropy rayne,<br>A gummy glayre:<br>She is ugly fayre;<br>Her nose somdele hoked,<br>And camously croked,<br>Never stoppynge,<br>But ever droppynge;<br>Her skynne lose and slacke,<br>Grained lyke a sacke;<br>With a croked backe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her eyen gowndy<br>Are full unsowndy,<br>For they are blered;<br>And she gray hered;<br>Jawed lyke a jetty;<br>A man would have pytty<br>To se how she is gumbed,<br>Fyngered and thumbed,<br>Gently joynted,<br>Gresed and annoynted<br>Up to the knockles;<br>The bones of her huckels<br>Lyke as they were with buckels<br>Togyther made fast:<br>Her youth is farre past:<br>Foted lyke a plane,<br>Legged lyke a crane;<br>And yet she wyll jet,<br>Lyke a jollyvet,<br>In her furred flocket,<br>And gray russet rocket,<br>With symper the cocket.<br>Her huke of Lyncole grene,<br>It had ben hers, I wene,<br>More then fourty yere;<br>And so doth it apere,<br>For the grene bare thredes<br>Loke lyke sere wedes,<br>Wyddered lyke hay,<br>The woll worne away;<br>And yet I dare saye<br>She thynketh herselfe gaye<br>Upon the holy daye,<br>Whan she doth her aray,<br>And gyrdeth in her gytes<br>Stytched and pranked with pletes;<br>Her kyrtel Brystow red,<br>With clothes upon her hed<br>That wey a sowe of led,<br>Wrythen in wonder wyse,<br>After the Sarasyns gyse<br>With a whym wham,<br>Knyt with a trym tram,<br>Upon her brayne pan,<br>Lyke an Egyptian,<br>Capped about:<br>When she goeth out<br>Herselfe for to shewe,<br>She dryveth downe the dewe<br>Wyth a payre of heles<br>As brode as two wheles;<br>She hobles as a gose<br>With her blanket hose<br>Over the falowe;<br>Her shone smered wyth talowe,<br>Gresed upon dyrt<br>That baudeth her skyrt.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Primus passus </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And this comely dame,<br>I understande, her name<br>Is Elynour Rummynge,<br>At home in her wonnynge;<br>And as men say<br>She dwelt in Sothray,<br>In a certayne stede<br>Bysyde Lederhede.<br>She is a tonnysh gyb;<br>The devyll and she be syb.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But to make up my tale,<br>She breweth noppy ale,<br>And maketh therof port sale<br>To travellars, to tynkers,<br>To sweters, to swynkers,<br>And all good ale drynkers,<br>That wyll nothynge spare,<br>But drynke tyll they stare<br>And brynge themselfe bare,<br>With, &quot;Now away the mare,<br>And let us sley care,<br>As wyse as an hare!&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come who so wyll<br>To Elynour on the hyll,<br>Wyth, &quot;Fyll the cup, fyll,&quot;<br>And syt there by styll,<br>Erly and late:<br>Thyther cometh Kate,<br>Cysly, and Sare,<br>With theyr legges bare,<br>And also theyr fete,<br>Hardely, full unswete;<br>Wyth theyr heles dagged,<br>Theyr kyrtelles all to-jagged,<br>Theyr smockes all to-ragged,<br>Wyth titters and tatters,<br>Brynge dysshes and platters,<br>Wyth all theyr myght runnynge<br>To Elynour Rummynge,<br>To have of her tunnynge:<br>She leneth them on the same.<br>And thus begynneth the game.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Instede of coyne and monny,<br>Some brynge her a conny,<br>And some a pot with honny,<br>Some a salt, and some a spone,<br>Some theyr hose, some theyr shone;<br>Some ran a good trot<br>With a skellet or a pot;<br>Some fyll theyr pot full<br>Of good Lemster woll:<br>An huswyfe of trust,<br>Whan she is athrust,<br>Suche a webbe can spyn,<br>Her thryft is full thyn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some go streyght thyder,<br>Be it slaty or slyder;<br>They holde the hye waye,<br>They care not what men say,<br>Be that as be maye;<br>Some, lothe to be espyde,<br>Start in at the backe syde,<br>Over the hedge and pale,<br>And all for the good ale.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some renne tyll they swete,<br>Brynge wyth them malte or whete,<br>And dame Elynour entrete<br>To byrle them of the best.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Than cometh an other gest;<br>She swered by the rode of rest,<br>Her lyppes are so drye,<br>Without drynke she must dye;<br>Therefore fyll it by and by,<br>And have here a pecke of ry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Anone cometh another,<br>As drye as the other,<br>And wyth her doth brynge<br>Mele, salte, or other thynge,<br>Her harvest gyrdle, her weddyng rynge,<br>To pay for her scot<br>As cometh to her lot.<br>Som bryngeth her husbandes hood,<br>Because the ale is good;<br>Another brought her his cap<br>To offer to the ale-tap,<br>Wyth flaxe and wyth towe;<br>And some brought sowre dowe;<br>Wyth, &quot;Hey, and wyth, Howe,<br>Syt we downe a-rowe,<br>And drynke tyll we blowe,<br>And pype tyrly tyrlowe!&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some layde to pledge<br>Theyr hatchet and theyr wedge,<br>Theyr hekell and theyr rele,<br>Theyr rocke, theyr spynnyng whele;<br>And some went so narrowe,<br>They layde to pledge theyr wharrowe,<br>Theyr rybskyn and theyr spyndell,<br>Theyr nedell and theyr thymbell:<br>Here was scant thryft<br>Whan they made suche shyft</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Theyr thrust was so great,<br>They asked never for mete,<br>But drynke, styll drynke,<br>&quot;And let the cat wynke,<br>Let us washe our gommes<br>From the drye crommes!&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But some than sat ryght sad<br>That nothynge had<br>There of theyre awne,<br>Neyther gelt nor pawne;<br>Suche were there menny<br>That had not a penny,<br>But, whan they should walke,<br>Were fayne wyth a chalke<br>To score on the balke,<br>Or score on the tayle:<br>God gyve it yll hayle!<br>For my fyngers ytche;<br>I have wrytten to mytche<br>Of this mad mummynge<br>Of Elynour Rummynge:<br>Thus endeth the gest<br>Of this worthy fest!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Quod Skelton, Laureat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Skelton">John Skelton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=421840" data-title="The Tunning of Elenor Rumming de John Skelton" data-description="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,
B..."></div>
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