The Libelle of Englyshe Polycye
Here beginneth the Prologe of the processe of the Libelle of Englyshe polycye, exhortynge alle Englande to kepe the see enviroun and namelye the narowe see, shewynge whate profete commeth thereof and also whate worshype and salvacione to Englande and to alle Englyshe menne.
The trewe processe of Englysh polycye
Of utterwarde to kepe thys regne in rest
Of oure England, that no man may denye
Ner say of soth but it is one the best,
Is thys, as who seith, south, north, est and west
Cheryshe marchandyse, kepe thamyralte,
That we bee maysteres of the narowe see.
For Sigesmonde the grete Emperoure,
Whyche yet regneth, whan he was in this londe
Wyth kynge Herry the vte, prince of honoure,
Here moche glorye, as hym thought, he founde,
A myghty londe, whyche hadde take on honde
To werre in Fraunce and make mortalite,
And ever well kept rounde aboute the see.
And to the kynge thus he seyde, 'My brothere',
Whan he perceyved too townes, Calys and Dovere,
'Of alle youre townes to chese of one and other
To kepe the see and sone for to come overe,
To werre oughtwardes and youre regne to recovere,
Kepe these too townes sure to youre mageste
As youre tweyne eyne to kepe the narowe see'.
For if this see be kepte in tyme of werre,
Who cane here passe withought daunger and woo?
Who may eschape, who may myschef dyfferre?
What marchaundy may forby be agoo?
For nedes hem muste take truse every foo,
Flaundres and Spayne and othere, trust to me,
Or ellis hyndered alle for thys narowe see.
Therfore I caste me by a lytell wrytinge
To shewe att eye thys conclusione,
For concyens and for myne acquytynge
Ayenst God, and ageyne abusyon
And cowardyse and to oure enmyes confusione;
For iiij. thynges oure noble sheueth to me,
Kyng, shype and swerde and pouer of the see.
Where bene oure shippes, where bene oure swerdes become?
Owre enmyes bid for the shippe sette a shepe.
Allas, oure reule halteth, hit is benome.
Who dare weel say that lordeshype shulde take kepe,
(I wolle asaye, thoughe myne herte gynne to wepe,
To do thys werke) yf we wole ever the,
For verry shame to kepe aboute the see?
Shall any prynce, what so be hys name,
Wheche hathe nobles moche lyche to oures,
Be lorde of see and Flemmynges to oure blame
Stoppe us, take us and so make fade the floures
Of Englysshe state and disteyne oure honnoures?
For cowardyse, allas, hit shulde so be;
Therfore I gynne to wryte now of the see.
Of the commodytees of Spayne and of Flaundres. The fyrste chapitle.
Knowe welle all men that profites in certayne
Commodytes called commynge oute of Spayne
And marchandy, who so wyll wete what that is,
Bene fygues, raysyns, wyne, bastarde and dates,
And lycorys, Syvyle oyle and also grayne,
Whyte Castell sope and wax is not in vayne,
Iren, wolle, wadmole, gotefel, kydefel also,
(For poyntmakers full nedefull be the ij.)
Saffron, quiksilver; wheche Spaynes marchandy
Is into Flaundres shypped full craftylye
Unto Bruges as to here staple fayre.
The havene of Sluse they have for here repayre,
Wheche is cleped the Swyne, thro shyppes gydynge,
Where many wessell and fayre arne abydynge.
But these merchandes wyth there shyppes greet,
And suche chaffare as they bye and gette
By the weyes, most nede take one honde
By the costes to passe of oure Englonde
Betwyxt Dover and Calys, thys is no doute.
Who can weell ellis suche matere bringe aboute?
And whenne these seyde marchauntz discharged be
Of marchaundy in Flaundres neere the see,
Than they be charged agayn wyth marchaundy
That to Flaundres longeth full rychelye,
Fyne clothe of Ipre, that named is better than oures,
Cloothe of Curtryke, fyne cloothe of all colours,
Moche fustyane and also lynen cloothe.
But ye Flemmyngis, yf ye be not wrothe,
The grete substaunce of youre cloothe at the fulle
Ye wot ye make hit of oure Englissh wolle.
Thanne may hit not synke in mannes brayne
But that hit most, this marchaundy of Spayne,
Bothe oute and inne by oure coostes passe?
He that seyth nay in wytte is lyche an asse.
Thus if thys see werre kepte, I dare well sayne,
Wee shulde have pease with tho growndes tweyne;
For Spayne and Flaundres is as yche othere brothere,
And nethere may well lyve wythowghten othere.
They may not lyven to mayntene there degrees
Wythoughten oure Englysshe commodytees,
Wolle and tynne, for the wolle of Englonde
Susteyneth the comons Flemmynges I understonde.
Thane, yf Englonde wolde hys wolle restreyne
Frome Flaundres, thys foloweth in certayne,
Flaundres of nede muste wyth us have pease
Or ellis he is distroyde wythowghten lees.
Also, yef Flaundres thus distroyed bee,
Some marchaundy of Spayne wolle nevere ithe.
For distroyed hit is, and as in cheffe
The wolle of Spayne hit cometh not to preffe
But if it be tosed and menged well
Amonges Englysshe wolle the gretter delle;
For Spayneshe wolle in Flaundres draped is
And evere hath be that mene have mynde of this.
And yet woll is one the cheffe marchaundy
That longeth to Spayne, who so woll aspye;
Hit is of lytell valeue, trust unto me,
Wyth Englysshe woll but if it menged be.
Thus, if the see be kepte, then herkene hedere,
Yf these ij. londes comene not togedere,
So that the flete of Flaundres passe nought,
That in the narowe see it be not brought
Into the Rochell to feche the fumose wyne,
Nere into Britounse bay for salt so fyne,
What is than Spayne, what is Flaundres also?
As who seyth, nought; there thryfte is alle ago.
For the lytell londe of Flaundres is
But a staple to other londes iwys,
And all that groweth in Flaundres, greyn and sede,
May not a moneth fynde hem mete of brede.
What hath thenne Flaundres, be Flemmynges leffe or lothe,
But a lytell madere and Flemmyshe cloothe?
By draperinge of oure wolle in substaunce
Lyvene here comons, this is here governaunce,
Wythoughten whyche they may not leve at ease;
Thus moste hem sterve or wyth us most have peasse.
Of the commoditees of Portingalle. The ij. capitle.
The marchaundy also of Portyngale
To dyverse londes torneth into sale.
Portyngalers wyth us have trought on hande,
Whose marchaundy cometh muche into Englande.
They bene oure frendes wyth there commoditez,
And wee Englysshe passen into there countrees.
Here londe hathe oyle, wyne, osey, wex and greyne,
Fygues, reysyns, hony and cordeweyne,
Dates and salt hydes and suche marchaundy.
And if they wolde to Flaundres passe forth bye,
They schulde not be suffrede ones ner twyes
For supportynge of oure cruell enmyes,
That is to saye Flemmynges wyth here gyle,
For chaungeable they are in lytel whyle.
Than I conclude by resons many moo,
Yf wee sufferede nethere frende nere foo,
What for enmyes and so supportynge,
To passe forby us in tyme of werrynge,
(Sethe oure frendys woll not bene in causse
Of oure hyndrenge, yf reason lede thys clausse)
Than nede frome Flaundres pease of us be sought,
And othere londes shulde seche pease, doute nought;
For Flaundres is staple, as men tell me,
To alle nacyons of Crystiante.
The commodytes of Pety Brytayne, wyth here revers on the see. The iij. capitle.
Forthermore to wryten I hame fayne
Somwhate spekynge of the Lytell Bretayne.
Commodite therof there is and was
Salt and wynes, crestclothe and canvasse;
And the londe of Flaunderes sekerly
Is the staple of there marchaundy,
Wheche marchaundy may not passe awey
But by the coste of Englonde, this is no nay.
And of thys Bretayn, who so trewth levys,
Are the gretteste rovers and the gretteste thevys
That have bene in the see many a yere;
And that oure marchauntes have bowght alle to dere.
For they have take notable gode of oures
On thys seyde see, these false coloured pelours,
Called of Seynt Malouse and elles where,
Wheche to there duke none obeysaunce woll bere.
Wyth suche colours we have bene hindred sore,
And fayned pease is called no werre herefore.
Thus they have bene in dyverse costes manye
Of oure England, mo than reherse can I,
In Northfolke coostes and othere places aboute,
And robbed and brente and slayne by many a routte;
And they have also raunsouned toune by toune,
That into the regnes of bost have ronne here soune,
Whyche hathe bene ruthe unto thys realme and shame.
They that the see shulde kepe are moche to blame;
For Brytayne is of easy reputasyone,
And Seynt Malouse turneth hem to reprobacione.
A storie of kynge Edwarde the iiide hys ordynaunce for Bretayne.
Here brynge I in a storye to me lente,
That a goode squyere in tyme of parlemente
Toke unto me well wrytene in a scrowe,
That I have comonde bothe wyth hygh and lowe;
Of whyche all mene accordene into one
That hit was done not monye yeris agone,
But whene that noble kyng Edwarde the thride
Regned in grace ryght thus hit betyde.
For he hadde a manere gelozye
To hys marchauntes and lowede hem hartelye.
He felt the weyes to reule well the see,
Whereby marchauntes myght have prosperite.
Therfore Harflewe and Houndflewe dyd he makene,
And grete werres that tyme were undertakene
Betwyx the kynge and the duke of Bretayne.
At laste to falle to pease bothe were they feyne,
Upon the whyche, made by convencione,
Oure marchaundys they made hem redy boune
Towarde Brytayne to lede here marchaundye,
Wenynge hem frendes, and wente forthe boldelye.
But sone anone oure marchaundes were itake,
And wee spede nevere the better for treuse sake;
They loste here goode, here navy and spendynge.
But when there compleynte come unto the kynge,
Then wex he wrothe and to the duke he sente
And compleyned that such harme was hente
By convencione and pease made so refused.
Whiche duke sent ageyne and hym excused,
Rehersynge that the Mount of Seynte Michell
And Seynt Malouse wolde nevere a dele
Be subject unto his governaunce
Ner be undere hys obë¹³aunce,
And so they did withowten hym that dede.
But whan the kynge anone had takene hede,
He in his herte set a jugemente,
Wythoute callynge of ony parlemente
Or grete tary to take longe avyse;
To fortefye anone he dyd devyse
Of Englysshe townes iij., that is to seye
Derthmouth, Plymmouth, the thyrde it is Foweye,
And gaffe hem helpe and notable puissaunce,
Wyth insistence set them in governaunce
Upon the Pety Bretayn for to werre.
Than gode seemenne wolde no more deferre,
But bete theme home and made they myght not route,
Tooke prysoners and lernyd hem for to loutte.
And efte the duke in semblable wyse
Wrote to the kynge as he fyrste dyd devyse,
Hym excusynge; bot oure meny wode
Wyth grete poure passed overe the floode
And werred forth into the dukes londe
And had neygh destrued free and bonde.
But whan the duke knewe that tho townes thre
Shulde have loste all hys natale cuntree,
He undertoke by sewrte trewe not false
For Mount Seynt Mychelle and Seinte Malouse als
And othere partees of the Lytell Bretaynne,
Whych to obeye, as seyde was, were nott fayne.
The duke hymselfe for all dyd undertake,
Wyth all hys herte a full pease dyd he make,
So that in all the lyffe tyme of the kynge
Marchaundes hadde pease wythowtene werrynge.
He made a statute for Lumbardes in thys londe,
That they shulde in no wysse take on honde
Here to enhabite, to charge and to dyscharge,
But xl. dayes, no more tyme had they large.
Thys goode kynge be wytt of suche appreffe
Kepte hys marchauntes and the see fro myscheffe.
Of the commodites of Scotelonde and drapynge of here woll in Flaundres. The iiij. chapitle.
Moreover of Scotlonde the commoditees
Ar felles, hydes and of wolle the fleesse;
And alle these muste passe bye us aweye
Into Flaundres by Englonde, sothe to saye.
And all here woll was draped for to sell
In the townes of Poperynge and of Bell,
Whyche my lorde of Glowcestre wyth ire
For here falshede dyd sett upon a fyre.
And yett they of Bell and Poperynge
Cowde never draper her woll for any thynge
But if they hadde Englysshe woll wythall,
Oure godely woll that is so generall,
Nedeful to hem in Spayne and Scotlande als
And othere costis; this sentence is not fals.
Ye worthi marchauntes, I do it upon yow;
I have this lerned, ye wott well where and howe.
Ye wotte the staple of that marchaundye
Of this Scotlonde is Flaundres sekerlye.
And the Scottes bene chargede, knowene at the eye,
Out of Flaundres wyth lytyll mercerye
And grete plentee of haburdasshers ware;
And halfe here shippes wyth carte whelys bare
And wyth barowes ar laden as in substaunce.
Thus moste rude ware be in here chevesaunce;
So they may not forbere thys Flemyssh londe.
Therefor if we wolde manly take on honde
To kepe thys see fro Flaundres and fro Spayne
And fro Scotelonde lych as fro Pety Bretayne,
Wee schulde ryght sone have pease for all here bostes,
For they muste nede passe by oure Englysshe costes.
Of the commoditees of Pruse and Hyghe Duchemenne and Esterlynges. The v. chapitle.
Now goo wee forthe to the commoditees
That cometh fro Pruse in too manere degrees;
For too manere peple have suche use,
This is to sayen Highe Duchmene of Pruse
And Esterlynges, whiche myghte not be forborne
Oute of Flaundres but it were verrely lorne.
For they bringe in the substaunce of the beere
That they drynken fele to goode chepe not dere.
Ye have herde that twoo Flemmynges togedere
Wol undertake, or they goo ony whethere
Or they rise onys, to drinke a barell fulle
Of gode berkyne; so sore they hale and pulle,
Undre the borde they pissen as they sitte.
This cometh of covenaunt of a worthy witte.
Wythoute Calise in ther buttere they cakked,
Whan they flede home and when they leysere lakked
To holde here sege; they wente lyke as a doo,
Wel was that Flemmynge that myght trusse and goo.
For fere they turned bake and hyede faste,
Milorde of Gloucestre made hem so agaste
Wyth his commynge and sought hem in here londe
And brente and slowe as he hadde take on honde,
So that oure enmyse durste not byde nor stere;
They flede to mewe, they durste no more appere.
[Thene his meyné ³eidene that he was dede.
Tille we were goo, ther was no bettir reede;
For cowardy knyghthode was aslepe,
As dede there duke in mewe they dide hym kepe,]
Rebukede sore for evere so shamefully
Unto here uttere everelastinge vylany.
After bere and bacone odre gode commodites ensuene.
Now bere and bacone bene fro Pruse ibroughte
Into Flaundres, as loved and fere isoughte,
Osmonde, coppre, bowstaffes, stile and wex,
Peltreware and grey, pych, terre, borde and flex,
And Coleyne threde, fustiane and canvase,
Carde, bokeram; of olde tyme thus it wase.
But the Flemmynges amonge these thinges dere
In comen lowen beste bacon and bere.
[Thus are they hoggishe and drynkyn wele ataunte.
Farewel, Flemmynges, hay haro, hay avaunt.]
Also Pruse mene maken here aventure
Of plate of sylvere, of wegges gode and sure
In grete plente, whiche they bringe and bye
Oute of the londes of B顬me and Hungrye;
Whiche is encrese ful grete unto thys londe.
And thei bene laden agayn, I understonde,
Wyth wollen clothe all manere of coloures
By dyers crafted ful dyverse that bene ours.
And they aventure ful gretly unto the baye
For salte, that is nedefull wythoute naye.
Thus, if they wolde not oure frendys bee,
Wee myght lyghtlye stope hem in the see.
They shulde not passe oure stremes wythoutene leve;
It wolde not be but if we shulde hem greve.
Of the commoditees of the Januays and here grette karekkys. The vi. chapitle.
The Janueys comyne in sondre wyses
Into this londe wyth dyverse marchaundyses
In grete karrekkis arrayde wythouten lake
Wyth clothes of golde; silke and pepir blake
They bringe wyth hem and of woad grete plente,
Woll-oyle, wood-aschen by vessell in the see,
Coton, roche-alum and gode golde of Jene.
And they be charged wyth woll ageyne, I wene,
And wollene clothe of owres of colours all.
And they aventure, as ofte it dothe byfall,
Into Flaundres wyth suche thynge as they bye;
That is here cheffe staple sykerlye.
And if they wold be oure full ennemyse,
They shulde not passe oure stremez with marchaundyse.
The commodites and nycetees of Venicyans and Florentynes with there galees. The vij. capitle.
The grete galees of Venees and Florence
Be wel ladene wyth thynges of complacence,
All spicerye and other grocers ware,
Wyth swete wynes, all manere of chaffare,
Apes and japes and marmusettes taylede,
Nifles, trifles, that litell have availed,
And thynges wyth whiche they fetely blere oure eye,
Wyth thynges not endurynge that we bye.
For moche of thys chaffare that is wastable
Mighte be forborne for dere and dyssevable;
And that I wene as for infirmitees
In oure Englonde are suche comoditees
Wythowten helpe of any other londe,
Whych ben by wytte and prattike bothe ifounde,
That all ill humors myght be voyded sure,
Whych that we gadre wyth oure Englysh cure,
That wee shulde have no nede to skamonye,
Turbit, euforbe, correcte, diagredie,
Rubarbe, sené¬ and yet they bene to nedefulle.
But I knowe wele thynges also spedefull
That growene here as these thynges forseyde.
Lett of this matere no mane be dysmayde,
But that a man may voyde infirmytee
Wythoute drugges fet fro beyonde the see.
And yf there shulde excepte be ony thynge,
It were but sugre, truste to my seyinge;
And he that trustith not to my sentence
Lett hym better serche experience.
In this mater I woll not ferthere prese;
Who so not beleveth let hym leve and cease.
Thus these galeise for this lykynge ware
And etynge ware bere hens oure beste chaffare,
Clothe, woll and tynne, whiche, as I seyde beforne,
Oute of this londe werste myght be forborne;
For eche other londe of necessite
Have grete nede to by some of the thre.
And wee resseyve of hem into this coste
Ware and chaffare that lyghtlye wol be loste.
And wolde Ihesu that oure lordis wolde
Considre this wel, both the yonge and olde,
Namelye the olde that have experience,
That myghte the yonge exorten to prudence.
What harme, what hurte and what hinderaunce
Is done to us unto oure grete grevaunce
Of suche londes and of suche nacions,
As experte men knowe by probacions!
By wretynge ar discured oure counsayles
And false coloured alwey the countertayles
Of oure enmyes, that dothe us hinderinge
Unto oure goodes, oure realme and to the kynge,
As wysse men have shewed well at eye,
And alle this is colowred by marchaundye.
Ane emsampelle of deseytte.
Also they bere the golde oute of thys londe
And souke the thryfte awey oute of oure honde;
As the waffore soukethe honye fro the bee,
So myn? oure commodite.
Now woll ye here how they in Cotteswolde
Were wonte to borowe, or they schulde be solde,
Here wolles gode (as als fro yere to yere
Of clothe and tynne they did in lych manere),
And in her galeys schyppe this marchaundye;
Then sone at Venice of them men wol it bye.
They utterne ther the chaffare be the payse,
And lyghtlye also ther they make her reys.
And whan tho gode bene at Venice solde,
Than to carrye her chaunge they ben full bolde
Into Flaundres; whan they this money have,
They wyll it profre, ther sotelte to save,
To Englysshe marchaundis to yeve it oute by eschaunge.
To be paide agayne they make it nothing straunge
Here in Englonde, semynge for the better,
At the receyvyng and sighte of a letter,
By iiij. penyes losse in the noble rounde,
That is xij. penyes in the golden pounde.
And yf we woll have of paymente
A full monythe, than moste hym nedes assente
To viij. penyes losse, that is shellynges tweyne
In the Englysshe pounde; as efte sones agayne
For ij. monythes xij. penyes muste he paye.
In the Englysshe pounde what is that to seye
But iij. shyllinges? So that in pounde felle
For hurte and harme harde is wyth hem to delle.
And whene Englysshe marchaundys have contente
This eschaunge in Englonde of assente,
Than these seyde Venecians have in wone
And Florentynes to bere here golde sone
Overe the see into Flaundres ageyne;
And thus they lyve in Flaundres, sothe to sayne,
And in London wyth suche chevesaunce
That men call usure to oure losse and hinderaunce.
Anothere exemple of disceytte.
Now lestene welle how they made us a baleys,
Whan they borowed at the toune of Caleys,
As they were wonte, ther woll that was hem lente;
For yere and yere they schulde make paymente,
And sometyme als for too yere and too yere.
This was fayre lone; but yett woll ye here
How they to Bruges wolde her wolles carye
And for hem take paymente wythowten tarye
And sell it faste for redy money in honde
(For fifty pounde of losse thei wolde not wonde
In a thowsande pounde) and lyve therebye
Tyll the day of paymente easylye,
Some gayne ageyne in exchaunge makynge,
Full lyke usurie as men make undertakynge.
Than whan thys payment of a thowsande pounde
Was well contente, they shulde have chaffare sounde
Yff they wolde fro the staple at the full
Reseyve ageyne ther thousande pounde in woll.
[And thus they wolde, if ye will so beleve,
Wypen our nose with our owne sleve.
Thow this proverbe be homly and undew,
Yet be liklynesse it is for soth full trew.]
In Cotteswolde also they ryde aboute
And al Englonde and bien wythouten doute
What them liste wythe fredome and fraunchise,
More then we Englisshe may getyn in any wyse.
But wolde God that wythoute lenger delayse
These galeise were unfraught in xl. daies
And in tho xl. dayes were charged ageyne,
And that they myght be put to certeyne
To go to oste, as wee there wyth hem doo.
It were expediente that they did right soo,
As wee do there; for, if the kynge wolde itt,
A! what worschip wold fall to Englysshe witte!
What profite also to oure marchaundye,
Whiche wolde of nede be cherisshed hartelye!
For I wolde wete why nowe owre navey fayleth,
Whan many a foo us at oure dorre assayleth,
Now in these dayes that, if there come a nede,
What navey shulde wee have it is to drede.
In Denmarke were full noble conquerours
In tyme passed, full worthy werriours,
Whiche when they had here marchaundes destroyde,
To poverte they fell, thus were they noyede,
And so they stonde at myscheffe at this daye.
This lerned I late well wryten, this is no naye.
Therefore beware, I can no better wylle,
Yf grace it woll, of other mennys perylle.
For yef marchaundes were cherysshede to here spede,
We were not lykelye to fayle in ony nede;
Yff they bee riche, thane in prosperite
Schalbe oure londe, lordes and comonte.
And in worship nowe think I on the sonne
Of marchaundy Richarde of Whitingdone,
That loodes sterre and chefe chosen floure.
Whate hathe by hym oure England of honoure,
And whate profite hathe bene of his richesse,
And yet lasteth dayly in worthinesse,
That penne and papere may not me suffice
Him to describe, so high he was of prise,
Above marchaundis to sett him one the beste!
I can no more, but God have hym in reste.
Nowe the principalle matere.
What reason is it that wee schulde go to oste
In there cuntrees and in this Englisshe coste
They schulde not so, but have more liberte
Than wee oure selfe? Now, all so mot I the,
I wolde men shulde to geftes take no hede,
That lettith oure thinge publique for to spede.
For this wee see well every day at eye,
Geftes and festes stopene oure pollicye.
Now se that fooles bene eyther they or wee;
But evere wee have the warse in this contre.
Therefore lett hem unto ooste go wyth us here,
Or be wee free wyth hem in like manere
In there cuntres; and if it woll not bee,
Compelle them unto ooste and ye shall see
Moche avauntage and muche profite arise,
Moche more than I write can in any wyse.
Of oure charge and discharge at here martes.
Conseyve well here that Englyssh men at martes
Be discharged, for all her craftes and artes,
In the Braban of all here marchaundy
In xiiij. dayes and ageyne hastely
In the same dayes xiiij. are charged efte.
And yf they byde lengere, alle is berefte;
Anone they schulde forfet here godes all
Or marchaundy, it schulde no bettere fall.
And wee to martis of Braban charged bene
Wyth Englyssh clothe, full gode and feyre to seyne.
Wee bene ageyne charged wyth mercerye,
Haburdasshere ware and wyth grocerye.
To whyche martis, that Englissh men call feyres,
Iche nacion ofte maketh here repayeres.
Englysshe and Frensh, Lumbardes, Januayes,
Cathᬯnes, theder they take here wayes;
Scottes, Spaynardes, Iresshmen there abydes,
Whiche grete plente bringen of salte hydes.
And I here saye that wee in Braban bye
Flaundres and Seland more of marchaundy
In comon use then done all other nacions;
This have I herde of marchaundes relacions.
And yff the Englysshe be not in the martis,
They bene febell and as noughte bene here partes;
For they bye more and more fro purse put oute
For marchaundy than all the othere route.
Kepte than the see, shyppes schulde not bringe ne feche,
And than the carreys wolde not theder streche;
And so tho martes wolde full evel thee,
Yf wee manly kepte aboute the see.
Of the commoditees of Brabane and Selande and Henaulde and marchaundyses caryed by londe to the martes. The viij. chapitle.
The marchaundy of Brabane and Selande
Be madre and woade, that dyers take one hande
To dyen wythe, garleke and onyons,
And saltfysche als for husbond and comons.
But they of Holonde at Caleyse byene oure felles
And oure wolles that Englysshe men hem selles,
And the chefare that Englysshe men do byene
In the martis, that no man may denyene,
It is not made in Brabane that cuntre.
It commeth frome oute of Henaulde, not be the see
But all by londe by carris and frome Fraunce,
Burgoyne, Coleyn, Camerete in substaunce.
Therfore at martis yf there be a restereynte,
Men seyne pleynly, that liste no fables peynte,
Yf Englysshe men be wythdrawene awey,
Is grete rebuke and losse to here affraye,
As thoughe wee sent into the londe of Fraunce
Tenne thousande peple, men of gode puissaunce,
To werre unto her hynderynge multiphary;
So bene oure Englysshe marchauntes necessary.
Yf it be thus assay and ye schall weten
Of men experte by whome I have this wryten.
For seyde is that this carted marchaundye
Drawethe in valew as moche verralye
As all the gode that commethe in shippes thedyre,
Whyche Englisshe men bye moste and bryng it hedire;
For here martis bene feble, shame to saye,
But if Englisshe men thedir dresse here waye.
Conclusione of this deppendinge of kepinge of the see.
Than I conclude, yff nevere so moche by londe
Werre by carres ibrought unto there honde,
Yff well the see were kepte in governaunce,
They shulde by see have no delyveraunce.
Wee shulde hem stoppe and wee shulde hem destroy,
As prysoners wee shulde hem brynge to noy.
And so wee shulde of oure cruell enmysse
Maken oure frendes for fere of marchaundysse,
Yff they were not suffred for to passe
Into Flaundres; but wee be frayle as glasse
And also bretyll, not tough, nevere abydynge.
But when grace shyneth sone are wee slydynge;
Wee woll it not reseyve in any wysse,
That maken luste, envye and covetysse.
Expoune me this and ye shall sothe it fynde;
Bere it aweye and kepe it in youre mynde.
The nayle of thys conclusione.
Than shulde worshyp unto oure noble be,
In feet and forme to lorde and mageste.
Liche as the seale, the grettest of thys londe,
On the one syde hathe, as I understonde,
A prince rydynge wyth hys swerde idrawe,
In the other syde sittynge, sothe is this sawe,
Betokenynge goode reule and ponesshynge
In verry dede of Englande by the kynge
(And hit is so, God blessyd mote he bee);
So one lychewysse I wolde were on the see.
By the noble that swerde schulde have powere
And the shippes one the see aboute us here.
What nedeth a garlande whyche is made of ivye
Shewe a taverne wynelesse? Nowe, also thryve I,
Yf men were wyse, the Frenshemen and Flemmynge
Shulde bere no state in the see by werrynge.
Of Hankyne Lyons.
Thane Hankyn Lyons shulde not be so bolde
To stoppe us and oure shippes for to holde
Unto oure shame; he hadde be betene thens.
Allas, allas, why dede wee this offence
Fully to shende the olde Englisshe fames
And the profittes of Englonde and there names?
Why is this powdre called of covetise
Wyth fals colours caste thus beforne oure eyes?
That, if goode men called werryours
Wolde take in hand for the comon socours
To purge the see unto oure grete avayle
And wynne hem gode, and to have up the sayle
And one oure enmyes there lives to juparte,
So that they myght there pryses well departe,
As reason wolde, justice and equite,
To make this lande have lordeshyp of the sea,
Than shall Lumbardes and other feyned frendes
Make her chalenges by coloure false of fendes
And sey ther chafare in the shippes is
And chalenge all. Loke yf this be amisse.
For thus may all that men have bought to sore
Ben sone excused and saved by false coloure.
Beware ye men that bere the grete on honde,
That they destroy the polycye of this londe
By gifte and goode and the fyne golden clothes
And silke and othere. Sey ye not this sothe is?
Bot if ye hadde verry experience
That they take mede wyth pryve violence,
Carpettis and thynges of price and of pleysaunce,
Whereby stopped shulde be gode governaunce,
And if it were as ye seye unto me,
Than wolde I seye, allas, cupidite,
That they that have here lyves put in drede
Schalbe sone oute of wynnynge al for mede,
And lese here costes and brought to poverte,
That they shall nevere have luste to go to see.
Sterynge to an ordinaunce ayens coloure of maynteners and excusers.
For thys colour, that muste be seyde alofte
And be declared of the grete fulle ofte,
That oure seemen woll by many wyse
Spoylle oure frendys in stede of oure enmyse-
For thys coloure and Lumbardes mayntenaunce
The kynge it nedeth to make an ordinaunce
Wyth hys counsell, that may not fayle, I trowe,
That frendes shuld frome enmyes well be knowe,
Oure enmyes taken and oure frendes spared;
The remedy of hem muste be declared.
Thus may the see be kept now in no sele,
For, if ought be taken, wotte ye weel,
Wee have the strokes and enmyes have the wynnynge;
But maynteners ar parteners of the synnynge.
Wee lyve in luste and byde in covetyse;
This is oure reule to mayntene marchaundyse,
And polycye that we have on the see,
And, but God helpe, it woll none other bee.
Of the commoditees of Irelonde and policye and kepynge therof and conquerynge of wylde Iryshe, wyth an incident of Walys. The ix. chapitle.
I caste to speke of Irelonde but a lytelle.
Commoditees of it I woll entitell
Hydes and fish, samon, hake and herynge;
Irish wollen and lynyn cloth, faldynge,
And marterns gode bene in here marchaundye;
Hertys hydes and other hydes of venerye,
Skynnes of oter, squerel and Irysh hare,
Of shepe, lambe and fox is here chaffare,
Felles of kydde and conyes grete plente.
So that yf Irelond halpe us to kepe the see,
Because the kynge clepid is rex Anglie
And is dominus also Hibernie,
Of old possessyd by progenitours,
The Yrichemen have cause lyke to oures
Oure londe and herres togedre to defende,
So that none enmye shulde hurte ne offende
Yrelonde ne us, but as one comonte
Shulde helpe to kepe well aboute the see.
For they have havenes grete and godely bayes,
Sure, wyde and depe and of ryght gode assayes
Att Waterforde and coostes monye one;
And, as men seyn, in England be there none
Better havenes for shyppes in to ryde,
Ne none more sure for enmyes to abyde.
Why speke I thus so muche of Yrelonde?
For also muche as I can understonde,
It is fertyle for thynge that there do growe
And multiplyen, loke who so lust to knowe,
So large, so gode and so comodyouse
That to declare is straunge and merveylouse.
For of sylvere and golde there is the oore
Amonge the wylde Yrishe, though they be pore,
For they ar rude and can thereone no skylle;
So that, if we had there pese and gode wylle
To myne and fyne and metall for to pure,
In wylde Yrishe myght we fynde the cure.
As in Londone seyth a juellere,
Whych brought from thens gold oore to us here,
Wherof was fyned metalle gode and clene,
That at the touche no bettere coude be sene.
Nowe here beware and hertly take entente,
As ye woll answere at the laste jugemente,
That, but for sloughe and for recheleshede,
Ye remembere and wyth all youre myghte take hede
To kepen Yrelond that it be not loste,
For it is a boterasse and a poste
Undre England, and Wales is another.
God forbede but eche were othere brothere,
Of one ligeaunce dewe unto the kynge.
But I have pite in gode feythe of thys thynge,
That I shall saye wythe gode avysemente
I ham aferde that Yrelonde wol be shente;
It muste awey, it woll be loste frome us,
But if thow helpe, thow Ihesu graciouse,
And yeve us grase all sloughte to leve bysyde.
For myche thynge in my harte is ihyde,
Whyche in another tretyse I caste to wrytte,
Made all onelye for that soyle and site
Of fertile Yerelonde, whiche myghte not be forborne
But if Englond were nyghe as gode as lorne.
God forebede that a wylde Yrishe wyrlynge
Shulde be chosene for to be there kynge
Aftere here conqueste of oure laste puisshaunce
And hyndere us by other londes allyaunce.
Wyse mene seyne, whyche folyne not ne dotyne,
That wylde Yrishe so muche of grounde have gotyne
There upon us, as lykelynesse may be,
Lyke as England to shires two or thre
Of thys oure londe is made comparable;
So wylde Yrishe have wonne on us unable
It to defenden and of none powere,
That oure grounde there is a lytell cornere
To all Yrelonde in treue comparisone.
It nedeth no more this matere to expone.
Which if it be loste, as Criste Ihesu forbede,
Farewell Wales; than Englond cometh to drede
For alliaunce of Scotlonde and of Spayne
And other moo, as the Pety Bretayne,
And so to have enmyes environ aboute.
I beseche God that some prayers devoute
Mutt lett the seyde apparaunce probable.
Thys is disposed wythought feyned fable,
But alle onely for parelle that I see
Thus ymynent as lykely for to be.
And well I wott that frome hens to Rome,
And, as men sey, in alle Cristendome,
There ys no grounde ne land to Yreland lyche,
So large, so gode, so plenteouse, so riche,
That to this worde Dominus dothe longe.
Than me semyth that ryght were and not wronge
To gete that lond, and it were piteouse
To us to lese thys hygh name Dominus;
And all this worde Dominus of name
Shulde have the grounde obeisaunte, wylde and tame,
That name and peple togedere myght accorde,
And all the grounde be subjecte to the lorde.
And that it is possible to be subjecte
Unto the kynge well shall it be detecte
In the lytell boke that I of spake;
I trowe reson all this woll undertake.
And I knowe well with Irland howe it stant.
Allas, fortune begynneth so to scant,
Or ellis grace, that dede is governaunce;
For so mynusshyth partyes of oure puissaunce
In that land that we lesen every yere
More grounde and more, as well as ye may here.
I herde a man speke unto me full late,
Whyche was a lorde and of ful grete astate,
That exspenses of one yere don in Fraunce,
Werred on men well wylled of puissaunce
Thys seyde grounde of Yrelonde to conquere,
(And yit because Englonde myght not forbere
These seyde exspenses gedred in one yere,
But in iij. yere or iiij. gadred up here)
Myght wynne Yrelonde to a fynall conquest
In one soole yere, to sett us all in reste.
And how sone wolde thys be payde ageyne,
What were it worthe yerely, yf wee not feyne,
I wylle declaren, who so luste to looke,
I trowe ful pleynly in my lytell boke.
But covetyse and singularite
Of owne profite, envye, carnalite
Hathe done us harme and doo us every daye,
And mustres made that shame it is to saye,
Oure money spente all to lytell avayle;
And oure enmyes so gretely done prevayle,
That what harme may falle and overthwerte
I may unneth wrytte more for sore of herte.
An exhortacione to the kepynge of Walys.
Beware of Walys, Criste Ihesu mutt us kepe,
That it make not oure childes childe to wepe,
Ne us also, if so it go his waye
By unwarenesse; sethen that many a day
Men have be ferde of here rebellione
By grete tokenes and ostentacione.
Seche the menys wyth a discrete avyse,
And helpe that they rudely not aryse
For to rebellen; that Criste it forbede
Loke well aboute, for God wote we have nede,
Unfayllyngly, unfeynynge and unfeynte,
That conscience for slought you not atteynte.
Kepe well that grounde for harme that may ben used,
Or afore God mutt ye bene accused.
Of the comodius stokfysshe of Yselonde and kepynge of the see, namely the narowe see, wyth an incident of the kepynge of Calyse. The tenne chapitule.
Of Yseland to wryte is lytill nede
Save of stokfische; yit for sothe in dede
Out of Bristow and costis many one
Men have practised by nedle and by stone
Thiderwardes wythine a lytel whylle,
Wythine xij. yeres, and wythoute parille,
Gone and comen, as men were wonte of olde
Of Scarborowgh, unto the costes colde.
And now so fele shippes thys yere there were
That moche losse for unfraught they bare.
Yselond myght not make hem to be fraught
Unto the hawys; this moche harme they caught.
Thene here I ende of the comoditees
For whiche grete nede is well to kepe the sees.
Este and weste and sowthe and northe they be,
And chefely kepe sharply the narowe see
Betwene Dover and Caleise, and as thus
That foes passe not wythought godewyll of us,
And they abyde oure daunger in the lenghte,
What for oure costis and Caleise in oure strenghte.
An exortacion of the sure kepynge of Calise.
And for the love of God and of his blisse
Cherishe ye Caleise better than it is.
See well therto and here the grete compleynte
That trewe men tellen, that woll no lies peynte,
And as ye knowe that writynge commyth from thens.
Do not to England for sloughte so grete offens
But that redressed it be for ony thynge,
Leste a songe of sorow that wee synge.
For lytell wenythe the fole, who so myght chese,
What harme it were gode Caleise for to lese,
What woo it were for all this Englysshe grounde.
Whiche well conceyved the emperoure Sigesmounde,
That of all joyes made it one the moste
That Caleise was soget unto Englyssh coste.
Hym thought it was a jewel moste of alle,
And so the same in latyn did it calle.
And if ye woll more of Caleise here and knowe,
I caste to writte wythine a litell scrowe,
Lyke as I have done byforene by and bye
In othir parties of oure pollicie.
Loke well how harde it was at the firste to gete,
And by my counsell lyghtly be it not lete.
For, if wee leese it wyth shame of face,
Wylfully it is, it is for lake of grace.
Howe was Hareflewe cryed upon at Rone
That it were likely for slought to be gone!
How was it warened and cryed on in Englonde!
I make recorde wyth this penne in myne honde,
It was warened pleynly in Normandye
And in England, and I thereone dyd crye.
The worlde was deef, and it betid ryght soo.
Farewell Hareflewe, leudely it was agoo.
Now ware Caleise, for I can sey no bettere;
My soule discharge I by this presente lettere.
Aftere the chapitles of commoditees of dyuerse landes shewyth the conclusione of kepynge of the see environ by a storye of kynge Edgare and ij. incidentes of kynge Edwarde the iijde and kynge Herry the vth. The xi. chapitle.
Now see well thane that in this rounde see
To oure noble be paryformytee.
Within the shypp is shewyd there the sayle
And oure kynge of royall apparaylle,
Wyth swerde drawen, bryght, sharp and extente,
For to chastisen enmyes vyolente;
So shulde he be lorde of the see aboute,
To kepe enmyes fro wythine and wythoute,
And to be holde thorowgh Cristianyte
Master and lorde environ of the see,
For all lyvinge men suche a prince to drede,
Of suche a regne to be aferde indede.
Thus prove I well that it was thus of olde,
Whiche by a cronicle anone shalbe tolde,
Ryght curiouse (but I woll interprete
Hit into Englishe as I did it gete)
Of kynge Edgare, oo the moste merveyllouse
Prince lyvynge, wytty and moste chevalrouse,
So gode that none of his predecessours
Was to hym lyche in prudens and honours.
He was fort?and more gracious
Then other before and more glorious;
He was benethe no man in holinesse;
He passed alle in vertuuse swetenesse.
Of Englysshe kynges was none so commend᢬e
To Englysshe men, ne lasse memori᢬e
Than Cirus was to Perse by puissaunce;
And as grete Charlis was to them of Fraunce,
And as to Romains was grete Romulus,
So was to England this worthy Edgarus.
I may not write more of his worthynesse
For lake of tyme ne of his holynesse,
But to my mater I hym examplifie
Of condicions tweyne of his policie.
Wythine his land was one, this is no doute,
And anothere in the see wythoute,
That in the tyme of wynter and of vere,
Whan boistous wyndes put seemen into fere,
Wythine his lande aboute by all provinces
He passyd thorowghe, perceyvynge his princes,
Lordes and othir of the commontee,
Who was oppressoure, and who to poverte
Was drawe and broughte, and who was clene in lyffe,
And who was falle by myscheffe and by stryffe
Wyth overeledynge and extorcione;
And gode and bad of eche condicione
He aspied and his mynisters als,
Who did trought and whiche of hem was fals,
And how the ryght and lawes of his londe
Were execute, and who durste take on honde
To disobeye his statutes and decrees,
And yf they were well kepte in all cuntrees.
Of these he made subtile investigacione
By hys owyne espye and other mens relacione.
Amonge othyr was his grete besines
Well to bene ware that grete men of rycchesse
And men of myght in citee ner in toune
Shuld to the pore doo none oppressione.
Thus was he wonte as in this wynter tyde
One suche enserchise busily to abyde.
This was his laboure for the publique thinge;
This occupied a passynge holy kynge.
Now to the purpose, in the somer fayre
Of lusty season, whan clered was the eyre,
He had redy shippes made by him before,
Grete and huge, not fewe but manye a score,
Full thre thousande and sex hundred also,
Statelye inowgh on any see to goo.
The cronicle seyth these shippes were full boisteous;
Suche thinges longen to kynges victorious.
In somere tide wolde he have in wone
And in custome to be full redy sone
Wyth multitude of men of gode array
And instrumentis of werre of beste assay.
Who coude hem well in ony wyse descrive?
Hit were not lyght for ony man on lyve.
Thus he and his wolde entre shippes grete,
Habilementis havynge and the fete
Of see werres, that joyfull was to see
Suche a naveie and lord of mageste
There present in persone hem amonge,
To saile and rowe environ all alonge
So regaliche aboute the Englisshe yle,
To all straungeours a terroure and perille.
Whose soune wente oute in all the world aboute
Unto grete ferre of all that be wythoute,
And exercise to knyghtes and his meyn鼢r> To hym longynge of his natall contr鬼br> (For corage muste of nede have exercise)
Thus occupied for esshewynge of vise.
This knewe the kynge, that policie espied;
Wynter and somer he was thus occupied.
And thus conclude I by auctorite
Of cronicle that environ the see
Shulde bene oures subjecte unto the kynge,
And he be lorde therof for ony thynge,
For grete worship and for profite also,
And to defende his londe fro every foo.
That worthy kynge I leve, Edgar by name,
And all the cronique of his worthy fame;
Save onely this, I may not passe awey
A word of myghty strenght til that I seye,
That grauntyd hym God suche worship here
For his meritis he was wythouten pere,
That sumtyme at his grete festivite
Kynges and yerles of many a contre
And of provinces fele were there presente,
And mony lordes come thidere by assente
To his worship. But in a certayne daye
He bade shippes be redy of arraye,
For to visite seynte Jonys chyrche he lyste,
Rowynge unto the gode holy Baptiste.
He assyned to yerles, lordes, knyghtes
Many shippes ryght godely to syghtes;
And for hymselfe and for viij. kynges mo
Subdite to hym he made kepe one of tho,
A gode shipp, and entred into it
Wyth tho viij. kynges, and doune did they sit.
And eche of them an ore toke in honde
At the ore holes, as I understonde,
And he hymselfe satte in the shipp behynde
As sterisman; it hym becam of kynde.
Suche another rowynge, I dare well saye,
Was not sene of princes many a day.
Lo than how he on waters had the price,
In land, in see, that I may not suffice
To tell aright the magnanimite
That this kynge Edgar had upon the see.
An incident of the lorde of the see kynge Edwarde the thredde.
Of kynge Edwarde I passe and his prowesse;
On londe, on see ye knowe his worthynesse.
The siege of Caleise ye wote well all the mater,
Rounde aboute by londe and by the water
How it lasted not yeres many agoo,
After the bataille of Crecy was idoo
How it was closed environ aboute.
Olde men sawe it whiche lyven, this is no doute.
Olde knyghtis sey that the duke of Burgoyne,
Late rebuked for all his golden coyne,
Of shipp and see made no besegynge there.
For wante of shippes, that durste not come for fere,
It was no thynge beseged by the see;
Thus calle they it no seage for honeste.
Gonnes assayled, but assaute was there none,
No sege but fuge; well was he that myght gone.
This manere carpynge have knyghtes ferre in age,
Experte of olde in this manere langage.
But kynge Edwarde made a sege royall
And wanne the toune, and in especiall
The see was kepte and thereof he was lorde;
Thus made he nobles coigned of recorde.
In whose tyme was no navey in the see
That myght wythstonde the power of hys mageste.
The bataylle of Sluce ye may rede every day;
How it was done I leve and go my way.
Hit was so late done that ye it knowe,
In comparison wythine a lytel throwe.
For whiche to God yeve we honoure and glorye,
For lorde of see the kynge was wyth victó²¹¥.
Anothere incident of kepynge of the see in the tyme of the merveillouse werroure and victorius prince kynge Herry the vth and of his grete shippes.
And yf I shulde conclude al by the kynge
Henry the fifte, what was hys purposynge
Whan at Hampton he made the grete dromons,
Which passed other grete shippes of all the comons,
The Trinite, the Grace Dieu, the Holy Goste
And other moo, whiche as now be loste?
What hope ye was the kynges grette entente
Of tho shippes and what in mynde he mente?
It was not ellis but that he caste to be
Lorde rounde aboute environ of the see.
And whan Harflew had his sege aboute,
There came carikkys orrible, grete and stoute,
In the narowe see wyllynge to abyde,
To stoppe us there wyth multitude of pride.
My lorde of Bedeforde came one and had the cure;
Destroyde they were by that discomfiture,
(This was after the kynge Hareflew had wonne,
Whane oure enmyes to besege had begonne)
That all was slayne or take by treue relacione
To his worship and of his Englisshe nacione.
Ther was presente the kynges chamburleyne
At bothe batayles, whiche knowethe this in certayne;
He can it tell other wyse than I.
Aske hym and witt; I passe forthe hastelye.
What had this kynge of high magnificens,
Of grete corage, of wysdome and prudence,
Provision, forewitte, audacite,
Of fortitude, justice, agilite,
Discrecion, subtile avisifenesse,
Atemperaunce, noblesse and worthynesse,
Science, proesce, devocion, equyte,
Of moste estately magnanimite,
Liche to Edgare and the seyd Edwarde,
A braunche of bothe, lyche hem as in regarde!
Where was on lyve man more victoriouse,
And in so shorte tyme prince so mervelouse?
By lande and see so well he hym acquite,
To speke of hym I stony in my witte.
Thus here I leve the kynge wyth his noblesse,
Henry the fifte, wyth whome all my processe
Of this trewe boke of the pure pollicie
Of see kepinge entendynge victorie
I leve endely, for aboute in the see
No better was prince of strenuite.
And if he had to this tyme lyved here,
He had bene prince named wythouten pere;
His grete shippes shulde have bene put in preffe
Unto the ende that he mente of in cheffe.
For doute it nat but that he wolde have be
Lorde and master aboute the rounde see,
And kepte it sure, to stoppe oure enmyes hens,
And wonne us gode and wysely brought it thens,
That no passage shulde be wythought daungere
And his licence on see to meve and stere.
Of unité ³hewynge of oure kepynge of the see, wyth ane endely processe of pease by auctorite. The xij. chapitule.
Now than, for love of Cryste and of his joye,
Brynge yit Englande out of troble and noye;
Take herte and witte and set a governaunce,
Set many wittes wythouten variaunce
To one acorde and unanimite
Put to gode wylle for to kepe the see,
Furste for worshyp and for profite also,
And to rebuke of eche evyl-wylled foo.
Thus shall richesse and worship to us longe,
Than to the noble shall wee do no wronge,
To bere that coigne in figure and in dede,
To oure corage and to oure enmyes drede;
For whiche they muste dresse hem to pease in haste,
Or ellis there thrifte to standen and to waste,
As this processe hathe proved by and bye,
All by reason and experte policie,
And by stories whiche preved well this parte,
And elles I woll my lyffe put in jeparte.
But many landes wolde seche her peace for nede;
The see well kepte, it must be do for drede.
Thus muste Flaundres for nede have unite
And pease wyth us, it woll none other bee,
Wythine shorte while, and ambassiatours
Wolde bene here sone to trete for ther socours.
This unité ©s to Goddes plesaunce,
And pease after the werres variaunce;
The ende of bataile is pease sikerlye,
And power causeth pease finall verily.
Kepe than the see abought in speciall,
Whiche of England is the rounde wall,
As thoughe England were lykened to a cite
And the wall environ were the see.
Kepe than the see, that is the wall of Englond,
And than is Englond kepte by Goddes sonde;
That, as for ony thinge that is wythoute,
Englande were than at ease wythouten doute,
And thus shuld everi lande, one with another,
Entrecomon as brother wyth his brother,
And live togedre werreles in unite
Wythoute rancoure in verry charite,
In reste and pese to Cristis grete plesaunce,
Wythouten striffe, debate and variaunce.
Whiche pease men shulde enserche with besinesse
And knytt it sadely, holdyng in holynesse.
The apostil seyth, if that ye liste to see,
'Be ye busy for to kepe unite
Of the spirite in the bonde of pease,'
Whiche is nedefull to all wythouten lees.
The profete bideth us pease for to enquere;
To purseue it, this is holy desire.
Oure lord Ihesu seith 'Blessid mot they be
That maken pease', that is tranquillite;
For 'peasemakers', as Mathew writeth aryght,
'Shall be called the sonnes of God Allmight'.
God yeve us grace the weyes for to kepe
Of his preceptis and slugly not to slepe
In shame of synne, that oure verry foo
Mow be to us convers and torned too.
For in Proverbis a texte is to purpose
And pleyne inowgh wythouten ony glose,
'Whan mennes weyes please unto oure Lorde,
It shall converte and brynge to accorde
Mannes enmyes unto the pease verray',
In unité ´o live to Goddis pay.
Whiche unité¬ pease, reste and charite
He that was here cladde in humanite,
That came from hevyne and stiede with our nature
(Or he ascendid he yafe to oure cure
And lefte us pease ageyne striffe and debate),
Mote gefe us-pease so well iradicate
Here in this worlde that after att his feste
Wee mowe have pease in the londe of beheste,
Jerusalem, which of pease is the sight,
Wyth the bryghtnes of his eternall lighte,
There glorified in reste wyth his tuicione,
The Deite to see wyth full fruicione.
He secunde persone in divinenesse is;
He us assume and brynge us to his blisse.
Amen.
Here endithe the trewe processe of the libelle of Englysshe policie, exhortynge all Englande to kepe the see environ and namely the narowe see, shewynge whate worshipe, profite and salvacione commeth thereof to the reigne of Englonde, etc.
Go furthe, libelle, and mekely shewe thy face,
Apperynge ever wyth humble contynaunce,
And pray my lordes thee to take in grace
In opposaile and, cherishynge thee, avaunce
To hardynesse, if that not variaunce
Thow haste fro troughte by full experience,
Auctours and reasone; yif ought faile in substaunce,
Remitte to heme that yafe thee this science.
Sythen that it is sothe in verray feythe
That the wyse lorde baron of Hungerforde
Hathe thee oversene, and verrily he seithe
That thow arte trewe, and thus he dothe recorde,
Nexte the Gospell: God wotte it was his worde,
Whanne he thee redde all over in a nyghte.
Go forthe, trewe booke, and Criste defende thi ryghte.
Explicit libellus de policia conservativa maris.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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On The Death Of K. Edward The First
Alle, that beoth of huerte trewe,
A stounde herkneth to my song
Of duel, that Deth hath diht us newe,
That maketh me syke, ant sorewe among;
Of a knyght, that wes so strong,
Of wham God hath don ys wille;
Me-thuncheth that deth hath don us wrong,
That he so sone shall ligge stille.
Al Englond ahte for te knowe
Of wham that song is, that y synge;
Of Edward Kyng, that lith so lowe,
Zent al this world is nome con springe:
Trewest mon of all thinge,
Ant in werre war ant wys,
For him we ahte oure honden wrynge,
Of Christendome he ber the prys.
Byfore that oure kyng was ded,
He spek ase mon that wes in care,
'Clerkes, knyhtes, barons,' he sayde,
'Y charge ou by oure sware,
That ye to Engelonde be trewe.
Y deze, y ne may lyven na more;
Helpeth mi sone, ant crouneth him newe,
For he is nest to buen y-core.
'Ich biqueth myn herte arhyt,
That hit be write at my devys,
Over the sea that Hue be diht,
With fourscore knyhtes al of prys,
In werre that buen war ant wys,
Azein the hethene for te fyhte,
To wynne the croiz that lowe lys,
Myself ycholde zef that y myhte.'
King of Fraunce, thou hevedest 'sinne',
That thou the counsail woldest fonde,
To latte the wille of 'Edward Kyng'
To wende to the Holy Londe:
That oure kynge hede take on honde
All Engelond to zeme ant wysse,
To wenden in to the Holy Londe
To wynnen us heveriche blisse.
The messager to the Pope com,
And seyde that our kynge was ded:
Ys oune hond the lettre he nom,
Ywis his herte was full gret:
The Pope him self the lettre redde,
Ant spec a word of gret honour.
'Alas!' he seid, 'is Edward ded?
Of Christendome he ber the flour.'
The Pope to his chaumbre wende,
For dol ne mihte he speke na more;
Ant after cardinals he sende,
That muche couthen of Cristes lore,
Bothe the lass, ant eke the more,
Bed hem both rede ant synge:
Gret deol me myhte se thore,
Mony mon is honde wrynge.
The Pope of Peyters stod at is masse
With ful gret solempnete,
Ther me con the soule blesse:
'Kyng Edward honoured thou be:
God love thi sone come after the,
Bringe to ende that thou hast bygonne,
The holy crois y-mad of tree,
So fain thou woldest hit hav y-wonne.
'Jerusalem, thou hast i-lore
The flour of al chivalrie
Now Kyng Edward liveth na more:
Alas! that he zet shulde deye!
He wolde ha rered up ful heyze
Oure banners, that bueth broht to grounde;
Wel! longe we mowe clepe and crie
Er we a such kyng han y-founde.'
Nou is Edward of Carnarvan
Kyng of Engelond al aplyht,
God lete him ner be worse man
Then his fader, ne lass of myht.
To holden is pore men to ryht,
And understonde good counsail,
Al Engelong for to wysse ant dyht;
Of gode knyhtes darh him nout fail.
Thah mi tonge were mad of stel,
Ant min herte yzote of bras,
The godness myht y never telle,
That with Kyng Edward was:
Kyng, as thou art cleped conquerour,
In uch bataille thou hadest prys;
God bringe thi soule to the honour
That ever wes, ant ever ys.
That lasteth ay withouten ende,
Bidde we God, ant oure Ledy to thilke blisse
Jesus we sende. Amen.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Robin Hood And The Monk
In somer when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and longe,
Hit is full mery in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song.
To se the dere draw to the dale,
And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow hem in the leves grene,
Vndur the grene-wode tre.
Hit befell on Whitsontide,
Erly in a may mornyng,
The son vp fayre can shyne,
And the briddis mery can syng.
'This is a mery mornyng,' seid Litulle Johne,
'Be hym that dyed on tre;
A more mery man than I am one
Lyves not in Cristiante.'
'Pluk vp thi hert, my dere mayster,'
Litulle Johne can sey,
'And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme
In a mornynge of may.'
'Ze on thynge greves me,' seid Robyne,
'And does my hert mych woo,
That I may not so solem day
To mas nor matyns goo.
'Hit is a fourtnet and more,' seyd hee,
'Syn I my Sauyour see;
To day will I to Notyngham,' seid Robyn,
'With the myght of mylde Mary.'
Then spake Moche the mylner sune,
Euer more wel hym betyde,
'Take xii thi wyght zemen
Well weppynd be thei side.
Such on wolde thi selfe slon
That xii dar not abyde.'
'Off alle my mery men,' seid Robyne,
'Be my feithe I wil non haue;
But Litulle Johne shall beyre my bow
Til that me list to drawe.'
* * * * *
'Thou shalle beyre thin own,' seid Litulle Jon,
'Maister, and I wil beyre myne,
And we wille shete a peny,' seid Litulle Jon,
'Vnder the grene wode lyne.'
'I wil not shete a peny,' seyde Robyn Hode,
'In feith, Litulle Johne, with thee,
But euer for on as thou shetes,' seid Robyn,
'In feith I holde the thre.'
Thus shet thei forthe, these zemen too,
Bothe at buske and brome,
Til Litulle Johne wan of his maister
V s. to hose and shone.
A ferly strife fel them betwene,
As they went bi the way;
Litull Johne seid he had won v shyllyngs,
And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.
With that Robyn Hode lyed Litul Jone,
And smote him with his honde;
Litul John waxed wroth therwith,
And pulled out his bright bronde.
'Were thou not my maister,' seid Litulle Johne,
'Thou shuldis by hit ful sore;
Get the a man where thou wilt, Robyn,
For thou getes me no more.'
Then Robyn goes to Notyngham,
Hymselfe mornynge allone,
And Litulle Johne to mery Scherewode,
The pathes he knowe alkone.
Whan Robyn came to Notyngham,
Sertenly withoutene layne,
He prayed to God and myld Mary
To brynge hym out saue agayne.
He gos into seynt Mary chirche,
And knelyd downe before the rode;
Alle that euer were the churche within
Beheld wel Robyne Hode.
Beside hym stode a gret-hedid munke,
I pray to God woo he be;
Full sone he knew gode Robyn
As sone as he hym se.
Out at the durre he ran
Ful sone and anon;
Alle the zatis of Notyngham
He made to be sparred euerychone.
'Rise vp,' he seid, 'thou prowde schereff,
Buske the and make the bowne;
I haue spyed the kynges felone,
For sothe he is in this towne.
'I haue spyed the false felone,
As he stondes at his masse;
Hit is longe of the,' seide the munke,
'And euer he fro vs passe.
'This traytur[s] name is Robyn Hode;
Vnder the grene wode lynde,
He robbyt me onys of a C pound,
Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde.'
Vp then rose this prowd schereff,
And zade towarde hym zare;
Many was the modur son
To the kyrk with him can fare.
In at the durres thei throly thrast
With staves ful gode ilkone,
'Alas, alas,' seid Robin Hode,
'Now mysse I Litulle Johne.'
But Robyne toke out a too-hond sworde
That hangit down be his kne;
Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust,
Thidurward wold he.
Thryes thorow at them he ran,
Then for sothe as I yow say,
And woundyt many a modur sone,
And xii he slew that day.
Hys sworde vpon the schireff hed
Sertanly he brake in too;
'The smyth that the made,' seid Robyn,
'I pray God wyrke him woo.
'For now am I weppynlesse,' seid Robyne,
'Alasse, agayn my wylle;
But if I may fle these traytors fro,
I wot thei wil me kylle.'
Robyns men to the churche ran
Throout hem euerilkon;
Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede,
And lay still as any stone.
* * * * *
Non of theym were in her mynde
But only Litulle Jon.
'Let be your dule,' seid Litulle Jon,
'For his luf that dyed on tre;
Ze that shulde be duzty men,
Hit is gret shame to se.
'Oure maister has bene hard bystode,
And zet scapyd away;
Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone,
And herkyn what I shal say.
'He has seruyd our lady many a day,
And zet wil securly;
Therefore I trust in her specialy
No wycked deth shal he dye.
'Therfor be glad,' seid Litul Johne,
'And let this mournyng be,
And I shall be the munkes gyde,
With the myght of mylde Mary.
'And I mete hym,' seid Litull Johne,
'We will go but we too
* * * * *
'Loke that ze kepe wel our tristil tre
Vnder the levys smale,
And spare non of this venyson
That gose in thys vale.'
Forthe thei went these zemen too,
Litul Johne and Moche onfere,
And lokid on Moche emys hows
The hyeway lay fulle nere.
Litul John stode at a window in the mornynge,
And lokid forth at a stage;
He was war wher the munke came ridynge,
And with him a litul page.
'Be my feith,' said Litul Johne to Moche,
'I can the tel tithyngus gode;
I se wher the munk comys rydyng,
I know hym be his wyde hode.'
Thei went into the way these zemen bothe
As curtes men and hende,
Thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke,
As thei hade bene his frende.
'Fro whens come ze,' seid Litul Johne,
'Tel vs tithyngus, I yow pray,
Off a false owtlay [called Robyn Hode],
Was takyn zisturday.
'He robbyt me and my felowes bothe
Of xx marke in serten;
If that false owtlay be takyn,
For sothe we wolde be fayne.'
'So did he me,' seid the munke,
'Of a C pound and more;
I layde furst hande hym apon,
Ze may thonke me therefore.'
'I pray God thanke yow,' seid Litulle Johne,
'And we wil when we may;
We wil go with yow, with your leve,
And brynge yow on your way.
'For Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow,
I telle yow in certen;
If thei wist ze rode this way,
In feith ze shulde be slayn.'
As thei went talkyng be the way,
The munke an Litulle Johne,
Johne toke the munkes horse be the hede
Ful sone and anone.
Johne toke the munkes horse be the hed,
For sothe as I yow say,
So did Muche the litulle page,
For he shulde not stirre away.
Be the golett of the hode
Johne pulled the munke downe;
Johne was nothynge of hym agast,
He lete hym falle on his crowne.
Litulle Johne was sore agrevyd,
And drew out his swerde in hye;
The munke saw he shulde be ded,
Lowd mercy can he crye.
'He was my maister,' said Litulle Johne,
'That thou hase browzt in bale;
Shalle thou neuer cum at our kynge
For to telle hym tale.'
John smote of the munkes hed,
No longer wolde he dwelle;
So did Moche the litulle page,
For ferd lest he wold tell.
Ther thei beryed hem both
In nouther mosse nor lynge,
And Litulle Johne and Muche infere
Bare the letturs to oure kyng.
* * * * *
He kneled down vpon--his kne,
'God zow sane, my lege lorde,
Jesus yow saue and se.
'God yow saue, my lege kyng,'
To speke Johne was fulle bolde;
He gaf hym tbe letturs in his hond,
The kyng did hit unfold.
The kyng red the letturs anon,
And seid, 'so met I the,
Ther was neuer zoman in mery Inglond
I longut so sore to see.
'Wher is the munke that these shuld haue browzt?'
Oure kynge gan say;
'Be my trouthe,' seid Litull Jone,
'He dyed aftur the way.'
The kyng gaf Moche and Litul Jon
xx pound in sertan,
And made theim zemen of the crowne,
And bade theim go agayn.
He gaf Johne the seel in hand,
The scheref for to bere,
To brynge Robyn hym to,
And no man do hym dere.
Johne toke his leve at cure kyng,
The sothe as I yow say;
The next way to Notyngham
To take he zede the way.
When Johne came to Notyngham
The zatis were sparred ychone;
Johne callid vp the porter,
He answerid sone anon.
'What is the cause,' seid Litul John,
'Thou sparris the zates so fast?'
'Because of Robyn Hode,' seid [the] porter,
'In depe prison is cast.
'Johne, and Moche, and Wylle Scathlok,
For sothe as I yow say,
Thir slew oure men vpon oure wallis,
And sawtene vs euery day.'
Litulle Johne spyrred aftur the schereff,
And sone he hym fonde;
He oppyned the kyngus prive seelle,
And gaf hyn in his honde.
When the schereft saw the kyngus seelle,
He did of his hode anon;
'Wher is the munke that bare the letturs?'
He said to Litulle Johne.
'He is so fayn of hym,' seid Litulle Johne,
'For sothe as I yow sey,
He has made hym abot of Westmynster,
A lorde of that abbay.'
The scheref made John gode chere,
And gaf hym wine of the best;
At nyzt thei went to her bedde,
And euery man to his rest.
When the scheref was on-slepe
Dronken of wine and ale,
Litul Johne and Moche for sothe
Toke the way vnto the jale.
Litul Johne callid vp the jayler,
And bade him ryse anon;
He seid Robyn Hode had brokyn preson,
And out of hit was gon.
The portere rose anon sertan,
As sone as he herd John calle;
Litul Johne was redy with a swerd,
And bare hym to the walle.
'Now will I be porter,' seid Litul Johne,
'And take the keyes in honde;'
He toke the way to Robyn Hode,
And sone he hym vnbonde.
He gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond,
His hed with for to kepe,
And ther as the walle was lowyst
Anon down can thei lepe.
Be that the cok began to crow,
The day began to sprynge,
The scheref fond the jaylier ded,
The comyn belle made he rynge.
He made a crye thoroowt al the tow[n],
Whedur he be zoman or knave,
That cowthe brynge hyrn Robyn Hode,
His warisone he shuld haue.
'For I dar neuer,' said the scheref,
'Cum before oure kynge,
For if I do, I wot serten,
For sothe he wil me henge.'
The scheref made to seke Notyngham,
Bothe be strete and stye,
And Robyn was in mery Scherwode
As lizt as lef on lynde.
Then bespake gode Litulle Johne,
To Robyn Hode can he say,
'I haue done the a gode turne for an euylle,
Quyte me whan thou may.
'I haue done the a gode turne,' said Litulle Johne,
'For sothe as I you saie;
I haue brouzt the vnder grene wode lyne;
Fare wel, and haue gode day.'
'Nay, be my trouthe,' seid Robyn Hode,
'So shalle hit neuer be;
I make the maister,' seid Robyn Hode,
'Off alle my men and me.'
'Nay, be my trouthe,' seid Litulle Johne,
'So shall hit neuer be,
But lat me be a felow,' seid Litulle Johne,
'Non odur kepe I'll be.'
Thus Johne gate Robyn Hode out of prisone,
Sertan withoutyn layne;
When his men saw hym hol and sounde,
For sothe they were ful fayne.
They filled in wyne, and made him glad,
Vnder the levys smale,
And zete pastes of venysone,
That gode was with ale.
Than worde came to oure kynge,
How Robyn Hode was gone,
And how the scheref of Notyngham
Durst neuer loke hyme vpone.
Then bespake oure cumly kynge,
In an angur hye,
'Litulle Johne hase begyled the schereff,
In faith so hase he me.
'Litulle Johne has begyled vs bothe,
And that fulle wel I se,
Or ellis the schereff of Notyngham
Hye hongut shuld he be.
'I made hem zemen of the crowne,
And gaf hem fee with my hond,
I gaf hem grithe,' seid oure kyng,
'Thorowout alle mery Inglond.
'I gaf hem grithe,' then seide oure kyng,
'I say, so mot I the,
For sothe soche a zeman as he is on
In alle Ingland ar not thre.
'He is trew to his maister,' seide oure kynge,
'I say, be swete seynt Johne;
He louys bettur Robyn Hode,
Then he dose vs ychone.
'Robyne Hode is euer bond to him,
Bothe in strete and stalle;
Speke no more of this matter,' seid oure kynge,
'But John has begyled vs alle.'
Thus endys the talkyng of the munke
And Robyne Hode i-wysse;
God, that is euer a crowned kyng,
Bryng vs alle to his blisse.
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Nut-Brown Maid. A Poem.
Written three hundred years since.
Be it right or wrong, these men among
On women do complayne;
Affyrmynge this, how that it is
A labour spent in vaine
To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man againe:
For lete a man do what he can
Ther favour to attayne,
Yet yf a new do them pursue,
Ther furst trew lover than
Laboureth for nought; for from her thought
He is a banishyd man.
I say not nay, but that all day
It is bothe writ and sayde
That woman's fayth is as who saythe,
All utterly decayed.
But nevertheless right good witness
I' this case might be layde,
That they love trewe, and continew,
Record the Nut-brown Mayde;
Which from her love (whan her to prove
He came to make his mone)
Wold not depart, for in her herte
She lovyd but him alone.
Than betweene us lettens discusse,
What was all the maner
Between them two: we wyl also
Telle all the peyne and fere
That she was in. Now I begynne,
So that ye me answere.
Wherefore all ye that present be
I pray ye give an eare.
Man.
I am the knyght, I come by nyght
As secret as I can,
Saying, alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banishyd man.
Woman.
And I your wylle, for to fulfylle
In this wyl not refuse,
Trusting to show, in wordis fewe,
That men have an ill use,
(To ther own shame) women to blame,
And causelese them accuse:
Therefore to you I answere now,
Alle women to excuse.
Myn own herte dere, with you what chere,
I pray you telle anone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.
Man.
It stondeth so; a dede is do,
Wherefore moche harm shall growe;
My desteny is for to-dey
A shameful deth I trowe;
Or ellis to flee: the one must be,
None other way I knowe,
But to withdrawe, as an outlawe,
And take me to my bowe.
Wherefore adew, my owne herte trewe,
None other red I can;
For I must to the grene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.
Woman.
O Lord! what is this worldis blysse,
That chaungeth as the mone?
My somer's day, in lusty May,
Is derked before the none.
I here you saye farewell: nay, nay,
We departe not soo sone.
Why say ye so? wheder wyl ye goe?
Alas! what have ye done?
Alle my welfare to sorrow and care
Shulde chaung yf ye were gone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.
Man.
I can beleve it shall you greeve,
And shomwhat you distrayne,
But aftyrwarde your paynes harde,
Within a day or tweyne,
Shal sone aslake, and ye shal take
Comfort to you agayne.
Why shuld ye nought? for to make thought
Your labur were in vayne,
And thus I do, and pray you too,
As hertely as I can;
For I muste to the greene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.
Woman.
Now sythe that ye have showed to me
The secret of your mynde,
I shal be plaine to you againe,
Lyke as ye shal me fynde.
Sythe it is so that ye wyl goe,
I wol not leve behynde:
Shal never be sayd the Nut-Brown Mayde
Was to her love unkynde.
Make you redy, for so am I,
Although it were agone;
For in my mynd, of all mankynde,
I love but you alone.
Man.
Yet I you rede to take good hede
What men wyl think and sey;
Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde
That ye be gone away;
Your wanton wylle for to fulfylle
In grene wode you to play;
And that ye myght from your delyte
Noo longer make delay.
Rather than ye shuld thus for me
Be called an ylle woman,
Yet wold I to the grene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.
Woman.
Though it be songe of olde and yonge
That I shuld be to blame,
Thers be the charge that speke so large
In hurting of my name:
For I wyll prove that feythful love
It is devoyd of shame;
In your distress and hevyness
To parte wyth you the same.
And sure all thoo that doo not so
Trewe lovers are they none;
But in my mynde of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.
Man.
I counsel you, remember how
It is noo mayden's lawe
Nothing to dought, but to renne out
To wode with an outlawe:
For ye must there in your hand bere
O bowe redy to drawe;
And as a theef, thus must ye lyve,
Ever in drede and awe.
Whereby to you gret harme myght growe
Yet I had lever than
That I had to the grene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.
Woman.
I think not nay; but as ye saye,
It is noo mayden's lore;
But love may make me for your sake,
To com on fote to hunte and shote,
To get us mete in store:
For so that I your company
May have, I ask noo more:
From whiche to parte, it makith myn herte
As colde as ony stone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.
Man.
For an outlawe, this is the lawe,
That men hym take and binde,
Wythout pytee, hanged to bee,
And waver with the wynde.
Yf I had neede, as God forbede,
What resons coude ye finde?
For sothe I trowe, ye and your bowe
Shuld drawe for fere behynde.
And noo merveyle; for lytel avayle
Were in your council than:
Wherefore I to the wode wyl goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.
Woman.
Full well knowe ye that women be
But febyl for to fyght:
Noo woman hede it is in deede
To be bold as a knyght:
Yet in suche fere yf that ye were
With enemys day and nyght,
I wolde withstonde wyth bowe in honde
To greve them as I myght;
And you to save as women have
From dethe many one;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.
Man.
Yet take gude hede! for ever I drede
That ye coude not sustein
The thorney-weyes, the depe valeis,
The snowe, the frost, the reyn;
The cold, the hete: for drye, or wete,
We must lodge on the playn,
And us above noon other rofe,
But a brake, bush, or twaine,
Whiche sone shuld greve you, I beleve;
And ye wolde gladely than,
That I had to the grene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.
Woman.
Sythe I have here been partynere
With you of joy and blysse,
I must also parte of your woo
Endure, as reson is:
Yet am I sure of one pleasure,
And, shortly, it is this,
That where ye bee, me seemeth, par-dy
I could not fare amyss.
Without more speche I you beseche
That we were soon a gone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.
Man.
Yf ye goo thedyr, ye must consyder,
Whan ye have lust to dyne,
Ther shal no mete be for to gete,
Nor drink, bere, ale, ne wine;
Ne shetis clean, to lye betwene,
Made of thred and twyne;
Noon other house but levys and bowes,
To kever your head and myn.
O myn herte swete, this ylle dyet
Shuld make you pale and wan;
Wherefore I to the wode wyl goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.
Woman.
Among the wylde dere, such an archier,
As men say that ye bee,
We may not fayle of good vitayle,
Where is so grete plente:
And watir cleere of the ryvere
Shal be full swete to me,
With whiche in hele, I shal right wele
Endure, as ye shal see.
And er we goe, a bed or two
I can provide anone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.
Man.
Loo! yet before, ye must do more
Yf ye wyl go with me;
As cute your here up by your ere,
Your curtel by the kneel:
Wyth bowe in honde, for to wythstonde
Your enemys yf nede be;
And this same nyght, before daylyght,
To wode-ward wyl I flee.
And yf ye wylle al this fulfylle,
Do it shortly as ye can;
Ellis wyl I to the grene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.
Woman.
I shall as now do more for you
Than longeth to womanhede;
To short my here, a bow to bere,
To shote in tyme of nede.
O my sweet moder, before al other,
For you have I most drede;
But now adew, I must ensue
Where Fortune duth me lede.
All this make ye, and lete us flee,
The day run fast upon;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.
Man.
Nay, nay, not so: ye shal not goe,
And I shal telle ye why;
Your appetyte is to be light
Of love I wele espie;
For right as ye have sayde to me
In lykewise hardely
Ye wolde answere, whosoever it were,
In way of company.
It is sayd of olde, Sone hote, sone colde,
And so is a woman;
Wherefore I to the wode wyl goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.
Woman.
Yf ye take hede yt is noo nede
Such wordis to say bee me;
For ofte ye prey'd, and longe assay'd,
Er I you lovid, par-dy;
And though that I of auncestry
A baron's daughter bee,
Yet have you proved how I you loved,
A squyer of low degree;
And ever shal, what so befalle,
To dey therefore anone:
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.
Man.
A baron's childe to be begyled,
It were a cursed dede:
To be felawe with an outlawe
Almighty God forbede!
Yt bettyr were the pore squyer
Alone to forrest spede,
Than ye shal saye another daye,
That by that wycked dede
Ye were betrayed. Wherefore good mayde,
The best rede that I can,
Is that I to the grene wode goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.
Woman.
Whatsoever befalle, I never shale
Of this thing you upbraid;
But yf ye go and leve me so,
Then have ye me betraid.
Remember ye wele how that ye dele;
For yf ye, as ye sayde,
Be so unkynde to leve behynde
Your love, the Nut-brown Mayde,
Trust me truely, that I shal dey
Some after ye be gone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.
Man.
Yf that ye went ye shulde repent;
For in the forrest now
I have purveid me of a mayde,
Whom I love more than you.
Another fayrer than e'er ye were,
I dare it well avowe;
And of you bothe eche shude be worthe
Wyth other, as I trowe,
It were myn ese to live in pese,
So wyl I yf I can;
Wherefore I to the wode wyl goe,
Alone, a banishyd man.
Woman.
Though in the wode I understode
Ye had a paramour,
All this may nought remove my thought,
But that I will be your:
And she shall fynde me soft and kynde,
And curteis every hour,
Glad to fulfylle all that she wylle
Commaunde me to my power.
For had ye loo an hundred moo,
Yet wolde I be that one;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.
Man.
Myne own dere love, I see the prove,
That ye be kynde and trewe;
Of mayde and wyfe, in al my lyfe,
The best that ever I knewe.
Be merey and glad, be no more sad,
The case is chaunged newe;
For it were ruthe, that for your trouth,
Ye shulde have cause to rewe.
Be not dismay'd whatsoever I sayd
To you whan I began:
I wyl not to the grene wode goe,
I am no banishyd man.
Woman.
Theis tydingis be more glad to me
Than to be made a quene,
Yf I were sure they shulde endure;
But it is often seene,
When men wyle breke promyse, they speke
The wordis on the splene.
Ye shape some wyle, me to begyle,
And stele fro me, I wene.
Then were the case wurs than it was,
And I more woo begone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.
Man.
Ye shal not nede further to drede;
I wyl not disparage
You. God defend, syth you descend
Of so grete a lynage.
Now understonde, to Westmerlande,
Which is my herytage
I wyl you bringe, and with a rynge,
By way of maryage,
I wyl you take, and lady make,
As shortly as I can.
Thus have ye wone an erlie's sone,
And not a banishyd man.
poem by Matthew Prior
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Robin Hood and the Monk
In somer, when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and long,
Hit is full mery in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song,
To se the dere draw to the dale,
And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow hem in the leves grene,
Under the grene wode tre.
Hit befel on Whitson
Erly in a May mornyng,
The son up feyre can shyne,
And the briddis mery can syng.
'This is a mery mornyng,' seid Litull John,
'Be Hym that dyed on tre;
A more mery man then I am one
Lyves not in Cristianté.
'Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,'
Litull John can sey,
'And thynk hit is a full fayre tyme
In a mornyng of May.'
'Ye, on thyng greves me,' seid Robyn,
'And does my hert mych woo:
That I may not no solem day
To mas nor matyns goo.
'Hit is a fourtnet and more,' seid he,
'Syn I my Savyour see;
To day wil I to Notyngham,' seid Robyn,
'With the myght of mylde Marye.'
Than spake Moche, the mylner sun,
Ever more wel hym betyde!
'Take twelve of thi wyght yemen,
Well weppynd, be thi side.
Such on wolde thi selfe slon,
That twelve dar not abyde.'
'Of all my mery men,' seid Robyn,
'Be my feith I wil non have,
But Litull John shall beyre my bow,
Til that me list to drawe.'
'Thou shall beyre thin own,' seid Litull Jon,
'Maister, and I wyl beyre myne,
And we well shete a peny,' seid Litull Jon,
Under the grene wode lyne.'
'I wil not shete a peny,' seyd Robyn Hode,
'In feith, Litull John, with the,
But ever for on as thou shetis,' seide Robyn,
'In feith I holde the thre.'
Thus shet thei forth, these yemen too,
Bothe at buske and brome,
Til Litull John wan of his maister
Five shillings to hose and shone.
A ferly strife fel them betwene,
As they went bi the wey;
Litull John seid he had won five shillings,
And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.
With that Robyn Hode lyed Litul Jon,
And smote hym with his hande;
Litul Jon waxed wroth therwith,
And pulled out his bright bronde.
'Were thou not my maister,' seid Litull John,
'Thou shuldis by hit ful sore;
Get the a man wher thou wille,
For thou getis me no more.'
Then Robyn goes to Notyngham,
Hym selfe mornyng allone,
And Litull John to mery Scherwode,
The pathes he knew ilkone.
Whan Robyn came to Notyngham,
Sertenly withouten layn,
He prayed to God and myld Mary
To bryng hym out save agayn.
He gos in to Seynt Mary chirch,
And knelyd down before the rode;
Alle that ever were the church within
Beheld wel Robyn Hode.
Beside hym stod a gret-hedid munke,
I pray to God woo he be!
Ful sone he knew gode Robyn,
As sone as he hym se.
Out at the durre he ran,
Ful sone and anon;
Alle the gatis of Notyngham
He made to be sparred everychon.
'Rise up,' he seid, 'thou prowde schereff,
Buske the and make the bowne;
I have spyed the kynggis felon,
For sothe he is in this town.
'I have spyed the false felon,
As he stondis at his masse;
Hit is long of the,' seide the munke,
'And ever he fro us passe.
'This traytur name is Robyn Hode,
Under the grene wode lynde;
He robbyt me onys of a hundred pound,
Hit shalle never out of my mynde.'
Up then rose this prowde schereff,
And radly made hym yare;
Many was the moder son
To the kyrk with hym can fare.
In at the durres thei throly thrast,
With staves ful gode wone;
'Alas, alas!' seid Robyn Hode,
'Now mysse I Litull John.'
But Robyn toke out a too-hond sworde,
That hangit down be his kne;
Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust
Thedurwarde wolde he.
Thryes thorow at them he ran then,
For sothe as I yow sey,
And woundyt mony a moder son,
And twelve he slew that day.
His sworde upon the schireff hed
Sertanly he brake in too;
'The smyth that the made,' seid Robyn,
'I pray to God wyrke hym woo!
'For now am I weppynlesse,' seid Robyn,
'Alasse! agayn my wyll;
But if I may fle these traytors fro,
I wot thei wil me kyll.'
Robyn in to her churche ran,
Thro out hem everilkon,
................................... ...
Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede,
And lay stil as any stone;
Non of theym were in her mynde
But only Litull Jon.
'Let be your rule,' seid Litull Jon,
'For His luf that dyed on tre,
Ye that shulde be dughty men;
Het is gret shame to se.
'Oure maister has bene hard bystode
And yet scapyd away;
Pluk up your hertis, and leve this mone,
And harkyn what I shal say.
'He has servyd Oure Lady many a day,
And yet wil, securly;
Therfor I trust in hir specialy
No wyckud deth shal he dye.
'Therfor be glad,' seid Litul John,
'And let this mournyng be;
And I shal be the munkis gyde,
With the myght of mylde Mary,
And I mete hym,' seid Litul John
'We will go but we too.
'Loke that ye kepe wel owre tristil-tre,
Under the levys smale,
And spare non of this venyson,
That gose in thys vale.'
Forthe then went these yemen too,
Litul John and Moche on fere,
And lokid on Moch emys hows;
The hye way lay full nere.
Litul John stode at a wyndow in the mornyng,
And lokid forth at a stage;
He was war wher the munke came ridyng,
And with hym a litul page.
'Be my feith,' seid Litul John to Moch,
'I can the tel tithyngus gode;
I se wher the munke cumys rydyng,
I know hym be his wyde hode.'
They went in to the way, these yemen bothe,
As curtes men and hende;
Thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke,
As they hade bene his frende.
'Fro whens come ye?' seid Litull Jon,
'Tel us tithyngus, I yow pray,
Of a false owtlay,
Was takyn yisterday.
'He robbyt me and my felowes bothe
Of twenti marke in serten;
If that false owtlay be takyn,
For sothe we wolde be fayn.'
'So did he me,' seid the munke,
Of a hundred pound and more;
I layde furst hande hym apon,
Ye may thonke me therfore.'
'I pray God thanke you,' seid Litull John,
'And we wil when we may;
We wil go with you, with your leve,
And bryng yow on your way.
'For Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow,
I tell you in certen;
If thei wist ye rode this way,
In feith ye shulde be slayn.'
As thei went talking be the way,
The munke and Litull John,
John toke the munkis horse be the hede,
Ful sone and anon.
Johne toke the munkis horse be the hed,
For sothe as I yow say;
So did Much the litull page,
For he shulde not scape away.
Be the golett of the hode
John pulled the munke down;
John was nothyng of hym agast,
He lete hym falle on his crown.
Litull John was so agrevyd,
And drew owt his swerde in hye;
The munke saw he shulde be ded,
Lowd mercy can he crye.
'He was my maister,' seid Litull John,
'That thou hase browght in bale;
Shalle thou never cum at oure kyng,
For to telle hym tale.'
John smote of the munkis hed,
No longer wolde he dwell;
So did Moch the litull page,
For ferd lest he wolde tell.
Ther thei beryed hem bothe,
In nouther mosse nor lyng,
And Litull John and Much in fere
Bare the letturs to oure kyng.
Litull John cam in unto the kyng
He knelid down upon his kne:
'God yow save, my lege lorde,
Jhesus yow save and se!
'God yow save, my lege kyng!'
To speke John was full bolde;
He gaf hym the letturs in his hand,
The kyng did hit unfold.
The kyng red the letturs anon,
And seid, 'So mot I the,
Ther was never yoman in mery Inglond
I longut so sore to se.
'Wher is the munke that these shuld have brought?'
Oure kyng can say.
'Be my trouth,' seid Litull John,
'He dyed after the way.'
The kyng gaf Moch and Litul Jon
Twenti pound in sertan,
And made theim yemen of the crown,
And bade theim go agayn.
He gaf John the seel in hand,
The scheref for to bere,
To bryng Robyn hym to,
And no man do hym dere.
John toke his leve at oure kyng,
The sothe as I yow say;
The next way to Notyngham
To take he yede the way.
Whan John came to Notyngham
The gatis were sparred ychon;
John callid up the porter,
He answerid sone anon.
'What is the cause,' seid Litul Jon,
'Thou sparris the gates so fast?'
'Because of Robyn Hode,' seid porter,
'In depe prison is cast.
'John and Moch and Wyll Scathlok,
For sothe as I yow say,
Thei slew oure men upon oure wallis,
And sawten us every day.'
Litull John spyrred after the schereff,
And sone he hym fonde;
He oppyned the kyngus privé seell,
And gaf hym in his honde.
Whan the scheref saw the kyngus seell,
He did of his hode anon:
'Wher is the munke that bare the letturs?'
He seid to Litull John.
'He is so fayn of hym,' seid Litul John,
'For sothe as I yow say,
He has made hym abot of Westmynster,
A lorde of that abbay.'
The scheref made John gode chere,
And gaf hym wyne of the best;
At nyght thei went to her bedde,
And every man to his rest.
When the scheref was on slepe,
Dronken of wyne and ale,
Litul John and Moch for sothe
Toke the way unto the gale.
Litul John callid up the jayler,
And bade hym rise anon;
He seyd Robyn Hode had brokyn the prison,
And out of hit was gon.
The porter rose anon sertan,
As sone as he herd John calle;
Litul John was redy with a swerd,
And bare hym throw to the walle.
'Now wil I be jayler,' seid Litul John,
And toke the keyes in honde;
He toke the way to Robyn Hode,
And sone he hym unbonde.
He gaf hym a gode swerd in his hond,
His hed ther with to kepe,
And ther as the wallis were lowyst
Anon down can thei lepe.
Be that the cok began to crow,
The day began to spryng;
The scheref fond the jaylier ded,
The comyn bell made he ryng.
He made a crye thoroout al the town,
Wheder he be yoman or knave,
That cowthe bryng hym Robyn Hode,
His warison he shuld have.
'For I dar never,' seid the scheref,
'Cum before oure kyng;
For if I do, I wot serten
For sothe he wil me heng.'
The scheref made to seke Notyngham,
Bothe be strete and styne,
And Robyn was in mery Scherwode,
As light as lef on lynde.
Then bespake gode Litull John,
To Robyn Hode can he say,
'I have done the a gode turne for an ill,
Quit me whan thou may.
'I have done the a gode turne,' seid Litull John,
'For sothe as I the say;
I have brought the under the grene-wode lyne;
Fare wel, and have gode day.'
'Nay, be my trouth,' seid Robyn,
'So shall hit never be;
I make the maister,' seid Robyn,
'Of alle my men and me.'
'Nay, be my trouth,' seid Litull John,
'So shalle hit never be;
But lat me be a felow,' seid Litull John,
'No noder kepe I be.'
Thus John gate Robyn Hod out of prison,
Sertan withoutyn layn;
Whan his men saw hym hol and sounde,
For sothe they were full fayne.
They filled in wyne and made hem glad,
Under the levys smale,
And yete pastes of venyson,
That gode was with ale.
Than worde came to oure kyng
How Robyn Hode was gon,
And how the scheref of Notyngham
Durst never loke hym upon.
Then bespake oure cumly kyng,
In an angur hye:
'Litull John hase begyled the schereff,
In faith so hase he me.
'Litul John has begyled us bothe,
And that full wel I se;
Or ellis the schereff of Notyngham
Hye hongut shulde he be.
'I made hem yemen of the crowne,
And gaf hem fee with my hond;
I gaf hem grith,' seid oure kyng,
'Thorowout all mery Inglond.
'I gaf theym grith,' then seid oure kyng;
'I say, so mot I the,
For sothe soch a yeman as he is on
In all Inglond ar not thre.
'He is trew to his maister,' seid oure kyng;
'I sey, be swete Seynt John,
He lovys better Robyn Hode
Then he dose us ychon.
'Robyn Hode is ever bond to hym,
Bothe in strete and stalle;
Speke no more of this mater,' seid oure kyng,
'But John has begyled us alle.'
Thus endys the talkyng of the munke
And Robyn Hode I wysse;
God, that is ever a crowned kyng,
Bryng us alle to His blisse!
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Act of Contrition
Or hastow som remors of conscience,
And art now falle in som devocioun,
And wailest for thi synne and thin offence,
And hast for ferde caught attricioum?
God save hem that beseged han oure town,
That so kan leye oure jolite on presse,
And bringe oure lusty folk to holynesse!
Thanks but no thanks!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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For The Victory At Agincourt
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria!
Owre kynge went forth to Normandy,
With grace and myzt of chivalry;
The God for him wrouzt marvelously,
Wherefore Englonde may calle, and cry
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
He sette a sege, the sothe for to say,
To Harflue toune with ryal aray;
That toune he wan and made a fray,
That Fraunce shall rywe tyl domes day.
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
Then went owre kynge with alle his oste
Thorowe Fraunce for all the Frenshe boste;
He spared 'for' drede of leste ne most,
Tyl he come to Agincourt coste.
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
Than for sothe that knyzt comely
In Agincourt feld he fauzt manly,
Thorow grace of God most myzty
He had both the felde and the victory:
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
Ther dukys and erlys, lorde and barone,
Were take and slayne and that wel sone,
And some were ledde in to Lundone
With joye and merthe and grete renone.
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
Now gracious God he save owre kynge,
His peple and all his wel wyllynge,
Gef him gode lyfe and gode endynge,
That we with merth mowe savely synge
Deo gratias:
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Ballad of the Scottsysshe Kyne
Kynge Jamy, Jomy your joye is all go.
Ye summoned our kynge. Why dyde ye so?
To you no thyng it dyde accorde
To sommom our kynge your soverayne lorde.
A kynge a sommer it is wonder;
Knowe ye not salte and suger asonder?
In your somnynage ye were to malaperte,
and your harolde no thynge experte;
Ye thought ye dyde it full valyauntolye,
But not worth thre skyppes of a pye.
Syr squyer-galyarde ye were to swyfte;
Your wyll renne before your wytte.
To be so scornefull to your alye
Your conseyle was not worth a flye.
Before the Frensshe kynge, Danes and other
Ye ought to honour your lorde and brother.
Trowe ye, Syr James, his noble grace
For you and your Scottes wolde tourne his face?
Now ye proude Scottes of Gelawaye
For your kynge may synge welawaye.
Now must ye knowe our kynge for your regent,
Your soverayne lorde and presedent.
In hym is figured Melchisedeche,
And ye be desolate as Armeleche.
He is our noble champyon,
A kynge anoynted, an ye be non.
Thrugh your counseyle your fader was slayne;
Wherfore I fere ye wyll suffre payne.
And ye proude Scottes of Dunbar,
Parde ye be his homager
And suters to his paylyment.
Ye dyde not your dewty therin,
Wyerfore ye may it now repent.
Ye bere yourselfe somwhat to bolde,
Therfore ye have lost your copyholde.
Ye be bounde tenauntes to his estate;
Give up your game, ye playe chek mate;
For to the castell of Norham
I understonde to soone ye cam,
For a prysoner therenow ye be
Eyther to the devyll or the trinite.
Thanked be saynte Gorge, our ladyes knythe,
Your pryd is paste, adwe, good nycht,
Ye have determyned to make a fraye,
Our kynge than beynge out of the waye;
But by the power and myght of God
Ye were beten weth your owne rod.
By your wanton wyll, syr,at a worde,
Ye have loste spores, cote armure and sworde.
Ye had be better to have busked to Huntley Bankes,
Than in Englonde to playe ony suche prankes;
But ye had some wyld sede to sowe,
Therefore ye be layde now full lowe.
Your power coude no lenger attayne
Warre with our kynge to meyntayne.
Of the kynge of Naverne ye may take hede
How unfortunately he doth now spede;
In double walles now he dooth dreme.
That is a kynge without a realme.
At hym example ye wolde none take;
Experyence hath brought you in the same brake.
Of the out yles ye rough foted Scottes
We have well eased you of the bottes.
Ye rowe ranke Scottes and dronken Danes
Of our Englysshe bowes ye have fette your banes.
It is not syttynge in tour nor towne
A sumner to were a kynges crowne.
That noble erle, the Whyte Lyon,
Your pompe and pryde hath layde a downe.
His sone the lorde admyrall is full good,
His swerde hath bathed in the Scottes blode.
God save kynge Henry and his lordes all
And sende the Frensshe kynge suche another fall.
Amen, for saynt charyte and God save noble
Kynge Henry the viij.
poem by John Skelton
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The Wright's Chaste Wife
Allemyghty god, maker of alle,
Saue you my souereyns in towre & halle,
And send you good grace!
If ye wylle a stounde blynne,
Of a story I wylle begynne,
And telle you alle the cas,
Meny farleyes ?aue herde,
Ye would haue wondyr how yt ferde;
Lystyn, and ye schalle here;
Of a wryght I wylle you telle
That some tyme in thys land gan dwelle,
And lyued by hys myster.
Whether that he were yn or oute,
Of erthely man hadde he no dowte,
To werke hows, harowe, nor plowgh,
Or other werkes, what so they were,
Thous wrought he hem farre and nere,
And dyd tham wele I-nough.
Thys wryght would wedde no wyfe,
Butt yn yougeth to lede hys lyfe
In myrthe and o?ody;
Ouer alle where he gan wende,
Alle they seyd 'welcome, frende,
Sytt downe, and do gla[d]ly.'
Tylle on a tyme he was wyllyng,
As tyme comyth of alle thyng,
(So seyth the profesye,)
A wyfe for to wedde & haue
That myght hys goodes kepe & saue,
And for to leue alle foly.
Ther dwellyd a wydowe in ?tre
That hadde a doughter feyre & fre;
Of her, word sprang wyde,
For sche was bothe stabylle & trewe,
Meke of maners, and feyre of hewe;
So seyd men in that tyde.
The wryght seyde, 'so god me saue,
Such a wyfe would I haue
To lye nyghtly by my syde.'
He ?to speke wyth ?,
And rose erly on a daye
And ?an he to ryde.
The wryght was welcome to ?,
And her saluyd alle so blyve,
And so he dyd her doughter fre:
For the erand that he for came
Tho he spake, ?d yemane;
Than to hym seyd sche:
The wydow seyd, 'by heuen kyng,
I may geue wyth her no ?r> (And ?thynketh me
Saue a garlond I wylle the geue,
Ye schalle neuer see, whyle ye lyve,
None such in thys contre:
Haue here thys garlond of roses ryche,
In alle thys lond ys none yt lyche,
For ytt wylle euer be newe,
Wete ?e withowtyn fable,
Alle the whyle thy wyfe ys stable
The chaplett wolle hold hewe;
And yf thy wyfe vse putry,
Or tolle eny man to lye her by,
Than wolle yt change hewe,
And by the garlond ? see,
Fekylle or fals yf ?e be,
Or ellys yf sche be trewe.'
Of thys chaplett hym was fulle fayne,
And of hys wyfe, was nott to layne;
He weddyd her fulle sone,
And ladde her home wyth solempnite,
And hyld her brydalle dayes thre.
Whan they home come,
Thys wryght in hys hart cast,
If that he walkyd est or west
As he was wonte to done,
'My wyfe ?so bryght of ble
Men wolle desyre here fro me,
And ?tly and sone;'
Butt sone he hym by?br> That a chambyr schuld be wrought
Bothe of lyme and stone,
Wyth wallys strong as eny stele,
And dorres sotylly made and wele,
He owte framyd yt sone;
The chambyr he lett make fast,
Wyth plaster of parys ?le last,
Such ous know I neuer none;
Ther ys kyng ne emperoure,
And he were lockyn in ?re,
That cowde gete owte of ?ne.
Nowe hath he done as he ?
And in the myddes of the flore wrought
A wondyr strange gyle,
A trapdoure rounde abowte
That no man myght come yn nor owte;
It was made wyth a wyle,
That who-so touchyd yt eny thyng,
In to ? he schuld flyng
Wythyn a lytylle whyle.
For hys wyfe he made that place,
That no man schuld beseke her of grace,
Nor her to begyle.
By ?e ? of the towne
Hadde ordeynyd tymbyr redy bowne,
An halle to make of tre.
After the wryght the lord lett sende
For ?schuld wyth hym lende
Monythys two or thre.
The lord seyd, 'woult ?e ??
I wylle send after her blyve
That sche may com to the.'
The wryght hys garlond hadde take wyth hym,
That was bryght and no ?mme,
Yt wes feyre on to see.
The lord axyd hym as he satt,
'Felowe, where hadyst ? hatte
That ys so feyre and newe?'
The wryght answerd alle so blyue,
And seyd, 'syr, I hadde yt wyth my wyfe,
And ?e me neuere rewe;
Syr, by my garlond I may see
Fekylle or fals yf ?e be,
Or yf ?e be trewe;
And yf my wyfe loue a paramoure,
Than wylle my garlond vade coloure,
And change wylle yt the hewe.'
The lord ?'by godys myght,
That wylle I wete thys same nyght
Whether thys tale be trewe.'
To the wryghtys howse anon he went,
He fonde the wyfe ther-in presente
That was so bryght and schene;
Sone he hayled her trewly,
And so dyd sche the lord curtesly:
Sche seyd, 'welcome ye be;'
Thus seyd the wyfe of the hows,
'Syr, howe faryth my swete spowse
That hewyth vppon youre tre?'
'Sertes, dame,' he seyd, 'wele,
And I am come, so haue I hele,
To wete the wylle of the;
My loue ys so vppon the cast
That me thynketh my hert wolle brest,
It wolle none otherwyse be;
Good dame, graunt me thy grace
To pley with the in some preuy place
For gold and eke for fee.'
'Good syr, lett be youre fare,
And of such wordes speke no mare
For hys loue ?d on tre;
Hadde we onys begonne ?,
My husbond by his garlond myght see;
For sorowe he would wexe woode.'
'Certes, dame,' he seyd, 'naye;
Loue me, I pray you, in ?maye:
For godys loue change thy mode,
Forty marke schalle be youre mede
Of syluer and of gold [so] rede,
And that schalle do the good.'
'Syr, that deede schalle be done;
Take me that mony here anone.'
'I swere by the holy rode
I thought when I cam hyddere
For to bryng yt alle to-gyddere,
As I mott breke my heele.'
Ther sche toke xl marke
Of syluer and gold styff and sterke:
Sche toke yt feyre and welle;
Sche seyd, 'in to the chambyr wylle we,
Ther no man schalle vs see;
No lenger wylle we spare.'
Vp the steyer they gan hye:
The stepes were made so queyntly
That farther myght he nott fare.
The lord stumbyllyd as he went in hast,
He felle doune in to ?ste
Forty fote and somedele more.
The lord began to crye;
The wyfe seyd to hym in hye,
'Syr, what do ye there?'
'Dame, I can nott seye howe
That I am come hydder nowe
To thys hows ?so newe;
I am so depe in thys sure flore
That I ne can come owte att no dore;
Good dame, on me ?e!'
'Nay,' sche seyd, 'so mut y the,
Tylle myne husbond come and se,
I schrewe hym ??'
The lord arose and lokyd abowte
If he myght eny where gete owte,
But yt holpe hym ryght noght,
The wallys were so thycke wythyn,
That he no where myght owte wynne
But helpe to hym were brought;
And euer the lord made euylle chere,
And seyd, 'dame, ?alt by thys dere.'
Sche seyd that sche ne rought;
Sche seyd 'I recke nere
Whyle I am here and ? there,
I schrewe herre ?doth drede.'
The lord was sone owte of her ?
The wyfe went in to her lofte,
Sche satte and dyd here dede.
Than yt felle on ?r daye
Of mete and drynke he gan her pray,
There of he hadde gret nede.
He seyd, 'dame, for seynt charyte,
Wyth some mete ?fort me.'
Sche seyd, 'nay, so god me spede,
For I swere by swete seynt Iohne,
Mete ne drynke ne getyst ?e
Butt ?t swete or swynke;
For I haue both hempe and lyne,
And a betyngstocke fulle fyne,
And a swyngylle good and grete;
If ?t worke, tell me sone.'
'Dame, bryng yt forthe, yt schalle be done,
Fulle gladly would I ete.'
Sche toke the stocke in her honde,
And in to the pytt sche yt sclang
Wyth a grete hete:
Sche brought the lyne and hempe on her backe,
'Syr lord,' sche seyd, 'haue ?,
And lerne for to swete.'
Ther sche toke hym a bonde
For to occupy hys honde,
And bade hym fast on to bete.
He leyd yt downe on the stone,
And leyd on strockes welle good wone,
And sparyd nott on to leyne.
Whan ?hadde wrought a thraue,
Mete and drynke he gan to craue,
And would haue hadde yt fayne;
'That I hadde somewhat for to ete
Now after my gret swete;
Me thynketh yt were ryght,
For I haue labouryd nyght and daye
The for to plese, dame, I saye,
And therto putt my myght.'
The wyfe seyd 'so mutt I haue hele,
And yf ?e be wrought wele
Thou schalt haue to dyne.'
Mete and drynke sche hym bare,
Wyth a thrafe of flex mare
Of fulle long boundyn lyne.
So feyre the wyfe the lord gan praye
That he schuld be werkyng aye,
And nought ?schuld blynne;
The lord was fayne to werke tho,
Butt hys men knewe nott of hys woo
Nor of ?des pyne.
The stuard to ?ht gan saye,
'Sawe ?e of my lord to-daye,
Whether that he ys wende?'
The wryght answerde and seyd 'naye;
I sawe hym nott syth yesterdaye;
I trowe ?be schent.'
The stuard stode ?ht by,
And of hys garlond hadde ferly
What ?be-mente.
The stuard seyd, 'so god me saue,
Of thy garlond wondyr I haue,
And who yt hath the sent.'
'Syr,' he seyd, 'be the same hatte
I can knowe yf my wyfe be badde
To me by eny other man;
If my floures ou?e or falle,
Then doth my wyfe me wrong wyth-alle,
As many a woman can.'
The stuard ?'by godes myght,
That schalle I preue thys same nyght
Whether ?s or banne,'
And in to hys chambyr he gan gone,
And toke tresure fulle good wone,
And forth he spedde hem than.
Butt he ne stynt att no stone
Tylle he vn-to ?htes hows come
That ylke same nyght.
He mett the wyfe amydde the gate,
Abowte ?e he gan her take,
And seyd 'my dere wyght,
Alle the good ?myne
I wylle the geue to be thyne
To lye by the alle nyght.'
Sche seyd, 'syr, lett be thy fare,
My husbond wolle wete wyth-owtyn mare
And I hym dyd that vnryght;
I would nott he myght yt wete
For alle the good that I myght gete,
So Ihesus mutt me spede;
For, and eny man lay me by,
My husbond would yt wete truly,
It ys wythowtyn eny drede.'
The stuard seyd 'for hym ?wrought,
There-of, dame, drede the noght
Wyth me to do that dede;
Haue here of me xx marke
Of gold and syluer styf and starke,
Thys tresoure schalle be thy mede.'
'Syr, and I graunt ?you,
Lett no man wete butt we two nowe.'
He seyd, 'nay, wythowtyn drede.'
The stuard ? 'sykerly
Women beth both queynte & slye.'
The mony he gan her bede;
He ?wele to haue be spedde,
And of his erand he was onredde
Or he were fro hem I-gone.
Vp the sterys sche hym leyde
Tylle he saw the wryghtes bedde:
Of tresoure rought he none;
He went and stumblyd att a stone,
In to ?ere he fylle sone
Downe to the bare flore.
The lord seyd 'what deuylle art ?> And ?est falle on me nowe,
Thowe hadest hurt me fulle sore.'
The stuard stert and staryd abowte
If he myght ower gete owte
Att hole lesse or mare.
The lord seyd, 'welcome, and sytt be tyme,
For ?alt helpe to dyght thys lyne
For alle thy fers fare.'
The stuard lokyd on the knyght,
He seyd, 'syr, for godes myght,
My lord, what do you here?'
He seyd 'felowe, wyth-owtyn oth,
For o erand we come bothe,
The sothe wolle I nott lete.'
Tho cam the wyfe them vn-to,
And seyd, 'syres, what do you to,
Wylle ye nott lerne to swete?'
Than seyd ? her vn-to,
'Dame, youre lyne ys I-doo,
Nowe would I fayne ete:
And I haue made yt alle I-lyke,
Fulle clere, and no ?ycke,
Me thynketh yt gret payne.'
The stuard seyd 'wyth-owtyn dowte,
And euer I may wynne owte,
I wyll breke her brayne.'
'Felowe, lett be, and sey nott so,
For ?alt worke or euer ?,
Thy wordes ?ne agayne,
Fayne ?alt be so to doo,
And thy good wylle put ?br> As a man buxome and bayne
Thowe schalt rubbe, rele, and spynne,
And ?t eny mete wynne,
That I geue to god a gyfte.'
The stuard seyd, 'then haue I wondyr;
Rather would I dy for hungyr
Wyth-owte hosylle or shryfte.'
The lord seyd, 'so haue I hele,
Thowe wylt worke, yf ?gyr welle,
What worke ? be brought.'
The lord satt and dyd hys werke,
The stuard drewe in to the derke,
Gret sorowe was in hys ?
The lord seyd, 'dame, here ys youre lyne,
Haue yt in godes blessyng and myne,
I hold yt welle I-wrought.'
Mete and drynke sche gaue hym yn,
'The stuard,' sche seyd, 'wolle he nott spynne,
Wylle he do ryght noght?'
The lord seyd, 'by swete sen Ione,
Of thys mete schalle he haue none
That ye haue me hydder brought.'
The lord ete and dranke fast,
The stuard hungeryd att ?,
For he gaue hym nought.
The stuard satt alle in a stody,
Hys lord hadde forgote curtesy:
Tho seyd ?rd, 'geue me some.'
The lord seyd, 'sorow haue ?elle or sope
That schalle come in thy throte;
Nott so much as a crome!
Butt ?t helpe to dyght ?e,
Much hungyr yt schalle be thyne
Though ?e much mone.'
Vp he rose, and went therto,
'Better ys me ?doo
Whyle yt must nedys be do.'
The stuard began fast to knocke,
The wyfe ?m a swyngelyng stocke,
Hys mete ? to wyn;
Sche brought a swyngylle at ?,
'Good syres,' sche seyd, 'swyngylle on fast;
For no ?at ye blynne.'
Sche gaue hym a stocke to sytt vppon,
And seyd 'syres, ?ke must nedys be done,
Alle that that ys here yn.'
The stuard toke vp a stycke to saye,
'Sey, seye, swyngylle better yf ye may,
Hytt wylle be the better to spynne.'
Were ? neuer so gret,
Yet was he fayne to werke for hys mete
Though he were neuer so sadde;
Butt ?rd ? so stowde,
Was fayne to swyngelle ?es owte,
Ther-of he was nott glad.
The lordys meyne ?e att home
Wyst nott where he was bycome,
They were fulle sore adrad.
The proctoure of ?sche chyrche ryght
Came and lokyd on ?ht,
He lokyd as he were madde;
Fast ?toure gan hym frayne,
'Where hadest ? garlond gayne?
It ys euer lyke newe.'
The wryght gan say 'felowe,
Wyth my wyfe, yf ?t knowe;
That dare me nott rewe;
For alle the whyle my wyfe trew ys,
My garlond wolle hold hewe I-wys,
And neuer falle nor fade;
And yf my wyfe take a paramoure,
Than wolle my garlond vade ?re,
That dare I ley myne hede.'
The proctoure ? 'in good faye
That schalle I wete thys same daye
Whether yt may so be.'
To the wryghtes hows he went,
He grete ? wyth feyre entente,
Sche seyd 'syr, welcome be ye.'
'A! dame, my loue ys on you fast
Syth the tyme I sawe you last;
I pray you yt may so be
That ye would graunt me of youre grace
To play wyth you in some priuy place,
Or ellys to deth mutt me.'
Fast ?toure gan to pray,
And euer to hym sche seyd 'naye,
That wolle I nott doo.
Hadest ?e ?e wyth me,
My spouse by hys garlond myght see,
That schuld torne me to woe.'
The proctoure seyd, 'by heuen kyng,
If he sey to the any ?> He schalle haue sorowe vnsowte;
Twenty marke I wolle ?,
It wolle ?e welle to lyue,
The mony here haue I brought.'
Nowe hath sche the tresure tane,
And vp ?re be they gane,
(What helpyth yt to lye?)
The wyfe went the steyre be-syde,
The proctoure went a lytylle to wyde
He felle downe by and by.
Whan he in to ?er felle,
He wente to haue sonke in to helle,
He was in hart fulle sory.
The stuard lokyd on the knyght,
And seyd 'proctoure, for godes myght,
Come and sytt vs by.'
The proctoure began to stare,
For he was he wyst neuer whare,
Butt wele he knewe ?ht
And the stuard ?ngelyd ?.
He seyd 'syres, for godes pyne,
What do ye here thys nyght?'
The stuard seyd, 'god geue the care,
Thowe camyst to loke howe we fare,
Nowe helpe ?e were dyght.'
He stode stylle in a gret ?
What to answer he wyst noght:
'By mary fulle of myght,'
The proctoure seyd, 'what do ye in ?br> For to bete thys wyfes lyne?
For Jhesus loue, fulle of myght,'
The proctoure seyd ryght as he ?
'For me yt schalle be euylle wrought
And I may see aryght,
For I lernyd neuer in londe
For to haue a swyngelle in hond
By day nor be nyght.'
The stuard seyd, 'as good as ? We hold vs that be here now,
And lett preue yt be syght;
Yet must vs worke for owre mete,
Or ellys schalle we none gete,
Mete nor drynke to owre honde.'
The lord seyd, 'why flyte ye two?
I trowe ye wylle werke or ye goo
Yf yt be as I vndyrstond.'
Abowte he goys twyes or thryes;
They ete & drynke in such wyse
That ?e hym ryght noght.
The proctoure seyd, 'thynke ye no schame,
Yheue me some mete, (ye be to blame,)
Of that the wyfe ye brought.'
The stuard seyd 'euylle spede the soppe
If eny morcelle come in thy throte
Butt ?h vs hadest wrought.'
The proctoure stode in a stody
Whether he myght worke hem by;
And so to torne hys ?
To the lord he drewe nere,
And to hym seyd wyth myld chere,
'That mary mott the spede.'
The proctoure began to knocke,
The good wyfe rawte hym a rocke,
For therto hadde sche nede;
Sche seyd 'whan I was mayde att home,
Other werke cowde I do none
My lyfe ther-wyth to lede.'
Sche gaue hym in hande a rocke hynde,
And bade hem fast for to wynde
Or ellys to lett be hys dede.
'Yes, dame,' he seyd, 'so haue I hele,
I schalle yt worke both feyre & welle
As ye haue taute me.'
He wauyd vp a strycke of lyne,
And he span wele and fyne
By-fore the swyngelle tre.
The lord seyd '?nnest to grete,
Therfor ?alt haue no mete,
That ?alt welle see.'
Thus ?t and wrought fast
Tylle ? dayes were past;
Then the wryght, home came he,
And as he cam by hys hows syde
He herd noyse that was not ryde
Of persons two or thre;
One of hem knockyd lyne,
A-nothyr swyngelyd good and fyne
By-fore the swyngylle tre,
The thyrde did rele and spynne,
Mete and drynke ther-wyth to wynne,
Gret nede ther-of hadde he.
Thus ?ht stode herkenyng;
Hys wyfe was ware of hys comyng,
And ageynst hym went sche.
'Dame,' he seyd, 'what ys ?ne?
I here gret noyse here wythynne;
Telle me, so god the spede.'
'Syr,' sche seyd, 'workemen thre
Be come to helpe you and me,
Ther-of we haue gret nede;
Fayne would I wete what they were.'
But when he sawe hys lord there,
Hys hert bygan to drede
To see hys lord in ?ce,
He ?yt was a strange cas,
And seyd, 'so god hym spede,
What do ye here, my lord and knyght?
Telle me nowe for godes myght
Howe cam thys vn-to?'
The knyght seyd 'What ys best rede?
Mercy I aske for my mysdede,
My hert ys wondyr wo.'
'So ys myne, verament,
To se you among thys flex and hempe,
Fulle sore yt ruyth me;
To se you in such hevynes,
Fulle sore myne hert yt doth oppresse,
By god in trinite.'
The wryght bade hys wyfe lett hym owte,
'Nay, ?owe come on my snowte
If they passe hens to-daye
Tylle that my lady come and see
Howe ?ld haue done wyth me,
Butt nowe late me saye.'
Anon sche sent after the lady bryght
For to fett home her lord and knyght,
Therto sche seyd noght;
Sche told her what they hadde ment,
And of ther purpos & ther intente
That they would haue wrought.
Glad was ?y of that tydyng;
When sche wyst her lord was lyuyng,
Ther-of sche was fulle fayne:
Whan sche came vn-to ?re abouen,
Sche lokyd vn-to ?er downe,
And seyd,-?nott to leyne,-
'Good syres, what doo you here?'
'Dame, we by owre mete fulle dere,
Wyth gret trauayle and peyne;
I pray you helpe ?were owte,
And I wylle swere wythowtyn dowte
Neuer to come here agayne.'
The lady spake the wyfe vn-tylle,
And seyd 'dame, yf yt be youre wylle,
What doo thes meyny here?'
The carpentarys wyfe her answerd sykerly,
'Alle they would haue leyne me by,
Euerych in ther manere,
Gold and syluer they me brought,
And forsoke yt, and would yt noght,
The ryche gyftes so clere.
Wyllyng ?e to do me schame,
I toke ther gyftes wyth-owtyn blame,
And ther they be alle thre.'
The lady answerd her anon,
'I haue thynges to do att home
Mo than two or thre;
I wyst my lord neuer do ryght noght
Of no ?t schuld be wrought,
Such as fallyth to me.'
The lady lawghed and made good game
Whan they came owte alle in-same
From the swyngylle tre.
The knyght seyd 'felowys in fere,
I am glad ?be here,
By godes dere pyte;
Dame, and ye hadde bene wyth vs,
Ye would haue wrought, by swete Ihesus,
As welle as dyd we.'
And when they cam vp abouen
They turnyd abowte and lokyd downe,
The lord seyd, 'so god saue me,
Yet hadde I neuer such a fytte
As I haue hadde in ?e pytte;
So mary so mutt me spede.'
The knyght and thys lady bryght,
Howe they would home that nyght,
For no thyng they would abyde;
And so they went home;
Thys seyd Adam of Cobsam.
By the weye as they rode
Throwe a wode in ther playeng,
For to here the fowlys syng
They hovyd stylle and bode.
The stuard sware by godes ore,
And so dyd the proctoure much more,
That neuer in ther lyfe
Would they no more come in ?ne
Whan they were onys thens come,
Thys forty yere and fyve.
Of the tresure that they brought
The lady would geue hem ryght noght,
Butt gaue yt to the wryghtes wyfe.
Thus the wryghtes garlond was feyre of hewe,
And hys wyfe bothe good and trewe:
There-of was he fulle blythe;
I take wytnes att gret and smalle,
Thus trewe bene good women alle
That nowe bene on lyve,
So come thryste on ther hedys
Whan they mombylle on ther bedys
Ther pater noster ryue.
Here ys wretyn a geste of the wryght
That hadde a garlond welle I-dyght,
The coloure wylle neuer fade.
Now god ?heuyn kyng
Graunt vs alle hys dere blessyng
Owre hertes for to glade;
And alle tho that doo her husbondys ryght,
Pray we to Ihesu fulle of myght,
That feyre mott hem byfalle,
And that they may come to heuen blys,
For thy dere moderys loue ther-of nott to mys,
Alle good wyues alle.
Now alle tho that thys tretys hath hard,
Ihesu graunt hem for her reward
As trew louers to be
As was the wryght vn-to hys wyfe
And sche to hym duryng her lyfe.
Amen, for charyte.
Here endyth the wryghtes processe trewe
Wyth hys garlond feyre of hewe
That neuer dyd fade the coloure.
It was made by the avyse
Of hys wywes moder wytty and wyse
Of flourys most of honoure,
Of roses whyte ?le nott fade,
Whych floure alle ynglond doth glade
Wyth trewloues medelyd in syght;
Vn-to the whych floure I-wys
The loue of god and of the comenys
Subdued bene of ryght.
EXPLICIT
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Vppon a Deedmans Hed
[Skelton Laureat vppon a deedmans hed that was sent to hym from an honorable Ientyll-woman for a token Deuysyd this gostly medytacyon in Englysh Couenable in sentence Comendable, Lamentable, Lacrymable, Profytable for the soule.]
Youre vgly tokyn.
My mynd hath brokyn.
From worldly lust.
For I haue dyscust.
We ar but dust.
And dy we must.
It is generall.
To be mortall.
I haue well espyde.
No man may hym hyde.
From deth holow-eyed.
With synnews wyderyd.
With bonys shyderyd.
With hys worme-etyn maw.
And hys gastly Iaw.
Gaspyng asyde.
Nakyd of hyde.
Neyther flesh nor fell.
Then by my councell.
Loke that ye spell.
Well thys gospell.
For wher-so we dwell.
Deth wyll vs quell.
And with vs mell.
For all oure pamperde paunchys.
Ther may no fraunchys.
Nor worldly blys.
Redeme vs from this.
Oure days be datyd.
To be chek-matyd.
With drawttys of deth.
Stoppyng oure breth.
Oure eyen synkyng.
Oure bodys stynkyng.
Oure gummys grynnyng.
Oure soulys brynnyng.
To whom then shall we sew.
For to haue rescew.
But to swete Iesu.
On vs then for to rew.
O goodly chyld.
Of Mary mylde.
Then be oure shylde.
That we be not exylyd.
To the dyne dale.
Of boteles bale. Nor to the lake.
Of fendys blake.
But graunt vs grace.
To se thy face.
And to purchace.
Thyne heuenly place.
And thy palace.
Full of solace.
Aboue the sky.
That is so hy.
Eternally.
To beholde and se.
The Trynyte.
Amen.
poem by John Skelton
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A Jest Of Robin Hood
Lyth and lystyn, gentilmen,
All that nowe be here;
Of Litell Johnn, that was the knighes man,
Goode myrth ye shall here.
It was upon a mery day
That yonge men wolde go shete;
Lytell Johnn fet his bowe anone,
And sayde he wolde them mete.
Thre tymes Litell Johnn shet aboute,
And alwey he slet the wande;
The proud sherif of Notingham
By the marks can stande.
The sherif swore a full greate othe:
'By hym that dyede on a tre,
This man is the best arschére
That ever yet sawe I me.
'Say me nowe, wight yonge man,
What is nowe thy name?
In what countre were thou borne,
And where is thy wonynge wane?'
'In Holdernes, sir, I was borne,
I-wys al of my dame;
Men cal me Reynolde Grenlef
Whan I am at home.'
'Sey me, Reynolde Grenelefe,
Wolde thou dwell with me?
And every yere I woll the gyve
Twenty marke to thy fee.'
'I have a maister,' sayde Litell Johnn,
'A curteys knight is he;
May ye lev gete of hym,
The better may it be.'
The sherif gate Litell John
Twelve moneths of the knight;
Therfore he gave him right anone
A gode hors and a wight.
Nowe is Litell John the sherifs man,
God lende vs well to spede!
But alwey thought Lytell John
To quyte hym wele his mede.
'Nowe so God me help,' sayde Litell John,
'And by my true leutye,
I shall be the worst servaunt to hym
That ever yet had he.'
It fell upon a Wednesday
The sherif on huntynge was gone,
And Litel John lay in his bed,
And was foriete at home.
Therfore he was fastinge
Til it was past the none;
'Gode sir stuarde, I pray to the,
Gyve me my dynere,' saide Litell John.
'It is longe for Grenlefe
Fastinge thus for to be;
Therfor I pray the, sir stuarde,
Mi dyner gif me.'
'Shalt thou never ete ne drynke,' saide the stuarde,
'Tyll my lorde be come to towne:'
'I make myn avowe to God,' saide Litell John,
'I had lever to crake thy crowne.'
The boteler was full uncurteys,
There he stode on flore;
He start to the botery
And shet fast the dore.
Lytell Johnn gave the boteler suche a tap
His backe went nere in two;
Though he lived an hundred ier,
The wors shuld he go.
He sporned the dore with his fote;
It went open wel and fyne;
And there he made large lyveray,
Bothe of ale and of wyne.
'Sith ye wol nat dyne,' sayde Litell John,
'I shall gyve you to drinke;
And though ye lyve an hundred wynter,
On Lytel Johnn ye shall thinke.'
Litell John ete, and Litel John drank,
The whil that he wolde;
The sherife had in his kechyn a coke,
A stoute man and a bolde.
'I make myn avowe to God,' saide the coke,
'Thou arte a shrewde hynde
In ani hous for to dwel,
For to aske thus to dyne.'
And there he lent Litell John
God strokis thre;
'I make myn avowe to God,' sayde Lytell John,
'These strokis lyked well me.
'Thou arte a bolde man and hardy,
And so thinketh me;
And or I pas fro this place
Assayed better shalt thou be.'
Lytell Johnn drew a ful gode sworde,
The coke toke another in hande;
They thought no thynge for to fle,
But stifly for to stande.
There they faught sore togedere
Two myl way and well more;
Myght neyther other harme done,
The mountnaunce of an owre.
'I make myn avowe to God,' sayde Litell Johnn,
'And by my true lewté,
Thou art one of the best sworde-men
That ever yit sawe I me.
'Cowdest thou shote as well in a bowe,
To gren wode thou shuldest with me,
And two times in the yere thy clothinge
Chaunged shuld be;
'And every yere of Robyn Hode
Twenty merke to thy fe:'
'Put up thy swerde,' saide the coke,
'And felowes woll we be.'
Thanne he fet to Lytell Johnn
The nowmbles of a do,
Gode brede, and full gode wyne,
They ete and drank theretoo.
And when they had dronkyn well,
Theyre trouths togeder they plight
That they wolde be with Robyn
That ylk same nyght.
They dyd them to the tresoure-hows,
As fast as they myght gone;
The lokks, that were of full gode stele,
They brake them everichone.
They toke away the silver vessell,
And all that thei might get;
Pecis, masars, ne sponis,
Wolde thei not forget.
Also they toke the gode pens,
Thre hundred pounde and more,
And did them streyte to Robyn Hode,
Under the gren wode hore.
'God the save, my dere mayster,
And Criste the save and se!'
And thanne sayde Robyn to Litel Johnn,
Welcome myght thou be.
'Also be that fayre yeman
Thou bryngest there with the;
What tydyngs fro Notyngham?
Lytill Johnn, tell thou me.'
'Well the gretith the proud sheryf,
And sendeth the here by me
His coke and his silver vessell,
And thre hundred pounde and thre.'
'I make myne avowe to God,' sayde Robyn,
'And to the Trenyté,
It was never by his gode wyll
This gode is come to me.'
Lytyll Johnn there hym bethought
On a shrewde wyle;
Fyve myle in the forest he ran,
Hym happed all his wyll.
Than he met the proud sheref,
Huntynge with houndes and horne;
Lytell Johnn coude of curtesye,
And knelyd hym beforne.
'God the save, my der mayster,
And Criste the save and se!'
'Reynolde Grenlefe,' sayde the shryef,
'Where hast thou nowe be?'
'I have be in this forest;
A fayre syght can I se;
It was one of the fayrest syghtes
That ever yet sawe I me.
'Yonder I sawe a ryght fayre harte,
His coloure is of grene;
Seven score of dere upon a herde
Be with hym all bydene.
'Their tynds are so sharpe, maister,
Of sexty, and well mo,
That I durst not shote for drede,
Lest they wolde me slo.'
'I make myn avowe to God,' sayde the shyref,
'That syght wolde I fayne se:'
'Buske you thyderwarde, mi der mayster,
Anone, and wende with me.'
The sherif rode, and Litell Johnn
Of fote he was full smerte,
And whane they came before Robyn,
'Lo, sir, here is the mayster-herte.'
Still stode the proud sherief,
A sory man was he;
'Wo the worthe, Raynolde Grenlefe,
Thou hast betrayed nowe me.'
'I make myn avowe to God,' sayde Litell Johnn,
'Mayster, ye be to blame;
I was mysserved of my dynere
Whan I was with you at home.'
Sone he was to souper sette,
And served well with silver white,
And whan the sherif sawe his vessell,
For sorowe he myght nat ete.
'Make glad chere,' sayde Robyn Hode,
'Sherif, for charité,
And for the love of Litill Johnn
Thy lyfe I graunt to the.'
Whan they had souped well,
The day was al gone;
Robyn commaunded Litell Johnn
To drawe of his hosen and his shone;
His kirtell and his cote of pie,
That was fured well and fine,
And toke hym a grene mantel,
To lap his body therin.
Robyn commaundyd his wight yonge men,
Under the gren-wode tree,
They shulde lye in that same sute,
That the sherif myght them see.
All nyght lay the proud sherif
In his breche and in his schert;
No wonder it was, in gren wode,
Though his syds gan to smerte.
'Makeglade chere,' sayde Robyn Hode,
'Sheref, for charité;
For this is our ordre i-wys,
Under the gren-wode tree.'
'This is harder order,' sayde the sherief,
'Than any ankir or frere;
For all the golde in mery Englonde
I wolde nat longe dwell her.'
'All this twelve monthes,' sayde Robin,
'Thou shalt dwell with me;
I shall the tech, proud sherif,
An outlaw for to be.'
'Or I be here another nyght,' sayde the sherif,
'Robyn, nowe pray I the,
Smyte of mijn hede rather to-morowe,
And I forgyve it the.
'Lat me go,' than sayde the sherif.
'For saynt charité,
And I woll be the best frende
That ever yet had ye.'
'Thou shalt swere me an othe,' sayde Robyn,
'On my bright bronde;
Shalt thou never awayte me scathe,
By water ne by lande.
'And if thou fynde any of my men,
By nyght or by day,
Upon thyn oth thou shalt swere
To helpe them that thou may.'
Nowe hathe the sherif sworne his othe,
And home he began to gone;
He was as full of gren wode
As ever was hepe of stone.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Not-Browne Mayd
'Be it ryght or wrong, these men among
On women do complayne;
Affyrmynge this, how that it is
A labour spent in vayne
To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man agayne:
For late a man do what he can
Theyr favour to attayne,
Yet yf a newe do them persue,
Theyr furst true lover than
Laboureth for nought; for from her thought
He is a banyshed man.'
'I say nat nay, but that all day
It is bothe writ and sayd,
That woman's faith is as who sayth,
All utterly decayd;
But neverthelesse, ryght good wytnesse
In this case might be layd,
That they love true, and continue:
Recorde the Not-Brown Mayde;
Which, when her love came, her to prove,
To her to make his mone,
Wolde nat depart, for in her hart
She loved but hym alone.'
'Than betwaine us late us dyscus,
What was all the manere
Betwayne them two; we wyll also
Telle all the payne and fere
That she was in. Nowe I begyn,
So that ye me answere:
Wherefore all ye that present be,
I pray you gyve an eare.
I am the knyght, I come by nyght
As secret as I can,
Sayinge, 'Alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banyshed man.''
She.
And I your wyll, for to fulfyll
In this wyll nat refuse,
Trustyng to shewe, in wordes fewe,
That men have an yll use,
(To theyr own shame) women to blame,
And causelesse them accuse:
Therfore to you I answere nowe,
All women to excuse, -
'Myn own hart dere, with you what chere?
I pray you telle anone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.'
He.
'It standeth so: a dede is do,
Whereof grete harme shall growe.
My destiny is for to dy
A shamefull deth, I trowe,
Or elles to fle: the one must be:
None other way I knowe,
But to withdrawe, as an outlawe,
And take me to my bowe.
Wherefore, adue, my owne hart true,
None other rede I can;
For I must to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.'
She.
'O Lord, what is thys worldys blysse,
That changeth as the mone!
My somers day in lusty May
Is derked before the none.
I here you saye farewell: Nay, nay,
We depart nat so sone.
Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye go?
Alas, what have ye done?
All my welfare to sorrowe and care
Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone:
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'
He.
'I can beleve it shall you greve,
And somewhat you dystrayne;
But aftyrwarde your paynes harde,
Within a day or twayne,
Shall sone aslake, and ye shall take
Comfort to you agayne.
Why sholde ye ought? for, to make thought
Your labur were in vayne:
And thus I do, and pray you to,
As hartely as I can:
For I must to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.'
She.
'Now syth that ye have shewed to me
The secret of your mynde,
I shall be playne to you agayne,
Lyke as ye shall me fynde:
Syth it is so that ye wyll go,
I wolle not leve behynde;
Shall never be sayd the Not-browne Mayd
Was to her love unkynde.
Make you redy, for so am I,
Although it were anone;
For in my mynd, of all mankynde,
I love but you alone.'
He.
'Yet I you rede to take good hede
What men wyll thynke, and say;
Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde,
That ye be gone away
Your wanton wyll for to fulfill,
In grene wode you to play;
And that ye myght from your delyght
No lenger make delay.
Rather than ye sholde thus for me
Be called an yll woman,
Yet wolde I to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.'
She.
'Though it be songe of olde and yonge
That I sholde be to blame,
Theyrs be the charge that speke so large
In hurtynge of my name.
For I wyll prove that faythfulle love
It is devoyd of shame,
In your dystresse and hevynesse,
To part with you the same;
And sure all tho that do not so,
True lovers are they none;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde
I love but you alone.'
He.
'I counceyle you remember howe
It is no maydens lawe,
Nothynge to dout, but to renne out
To wode with an outlawe.
For ye must there in your hand bere
A bowe, redy to drawe,
And as a thefe thus must ye lyve,
Ever in drede and awe;
Whereby to you grete harme myght growe;
Yet I had lever than
That I had to the grene wode go
Alone, a banyshed man.'
She.
'I thinke nat nay; but as ye say,
It is no maydens lore;
But love may make me for your sake,
To come on fote to hunt and shote,
To gete us mete in store;
For so that I your company
May have, I aske no more;
From which to part, it maketh my hart
As colde as ony stone:
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'
He.
'For an outlawe this is the lawe,
That men hym take and bynde,
Without pyte hanged to be,
And waver with the wynde.
If I had nede, (as God forbede!
What rescous could ye finde?
Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe
For fere wolde drawe behynde:
And no merveyle; for lytel avayle
Were in your counceyle than;
Wherefore I wyll to the grene wode goe
Alone, a banyshed man.'
She.
'Ryght wele knowe ye that women be
But feble for to fyght;
No womanhede it is indede
To be bolde as a knyght.
Yet in suche fere yf that ye were,
With enemyes day and nyght,
I wolde withstande wyth bowe in hande,
To greve them as I myght;
And you to save, as women have,
From dethe 'men' many one:
For in my mynde, of al mankynde
I love but you alone.'
He.
'Yet take gude hede; for ever I drede
That ye coude nat sustayne
The thornie wayes, the depe valeies,
The snowe, the frost, the rayne,
The colde, the hete; for, dry or wete,
We must lodge on the playne;
And us above none other rofe
But a brake bush or twayne,
Which sone sholde greve you, I beleve;
And ye wolde gladly than
That I had to the grene wode goe
Alone, a banyshed man.'
She.
'Syth I have here bene partynere
With you of joy and blysse,
I must also parte of your wo
Endure, as reson is;
Yet am I sure of one pleasure,
And shortely, it is this:
That where ye be, me seemeth, parde,
I coude nat fare amysse.
Without more speche, I you beseche
That we were soon agone;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'
He.
'If ye goo thyder, ye must consyder
When ye have lust to dyne,
There shal no mete be for you gete,
Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne;
Ne shetes clene to lye betwene,
Made of threde and twyne;
None other house but leves and bowes
To cover your hed and myne.
O myne harte swete, this evyll dyete
Sholde make you pale and wan:
Wherefore I wyll to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.'
She.
'Among the wylde dere, such an archere
As men say that ye be
Ne may nat fayle of good vitayle,
Where is so grete plente;
And water clere of the ryvere
Shall be full swete to me,
With which in hele I shall ryght wele
Endure, as ye shal see;
And or we go, a bedde or two
I can provyde anone;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'
He.
'Lo, yet before, ye must do more
Yf ye wyll go with me,
As cut your here up by your ere,
Your kyrtel by the kne;
With bowe in hande, for to withstande
Your enemyes, yf nede be;
And this same nyght, before daylyght,
To wode-warde wyll I fle;
Yf ye wyll all this fulfill,
Do it shortely as ye can:
Els wyll I to the grene wode goe
Alone, a banyshed man.'
She.
'I shall as nowe do more for you
Than longeth to womanhede,
To shorte my here, a bow to bere,
To shote in tyme of nede.
O my sweet mother, before all other,
For you have I most drede!
But now, adue! I must ensue
Where Fortune doth me lede.
All this make ye; and let us fle;
The day cometh fast upon;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'
He.
'Nay, nay, nat so: ye shall nat go;
And I shall tell ye why; --
Your appetyght is to be lyght
Of love, I wele espie:
For lyke as ye have sayed to me,
In lyke wyse, hardely,
Ye wolde answere, whosoever it were,
In way of company.
It is sayd of olde, Sone hote, sone colde,
And so is a woman;
Wherefore I to the wode wyll goe,
Alone, a banyshed man.'
She.
'Yf ye take hede, it is no nede
Such wordes to say be me;
For oft ye prayed, and longe assayed,
Or I you loved, parde;
And though that I of auncestry
A barons daughter be,
Yet have you proved howe I you loved,
A squyer of lowe degre;
And ever shall, whatso befall,
To dy therfore anone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde
I love but you alone.'
He.
'A baron's chylde to be begyled,
It were a cursed dede!
To be felawe with an outlawe,
Almighty God forbede!
Yet beter were the pore squyere
Alone to forest yede,
Than ye sholde saye another day,
That by my cursed dede
Ye were betrayed; wherefore, good mayd,
The best rede that I can
Is that I to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.'
She.
'Whatever befall, I never shall
Of this thyng you upbrayd;
But yf ye go, and leve me so,
Then have ye me betrayd.
Remember ye wele, howe that ye dele,
For yf ye, as ye sayd,
Be so unkynde to leve behynde
Your love, the Not-Browne Mayd,
Trust me truly, that I shall dy,
Some after ye be gone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde
I love but you alone.'
He.
'Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent,
For in the forest nowe
I have purvayed me of a mayd,
Whom I love more than you:
Another fayrere than e'er ye were,
I dare it wele avowe;
And of you bothe eche sholde be worthe
With other, as I trowe.
It were myne ese to lyve in pese;
So wyll I, yf I can;
Wherefore I to the wode wyll go
Alone, a banyshed man.'
She.
'Though in the wode I undyrstode
Ye had a paramour,
All this may nought remove my thought,
But that I wyll be your;
And she shall fynde me soft and kynde,
And courteys every hour,
Glad to fulfyll all that she wylle
Commaunde me, to my power;
For had ye, lo, an hundred mo,
'Of them I wolde be one.'
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'
He.
'Myne own dere love, I see the prove
That ye be kynde and true;
Of mayde and wyfe, in all my lyfe
The best that ever I knewe.
Be mery and glad, be no more sad,
The case is chaunged newe;
For it were ruthe, that for your truthe
Ye sholde have cause to rewe.
Be nat dismayed: whatsoever I sayd
To you, whan I began,
I wyll nat to the grene wode goe;
I am no banishyd man.'
She.
'These tydings be more gladd to me
Than to be made a quene,
Yf I were sure they sholde endure;
But is often sene,
Whan men wyll breke promyse, they speke
The wordes on the splene.
Ye shape some wyle me to begyle,
And stele from me, I wene;
Than were the case worse than it was,
And I more wo-begone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde
I love but you alone.'
He.
'Ye shal nat nede further to drede:
I wyll nat dysparage
You, (God defend!) syth ye descend
Of so grete a lynage.
Now undyrstande, to Westmarlande,
Which is myne herytage,
I wyll you brynge, and with a rynge,
By way of maryage,
I wyll you take, and lady make,
As shortely as I can:
Thus have you won an erlys son,
And not a banyshed man.'
Author.
Here may ye se, that women be
In love meke, kynde, and stable:
Late never man reprove them than,
Or call them variable;
But rather pray God that we may
To them be comfortable,
Which sometyme proveth such as he loveth,
Yf they be charytable.
For syth men wolde that women sholde
Be meke to them each one,
Moche more ought they to God obey,
And serve but hym alone.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Canterbury Tales; The Shipmannes Tale
PROLOGUE TO THE SHIPMANNES TALE
Here endith the man of lawe his tale. And next folwith
the Shipman his prolog.
Oure Ost upon his stiropes stood anoon,
And seide, 'Good men, herkeneth everychoon;
This was a thrifty tale for the nonys.
Sir parisshe preste,' quod he, 'for Godis bonys,
Telle us a tale, as was thi forward yore;
I se wel, that ye lernede men in lore
Can meche good, bi Godis dignite.'
The parson him answerde, 'Benedicite,
What eyleth the man so synfully to swere?'
Oure Ost answerde, 'O Jankyn, be ye there?
I smelle a Lollere in the wynde,' quod he,
'Howe, goodmen,' quod oure Hoste, 'herkeneth me,
Abyde for Godis digne passioun,
For we shul han a predicacioun,
This Lollere here wol prechen us somwhat.'
'Nay, bi Godis soule, that shal he nat,'
Seyde the Shipman, 'here shal he not preche,
He shal no gospel glosen here, ne teche.
We leven alle in the grete God,' quod he,
'He wolde sowen som difficulte
Or sprengen cokkel in oure clene corn.
And therfore, Ost, I warne the biforn,
My joly body shal a tale telle
And I shal clynkyn yow so mery a belle
That I shal wakyn al this companye;
But it shal not ben of Philosophie,
Ne phislyas, ne termes queynte of lawe;
Ther nis but litil Latyn in my mawe.'
Here endith the Shipman his prolog. And next folwyng
he bigynneth his tale.
THE TALE.
(Daun John, a monk of Paris, beguiles the wife of a
merchant of St. Denis by money borrowed from her husband.
She saves herself, on the point of discovery, by a ready
answer.)
END-LINK
Bihoold the murie wordes of the Hoost to the Shipman
and to the lady Prioresse.
'Wel seyd, by corpus dominus,' quod our Hoost,
'Now longe moote thou saille by the cost,
Sir gentil maister, gentil maryneer.
God yeve this monk a thousand last quade yeer!
A ha! felawes, beth ware of swich a jape.
The monk putte in the mannes hood an ape,
And in his wyves eek, by Seint Austyn;
Draweth no monkes moore unto your in.
But now passe over, and lat us seke aboute
Who shal now telle first of al this route
Another tale?' and with that word he sayde,
As curteisly as it had ben a mayde,
'My lady Prioresse, by youre leve,
So that I wiste I sholde yow nat greve,
I wolde demen that ye tellen sholde
A tale next, if so were that ye wolde.
Now wol ye vouchesauf, my lady deere?'
'Gladly,' quod she, and seyde as ye shal heere.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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A Ioyfull medytacyon to all Englonde of the coronacyon of our moost naturall souerayne lorde kynge Henry the eyght.
The prologue
The prudent problems/& the noble werkes
Of the gentyll poetes in olde antyquyte
Unto this day hath made famous clerkes
For the poetes wrote nothynge in vanyte
But grounded them on good moralyte
Encensynge out the fayre dulcet fume
Our langage rude to exyle and consume
The ryght eloquent poete and monke of bery
Made many fayre bookes/as it is probable
From ydle derkenes/to lyght our emyspery
Whose vertuous pastyme/was moche cōmendable
Presentynge his bookes/gretely prouffytable
To your worthy predecessour the .v. kynge Henry
Whiche regystred is in the courte of memory
Amyddes the medowe of flora the quene
Of the goddes elycon/is the sprynge or well
And by it groweth/a fayre laurell grene
Of whiche the poetes do ofte wryte and tell
Besyde this olyue/I dyde neuer dwell
To tast the water whiche is aromatyke
For to cause me wryte with lusty rethoryke
Wherfore good souerayne/I beseche your hyghnes
To pardon me whiche do rudely endyte
As in this arte hauynge small intres
But for to lerne is all myn appetyte
In folowynge the monke whiche dyde nobly wryte
Besechynge your hyghnes and grace debonayre
For to accepte this rude and lytell quayre
Explicit prologus.
O God alone in heuen werynge crowne
In whose inspecte is euery regall se
Both to enhaūce & for to cast adowne
Suche is y&supere; power of th&ybar; hygh magiste
Neyther hardynes treasour nor dygnyte
May withstande thy strength whiche is ī euery place
So grete and myghty is thy dyuyne grace
Two tytles in one thou dydest well vnyfye
Whan the rede rose toke the whyte in maryage
Reygnynge togyder ryght hygh and noblye
From whose vnyd tytyls and worthy lygnage
Descended is by ryght excellent courage
Kynge Henry the .viii. for to reygne doutles
Unyuersall his fame honour and larges
Whiche hathe spousyd a fayre floure of vertue
Descended of kynges dame kwtheryn of Spayne
Descended of Kynges dame Kathelyn of Spayne
By grace and prudens the peace to attayne
Wherfore Englonde thou nedes not complayne
Syth thou hast crowned openly in syght
This kynge and quene by good true loue and ryght
What sholde I shewe by perambulacyon
All this grete tryumphe of whiche reporte
Is made aboute nowe in euery nacyon
Unto all this realme to be Ioy and comforte
Wherfore you lordes I humby you exhorte
Spyrytuall and temporall with the comyns vnyfyde
To gyue god the prayse whiche dothe grace prouyde
Englonde be gladde/the dewe of grace is spred
The dewe of Ioy/the dewe holsome and soote
Dystylled is nowe from the rose so red
And of the whyte so spryngynge from the roote
After our trouble to be refute and boote
This ryall tree was planted as I knowe
By god aboue the rancour to downe throwe
Who is the floure that dothe this grace dystyll
But onely Henry the .viii. kynge of his name
With golden droppes all Englonde to fulfyll
To shewe his larges his honour and his fame
His dedes therto exemplefye the same
Wherfore nowe Englonde with hole deuocyon
For this yonge kynge make dayly orayson
Our late souerayne his fader excellent
I knowe ryght well some holde oppynyon
That to auaryce he had entendement
Gadrynge grete rychesse of this his regyon
But they lytell knowe by theyr small reason
For what hye entente he gadered doutles
Unto his grace suche innumerable ryches
For I thinke well and god had sente him lyfe
As they haue meruaylled moche of this gadrynge
So it to them showe haue best affyrmatyfe
To haue had grete wonder of his spendynge
It may fortune he thought to haue mouynge
Of mortall warre our fayth to stablysshe
Agaynst the turkes theyr power to mynysshe
But syth that dethe by his course naturall
Hathe hym arested/and wolde not delay
Lyke wyse as he was so be we mortall
How/where/or whan I cam nothynge say
Therfore to god aboue let vs all pray
For to graunt hym mercy whiche was our kynge
Bryngynge his soule to Ioy euerlastinge
A fayre Englonde mystruste the ryght nought
Regarde ryght well/his sonnes Iustyce
Se how that they whyche inuencyons sought
Delytynge them in the synne of auaryce
To oppresse the comyns by grete preiudyce
Dothe he not punysshe them accordynge to lawe
Suche newe promocyons to dampne and withdrawe
Fy on the saturne with thy mysty fume
Replete with fraude treason and wyckednes
To shewe thy beames thou darest not presume
So cursed thou arte withouten stablenes
Deuoyde of grace fulfylled with doblenes
Thy power to Englonde was neuer amyable
But alwayes euyll vntrue and varyable
Now gentyll Iupyter the lodesterre of lyght
Thy stedfast beames so fayre and so clere
Cast now abrede that we may haue a syght
To gladde vs all whan that they do appere
Sendynge downe trouthe from thy fulgent spere
For to make our hertes mekely to enclyne
To serue our souerayne whiche doth nowe domyne
O myghty Mars o god of the warre
O flambynge honour of euery hardy herte
Sende downe thy power truely from so ferre
Us to encourage that we do not sterte
But by hardynes that we maye subuerte
Our soueraynes enemyes to hym contraryous
By bataylles fyerse ryghtfull and rygorous
And thou fayre bryght/and aureate phebus
Encreace now lyght with loue aud honoure
Amonge the lordes so gay and gloryus
With thy radyant beames so hye of fauoure
Deuoydynge all trechery debate and rancoure
And yllumyne the mynde with lyberalyte
Of our good souerayne with welth and vnyte
And lady Uenus with thy sone Cupyde
Of euery lorde do nowe the herte enspyre
With feruent loue that he do not slyde
And of the comyns set the hertes on fyre
To loue our souerayne with theyr hole desyre
Folowynge his grace with dulcet armonye
To the ryghtfull waye withouten Ieoperdye
Also thou Mercury the god of eloquence
The gentyll sterre of grace and vertue
Thy beames of ryght peace and conscyence
On our kynges counsayll downe sende and renue
The trouthe of Iustyce/that they may extue
For to do wronge by the synne of couetyce
That here before hathe done grete preiudyce
And thou watery dyane of the se the goddes
With thy broder eolus the god of the wynde
Encourage the hertes by in warde hardynes
And enmyes ryse that they be not behynde
Them for to chace and the se to scoure
By grace and fortune in many a stormy stoure
O god aboue/trononysed in heuen
In whose wyll resteth euery thynge alone
The skye/the erthe/with all the planettes seuen
Without whose grace/comforte haue we none
As thou arte thre enclusyd in one
So saue our souerayne/from all maner wo
And this his realme from mortall warre also
Holy chirche reioyse/with all your lybertees
Withouten dōmage/the kynge wyll ye encreace
And be your shelde from all aduersytees
No wronge shall be but he wyll it soone seace
Knyttynge the knotte of fayth loue and peace
Bytwene you and hym without dysturbaunce
So for to endure by longe contynuaunce
Ryght myghty prynce our good souerayne lorde
To god enclynynge be hardy and gladde
Of you and your realme he wyll se concorde
Though other nacyons be therfore full sadde
Agaynst you murmurynge with theyr werkes badde
Yet drede ye nothynge for god with his myght
Wyll be alwaye redy to defende the ryght
Ryght noble/wyse/and excellent pryncesse
Ryght benygne lady/lyberall and vertuous
Dyscended lynyally of the lyne of noblenesse
Fayre quene Katheryne so swete and precyous
To our souerayne espoused with Ioy solacyous
Almyghty god gyue grace to multyplye
From you your floures to reygne ryght ryally
And lady Mary prynces ryght beauteuous
Indued with honour/vertue/and prudence
Ryght meke/goodly/gentyll and gracyous
Syster ryght dere vnto the excellence
Of our good souerayne/surmountynge in sapyence
Ryght fayre yonge lady/the grete lorde aboue
He graunte you grace/hygh fame/fortune/and loue
And all you lordes and ladyes honourable
And you noble knyghtes so hauntynge chyualry
Unto our souerayne be meke and tendable
Whiche wyll rewarde you well and nobly
As to shewe his largesse vnyuersally
Encouragynge your hertes y&supert; courage chyualrous
In tyme of batayll for to be vyctoryous
And all ye offycers of euery degree
Beware extorcyon/for and it be knowen
No doute it is but ye shall punysshed be
Take hede of them/the whiche be ouerthrowen
Remembre well how fortune hathe blowen
The promoters downe/and castynge them full lowe
In folowynge them ye shall fall as I trowe
Englonde be true and loue well eche other
Obey your souerayne/and god omnypotent
Whiche is aboue/of all the worlde the rother
Wyll sende you welth/from whome all good is sente
He gyue vs grace to kepe his comaundement
And saue our souerayne/with his semely quene
With all theyr bloode/without trouble and tene.
Amen
poem by Stephen Hawes
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The Bowge of Courte
In Autumpne, whan the sonne in vyrgyne
By radyante hete enryped hath our corne,
Whan Luna, full of mutabylyte,
As Emperes the dyademe hath worne
Of our pole artyke, smylynge halfe in scorne
At our foly and our unstedfastnesse,
The tyme whan Mars to werre hym dyde dres,
pole artyke: Arcturus of the Corona Borealis
I, callynge to mynde the great auctoryte
Of poetes olde, whyche full craftely
Under as coverte termes as coude be,
Can touche a troughte and cloke it subtylly
Wyth fresshe utteraunce full sentencyonsly,
Dyverse in style, some spared not vyce to wrythe,
Some of moralyte nobly dyde endyte,
Wherby I rede theyr renome and theyr fame
Maye never dye bute evermore endure.
I was sore moved to a force the same,
But Ignoraunce full soone dyde me dyscure
And shewed that in this arte I was not sure,
For to illumyne she sayde I was to dulle,
Avysynge me my penne awaye to pulle
And not to wrythe, for he so wyll atteyne,
Excedynge ferther than his connynge is,
His hede maye be harde, but feble is his brayne!
Yet have I knowen suche er this;
But of reproche surely he maye not mys
That clymmeth hyer than he may fotynge have;
What and he slyde downe, who shall hym save?
Thus up and down my mynde was drawen and cast
That I ne wyste what to do was beste;
Soo sore enwered that I was, at the laste,
Enforsed to slepe and for to take some reste,
And to lye downe as soone as I me dreste.
At Harwyche Porte, slumbrynge as I laye
In myne hostes house, called Powers Keye,
Me thoughte I sawe a shyppe, goodly of sayle,
Come saylyng forth into that haven brood,
Her takelynge ryche and of hye apparayle;
She kyste an anker and there she laye at rode.
Marchauntes her borded to see what she had lode.
Therein they founde Royall marchaundyse,
Fraghted with plesure of what ye coude devyse.
But than I thoughte I wolde not dwell behynde,
Amonge all other I put myselfe in prece.
Than there coude I none aquentaunce fynde;
There was moche noyse, anone one cryed, cese!
Sharpely commaundynge eche man holde hys pece.
Maysters, he sayde, the shyp that ye here see,
The Bowge of Courte it hyghte for certeynte;
The awnner thereof is lady of estate,
Whoos name to tell is Dame Saunce Pere.
Her marchaundyse is ryche and fortunate,
But who wyll have it muste paye therfore dere;
This royall chaffre that is shypped here
Is called favore-to-stonde-in-her-good-grace.
Than sholde ye see there pressynge in a pace
Of one and other that wolde this lady see,
Whiche sat behynde a traves of sylke fyne,
Of golde of tessew the fynest that myghte be,
In a trone whiche fer clerer dyde shyne
Than Phebus in his spere celestyne,
Whoos beaute, honoure, goodly porte,
I have to lytyll connynge to reporte.
But of eche thynge there as I take hede,
Among all other was wrytten in her trone
In golde letters, this worde, whiche I dyde rede:
Garder le fortune que est mauelz et bone.
And as I stode redynge this verse myselfe allone,
Her chyef gentylwoman, daunger by her name,
Gave me a taunte, and sayde I was to blame
To he so perte to prese so proudly uppe.
She sayde she trowed that I had eten sause;
She asked yf ever I dranke of saucys cuppe.
And I than softly answered to that clause,
That, so to saye, I had gyven her no cause.
Than asked she me, Syr, so God the spede,
What is thy name? and I sayde it was Drede.
What movyd the, quod she, hydder to come?
Forsoth, quod I, to bye some of youre ware.
And with that worde on me she gave a glome
With browes bente and gan on me to stare
Full daynnously, and fro me she dyde fare,
Levynge me stondynge as a mased man,
To whome there came another gentylwoman.
Desyre her name was, and so she me tolde,
Sayenge to me, Broder, be of good chere,
Abasshe you not, but hardely be bolde,
Avaunce your selfe to aproche and come nere.
What though our chaffer he never so dere,
Yet I avyse you to speke for ony drede;
Who spareth to speke, in fayth, he spareth to spede.
Maystres, quod I, I have none aquentaunce
That wyll for me be medyatoure and mene;
And this an other, I have but smale substaunce.
Pece, quod Desyre, ye speke not worth a bene!
Yf ye have not, in fayth, I wyll you lene
A precyous jewell, no rycher in this londe:
Bone aventure have here now in your honde.
Shyfte now therwith, let see, as ye can,
In Bowge of Courte chevysaunce to make;
For I dare saye that there nys erthly man
But, and he can Bone aventure take,
There can no favour nor frendshyp hym forsake.
Bone aventure may brynge you in suche case
That ye shall stonde in favoure and in grace.
But of one thynge I werne you er I goo:
She that styreth the shyp, make her your frende.
Maystres, quod I, I praye you tell me why soo,
And how I maye that waye and meanes fynde.
Forsothe, quod she, how ever blowe the wynde,
Fortune gydeth and ruleth all oure shyppe.
Whome she hateth shall over the see boorde skyp.
Whome she loveth, of all plesyre is ryche
Whyles she laugheth and hath luste for to playe,
Whome she hateth she casteth in the dyche,
For whan she fronneth, she thynketh to make a fray;
She cheryssheth him, and hym she casseth awaye.
Alas, quod I, how myghte I have her sure?
In fayth, quod she, by bone aventure.
Thus in a rowe of martchauntes a grete route
Suwed to Fortune that she would be theyre frynde.
They thronge in fast and flocked her aboute,
And I with them prayed her to have in mynde.
She promysed to us all she wolde be kynde;
Of Bowge of Court she asketh what we wold have,
And we asked favoure, and favour she us gave. 120
Thus endeth the prologue; and begynneth
the Bowge of Courte brevely compyled.
DREDE
THE sayle is up, Fortune ruleth our helme,
We wante no wynde to passe now over all;
Favoure we have toughther than ony elme,
That wyll abyde and never frome us fall.
But under hony ofte tyme lyeth bytter gall,
For as me thoughte in our shyppe I dyde see
Full subtyll persones in nombre foure and thre.
The fyrste was Favell, full of flatery,
Wyth fables false, that well coude fayne a tale;
The seconde was Suspecte whiche that dayly
Mysdempte eche man, with face deedly and pale;
And Harvy Hafter, that well coude picke a male;
With other foure of theyr affynyte:
Dysdayne, Ryotte, Dyssymuler, Subtylte.
Fortune theyr frende with whome oft she dyde daunce:
They coude not faile, thei thought, they were so sure.
And oftentymes I wolde myselfe avaunce
With them to make solace and pleasure;
But my dysporte they coude not well endure;
They sayde they hated for to dele with Drede.
Than Favell gan wyth fayre speche me to fede.
FAVELL
Noo thynge erthely that I wonder so sore
As of your connynge that is so excellent;
Deynte to have with us suche one in store,
So vertuously that hath his dayes spente.
Fortune to you gyftes of grace hath lente:
Loo, what it is a man to have connynge!
All erthly tresoure it is surmountynge.
Ye be an apte man, as ony can be founde,
To dwell with us and serve my ladyes grace.
Ye be to her, yea, worth a thousande pounde;
I herde her speke of you within shorte space,
Whan there were dyverse that sore dyde you manace.
And though I say it I was myselfe your frende,
For here be dyverse to you that be unkynde.
But this one thynge ye maye be sure of me,
For by that lorde that bought dere all mankynde,
I can not flater, I muste be playne to the.
And ye nede ought, man, shewe to me your mynde,
For ye have me whome faythfull ye shall fynde;
Whyles I have ought, by God, thou shalt not lacke,
And yf nede be, a bolde worde I dare cracke.
Nay, naye, be sure, whyles I am on your syde
Ye maye not fall, truste me, ye maye not fayle.
Ye stonde in favoure and Fortune is your gyde,
And as she wyll so shall our grete shyppe sayle.
Thyse lewde cok wattes shall nevermore prevayle
Ageynste you hardely; therefore be not afrayde,
Farewell tyll soone, but no worde that I sayde.
DREDE
Than thanked I hym for his grete gentylnes,
But as me thoughte he ware on hym a cloke
That lyned was with doubtfuIl doublenes.
Me thoughte of wordes that he had full a poke,
His stomak stuffed ofte tymes dyde reboke.
Suspycyon, me thoughte, mette hym at a brayde,
And I drewe nere to herke what they two sayde.
In fayth, quod Suspecte, spake Drede no worde of me?
Why, what than? wylte thou lete men to speke?
He sayth he can not well accorde with the.
Twyst, quod Suspecte, goo playe, hym I ne reke!
By Cryste, quod Favell, Drede is soleyne freke.
What, lete us holde him up, man, for a whyle.
Ye, soo, quod Suspecte, he maye us bothe begyle.
And whan he came walkynge soberly,
Wyth 'Whom' and 'Ha' and with a croked loke,
Me thoughte his hede was full of gelousy,
His eyen rollynge, his hondes faste they quoke;
And to mewarde the strayte waye he toke.
God spede, broder, to me quod he than,
And thus to talke with me he began:
Ye remembre the gentylman ryghte nowe
That commaunde with you, me thought, a praty space?
Beware of him, for I make God avowe,
He wyll begyle you and speke fayre to your face.
Ye never dwelte in suche an other place,
For here is none that dare well other truste;
But I wolde telle you a thynge, and I durste.
Spake he, a fayth, no worde to you of me?
I wote and he dyde ye wolde me telle.
I have a favoure to you, wherof it be
That I muste shewe you moche of my counselle;
But I wonder what the devyll of helle
He sayde of me, whan he with you dyde talke;
By myne avyse use not with him to walke.
The soveraynst thynge that ony man maye have
Is lytyll to saye and moche to here and see;
For but I trusted you so God me save,
I wolde noo thynge so playne be.
To you oonly, me thynke, I durste shryve me,
For now am I plenarely dysposed
To shewe you thynges that may not be disclosed.
DREDE
Than I assured hym my fydelyte,
His counseyle secrete never to dyscure,
Yf he coude fynde in herte to truste me.
Els I prayed hym with all my besy cure
To kepe it hymselfe, for than he myghte be sure
That noo man erthly coude hym bewreye.
Whyles of his mynde it were lockte with the keye.
By God, quod he, this and thus it is,
And of his mynde he shewed me all and some.
Fare well, quod he, we wyll talke more of this.
Soo he departed there he wolde be come.
I dare not speke, I promysed to be dome.
But as I stode musynge in my mynde,
Harvy Hafter came lepynge, lyghte as lynde.
Upon his breste he bare a versynge boxe;
His throte was clere and lustely coude fayne;
Me thoughte his gowne was all furred wyth foxe;
And ever he sange, Sythe I am no thynge playne.
To kepe him frome pykynge, it was a grete payne;
He gased on me with his gotyshe berde;
Whan I loked on hym, my purse was half aferde.
HERVY HAFTER
Syr, God you save, why loke you so sadde?
VVhat thynge is that I maye do for you?
A wonder thynge that ye waxe not madde.
For and I studye sholde as ye doo nowe,
My wytte wolde waste, I make God avowe.
Tell me your mynde, me thynke ye make a verse,
I coude it skan and ye wolde it reherse.
But to the poynte shortely to procede,
Where hathe your dwellynge ben, er ye cam here?
For as I trowe, I have sene you in dede
Er this, whan that ye made me royall chere.
Holde up the helme, loke up and lete God stere:
I wolde be mery that wynde that ever blowe,
Heve and how, rombelow, Row the bote, Norman, rowe!
Prynces of youghte can ye synge by rote?
Or Shall I sayle wyth you a felashyp assaye?
For on the booke I can not synge a note,
Wolde to God it wolde please you some daye
A balade boke before me for to laye,
And leme me to synge Re my fa sol!
And whan I fayle bobbe me on the noll.
Loo, what is to you a pleasure grete
To have that connynge and wayes that ye have;
By Goddis soule, I wonder how ye gete
Soo greate pleasyre or who to you it gave.
Syr, pardone me, I am an homely knave
To be with you thus perte and thus bolde;
But ye be welcome to our housholde.
And I dare saye there is no man hereinne
But wolde be glad of your company:
I wyste never man that so soone coude wynne
The favoure that ye have with my lady.
I praye to God that it maye never dy;
It is your fortune for to have that grace,
As I be saved, it is a wonder case.
For as for me, I served here many a daye,
And yet unneth I can have my lyvynge—
But I requyre you no worde that I saye.
For, and I knowe ony erthly thynge
That is agayne you, ye shall have wetynge;
And ye be welcome, syr, so God me save,
I hope here after a frende of you to have.
DREDE
Wyth that, as he departed soo fro me,
Anone ther mette with him, as me thoughte,
A man, but wonderly besene was he:
He loked hawte, he sette eche man at noughte,
His gawdy garment with scornnys was all wrought;
With Indygnacyon lyned was his hode;
He frowned as he wolde swere by Cockes blode.
He bote the lyppe, he loked passynge coye,
His face was belymmed as byes had him stounge;
It was no tyme with him to jape nor toye.
Envye hathe wasted his lyver and his lounge,
Hatred by the herte so had hym wrounge
That he loked pale as asshes to my syghte;
Dysdayne, I wene, this comerous carkes hyghte.
To Hervy Hafter than he spake of me,
And I drewe nere to harke what they two sayde.
Now, quod Dysdayne, as I shall saved be,
I have grete scorne and am ryghte evyll apayed.
Than, quod Hervy, why arte thou so dysmayde?
By Cryste, quod he, for it is shame to saye,
To see Johan Dawes that came but yesterdaye
How he is now taken in conceyte,
This Doctour Dawcocke, Drede, I wene he hyghte.
By Goddis bones, but yf we have som sleyte,
It is lyke he wyll stonde in our lyghte.
By God, quod Hervy, and it so happen myghte.
Lete us therfore shortely at a worde
Fynde some mene to caste him over the borde.
By him that me boughte, than quod Dysdayne,
I wonder sore he is in suche cenceyte.
Turde, quod Hafter, I wyll the nothynge fayne,
There muste for hym be layde some prety beyte.
We tweyne, I trowe, be not withoute dysceyte:
Fyrste pycke a quarell and fall oute with hym then,
And soo outface hym with a carde of ten.
Forthwith he made on me a prowde assawte,
With scornfull loke meuyd all in moode.
He wente aboute to take me in a fawte;
He frounde, he stared, he stampped where he stoode.
I loked on hym, I wende he had be woode.
He set the arme proudly under the syde,
And in this wyse he gan with me to chyde.
DISDAYNE
Remembrest thou what thou sayd yesternyght?
Wylt thou abyde by the wordes agayne?
By God, I have of the now grete dyspyte;
I shall the angre ones in every vayne.
It is greate scorne to see suche an hayne
As thou arte, one that cam but yesterdaye,
With us olde servauntes such maysters to playe.
I tell the I am of countenaunce;
What weneste I were? I trowe thou knowe not me.
By Goddis woundes but for dysplesaunce
Of my querell soone wolde I venged be.
But, no force, I shall ones mete with the;
Come whan it wyll, oppose the I shall,
Whatsomever aventure therof fall.
Trowest thou, drevyll, I saye, thou gawdy knave,
That I have deynte to see the cherysshed thus?
By Goddis syde, my sworde thy berde shall shave!
Well, ones thou shalte be chermed, I wus.
Naye, strawe for tales, thou shalte not rule us,
We be thy betters and so thou shalte us take,
Or we shall the oute of thy clothes shake!
DREDE
Wyth that came Ryotte russhynge all at ones,
A rusty gallande, to ragged and to rente,
And on the borde he whyrled a payre of bones;
Quater treye dews, he clatered as he wente:
Now have at all, by Saynte Thomas of Kente.
And ever he threwe, and kyst I wote nere what,
His here was growen thorowe oute his hat.
cast I never knew what
Thenne I behelde how he dysgysed was,
His hede was hevy for watchynge overnyghte,
His eyen blereed, his face shone lyke a glas,
His gowne so shorte that it ne cover myghte
His rumpe, he wente so all for somer lyghte;
His hose was garded wyth a lyste of grene,
Yet at the knee they were broken, I wene.
somer lyghte: dressed for summer. lyste: strip
His cote was checked with patches rede and blewe,
Of Kyrkeby Kendall was his shorte demye;
And ay he sange, In fayth, Decon, thou crewe.
His elbowe bare, he ware his gere so nye,
His nose a.droppynge, his lyppes were full drye,
And by his syde his whynarde and his pouche,
The Devyll myghte daunce therin for ony crowche.
Counter he coude (O lux) upon a potte,
An eestryche fedder of a capons tayle
He set up fresshely upon his hat alofte;
What, revell route, quod he, and gan to rayle
How ofte he hadde hit Jenet on the tayle,
Of Felyce fetewse and lytell prety Cate,
How ofte he knocked at her klycked gate.
What sholde I tell more of his rebaudrye?
I was ashamed so to here hym prate,
He had no pleasure but in harlotrye.
Ay, quod he, in the devylles date,
What arte thou? I sawe the nowe but late.
Forsothe, quod I, in this courte I dwell nowe.
Welcome, quod Ryote, I make God avowe.
RYOTE
And, syr, in fayth, why comste not us amonge
To make the mery, as other felowes done?
Thou muste swere and stare, man, aldaye longe,
And wake all nyghte and slepe tyll it be none;
Thou mayste not studye or muse on the mone.
This worlde is nothynge but ete, drynke and slepe,
And thus with us good company to kepe.
Plucke up thyne herte upon a mery pyne,
And lete us laugh a placke or tweyne at nale;
What the devyll, man, myrthe was never one.
What, loo, man, see here of dyce a bale;
A brydelynge caste for that is in thy male!
Now have at all that lyeth upon the burde,
Fye on this dyce, they be not worth a turde!
Have at the hasarde or at the dosen browne,
Or els I pas a peny to a pounde;
Now wolde to God thou wolde leye money downe!
Lorde, how that I wolde caste it full rounde!
Ay, in my pouche a buckell I have founde,
The armes of Calyce, I have no coyne nor crosse,
I am not happy, I renne ay on the losse!
Now renne muste I to the stewys syde,
To wete yf Malkyn, my lemman, have gete oughte:
I lete her to hyre that men maye on her ryde,
Her harnes easy ferre and nere is soughte.
By Goddis sydes, syns I her thyder broughte,
She hath gote me more money with her tayle
Than hath some shyppe that into Bordews sayle.
Had I as good an hors as she is a mare,
I durste aventure to journey thorugh Fraunce;
Who rydeth on her, he nedeth not to care,
For she is trussed for to breke a launce.
It is a curtel that well can wynche and praunce;
To her wyll I nowe all my poverte lege.
And tyll I come have, here is myne hat to plege.
DREDE
Gone is this knave, this rybaude foule and leude;
He ran as fast as ever that he myghte.
Unthryftynes in hym may well be shewed,
For whome Tyborne groneth both daye and nyghte.
And as I stode and kyste asyde my syghte,
Dysdayne I sawe with Dyssymulacyon,
Standynge in sadde communicacion.
But there was poyntynge and noddynge with the hede,
And many wordes sayde in secrete wyse;
They wandred ay and stode styll in no stede.
Me thoughte, alwaye Dyscymular dyde devyse;
Me, passynge sore, myne herte than gan aryse,
I dempte and drede theyr talkynge was not good.
Anone Dyscymular came where I stode.
Than in his hode I sawe there faces tweyne,
That one was lene and lyke a pyned goost,
That other loked as he wolde me have slayne.
And to mewarde as he gan for to coost,
Whan that he was even at me almoost,
I sawe a knyfe hyd in his one sIeve,
Wheron was wryten this worde, myscheve.
And in his other sleve, me thought I sawe
A spone of golde, full of hony swete,
To fede a fole, and for to preye a dawe.
And on that sleve these wordes were wrete,
A false abstracte cometh from a fals concrete.
His hode was syde, his cope was roset graye,
Thyse were the wordes he to me dyde saye:
DYSSYMULATION
How do ye, mayster? Ye loke so soberly,
As I be saved at the dredefull daye,
It is a perylous vyce, this envy.
Alas, a connynge man ne dwelle maye
In no place well, but foles with hym fraye.
But as for that, connynge hath no foo
Save hym that nought can: scrypture sayth soo.
I knowe your vertu and your lytterkture
By that lytel connynge that I have;
Ye be malygned sore, I you ensure
But ye have crafte your selfe alwaye to save.
It is grete scorne to se a mysproude knave
With a clerke that connynge is to prate:
Lete theym go lowse theym, in the devylles date.
For allbeit that this longe not to me,
Yet on my backe I bere suche lewde delynge;
Ryghte now I spake with one, I trowe, I see—
But, what, a strawe! I maye not tell all thynge.
By God, I saye, there is grete herte brennynge
Betwene the persone ye wote of, you—
Alas, I coude not dele so with a Jew!
is not my business
I wolde eche man were as playne as I,
It is a worlde, I saye, to here of some;
I hate this faynynge, fye upon it, fye!
A man can not wote where to become;
Iwys I coude tell—but humlery, home,
I dare not speke, we be so layde awayte,
For all our courte is full of dysceyte.
Now, by Saynte Fraunceys, that holy man and frer
I hate this wayes agayne you that they take!
Were I as you, I wolde ryde them full nere,
And by my trouthe but yf an ende they make,
Yet wyll I saye some wordes for your sake
That shall them angre, I holde thereon a grote,
For some shall wene be hanged by the throte.
I bet money on it
I have a stoppyng oyster in my poke,
Truste me and yf it come to a nede;
But I am lothe for to reyse a smoke,
Yf ye coude be otherwyse agrede;
And so I wolde it were, so God me spede,
For this maye brede to a confusyon,
Withoute God make a good conclusyon.
Naye, see where yonder stondeth the teder man,
A flaterynge knave and false he is, God wote;
The drevyll stondeth to herken and he can.
It were more thryft he boughte him a newe cote;
It wyll not be, his purse is not on flote.
All that he wereth it is borowed ware,
His wytte is thynne, his hode is threde-bare.
More coude I saye, but what this is ynowe;
Adewe tyll soone, we shall speke more of this.
Ye muste be ruled as I shall tell you howe,
Amendis maye be of that is now amys.
And I am your, syr, so have I blys,
In every poynte that I can do or saye.
Gyve me your honde, fare well and have good daye.
DREDE
Sodaynly, as he departed me fro,
Came pressynge in one in a wonder araye;
Er I was ware, behynde me he sayde Bo!
Thenne I, astonyed of that sodeyne fraye,
Sterte all at ones. I lyked no thynge his playe,
For yf I had not quyckely fledde the touche,
He had plucte oute the nobles of my pouche.
He was trussed in a garmente strayte
(I have not sene suche anothers page)
For he coude well upon a casket wayte,
His hode all pounsed and garded lyke a cage.
Lyghte lyme fynger, he toke none other wage.
Harken, quod he, loo here myne honde in thyne,
To us welcome thou arte, by Saynte Quyntyne.
DISCEYTE
But by that Lorde that is one, two and thre,
I have an errande to rounde in your ere.
He tolde me so, by God, ye maye truste me.
Parde, remembre whan ye were there,
There I wynked on you, wote ye not where?
In (A) loco, I mene juxta (B),
Woo is hym that is blynde and maye not see!
But to here the subtylte and the crafte,
As I shall tell you, yf ye wyll harke agayne:
And whan I sawe the horsons wolde you hafte,
To holde myne honde, by God, I had grete payne;
For forthwyth there I had him slayne,
But that I drede mordre wolde come oute;
Who deleth with shrewes hath nede to loke aboute.
DREDE
And as he rounded thus in myne ere
Of false collusyon confetryd by assente,
Me thoughte I see lewde felawes here and there
Game for to slee me of mortall entente.
And as they came, the shyphorde faste I hente,
And thoughte to lepe, and even with that woke,
Caughte penne and ynke, and wroth this lytyll boke.
I wolde therwith no man were myscontente,
Besechynge you that shall it see or rede,
In every poynte to be indyfferente,
Syth all in substaunce of slumbrynge doth procede.
I wyll not saye it is mater in dede,
But yet oftyme suche dremes be founde trewe;
Now constrewe ye what is the resydewe.
poem by John Skelton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Eclogue The First
WHANNE Englonde, smeethynge from her lethal wound;
From her galled necke dyd twytte the chayne awaie,
Kennynge her legeful sonnes falle all arounde,
(Myghtie theie fell, 'twas Honoure ledde the fraie,)
Thanne inne a dale, bie eve's dark surcote graie
Twayne lonelie shepsterres dyd abrodden flie,
(The rostlyng liff doth theyr whytte hartes affraie ,)
And wythe the owlette trembled and dyd crie;
Firtse Roberte Neatherde hys sore boesom stroke,
Then fellen on the grounde and thus yspoke.
ROBERTE.
Ah, Raufe! gif thos the howres do comme alonge,
Gif thos wee flie in chase of farther woe,
Oure fote wylle fayle, albeytte wee bee stronge,
Ne wylle oure pace swefte as oure danger goe.
To oure grete wronges we have enheped moe,
The Baronnes warre! oh! woe and well-a-daie!
I haveth lyff, bott have escaped soe,
That lyff ytsel mie Senses doe affraie.
Oh Raufe, comme lyste, and hear mie dernie tale,
Comme heare the balefull dome of Robynne of the Dale.
RAUFE.
Saie to mee nete; I kenne this woe in myne;
O! I've a tale that Sabalus mote telle.
Swote flouretts, mantled meedows, forestes dygne ;
Gravots far-kend arounde the Errmiets cell;
The swote ribible dynning yn the dell;
The joyous daunceynge ynn the hoastrie courte;
Eke the highe songe and everych joie farewell,
Farewell the verie shade of fayre dysporte :
Impestering trobble onn mie heade doe comme,
Ne on kynde Seyncte to warde the aye encreasynge dome.
ROBERTE.
Oh! I coulde waile mie kynge-coppe-decked mees
Mie spreedynge flockes of shepe of lillie white,
Mie tendre applynges , and embodyde trees,
Mie Parker's Grange far spreedynge to the syghte,
Mie cuyen kyne , mie bullockes stringe yn fighte,
Mie gorne emblaunched with the comfreie plante,
Mie floure Seyncte Marie shotteyng wythe the lyghte,
Mie store of all the blessynges Heaven can grant.
I amm duressed unto sorrowes blowe,
Ihanten'd to the peyne, will lette ne salte teare flowe.
RAUFE.
Here I wille obaie untylle Dethe doe 'pere,
Here lyche a foule empoysoned leathel tree,
Whyche sleaeth everichone that commeth nere,
Soe wille I fyxed unto thys place gre .
I to bement haveth moe cause than thee;
Sleene in the warre mie boolie fadre lies;
Oh! joieous I hys mortherer would slea,
And bie hys syde for aie enclose myne eies.
Calked from everych joie, heere wylle I blede;
Fell ys the Cullys-yatte of mie hartes castle stede.
ROBERTE.
Oure woes alyche, alyche our dome shal bee.
Mie sonne, mie sonne alleyn , ystorven ys;
Here wylle I staie, and end mie lyff with thee;
A lyff lyche myn a borden ys ywis.
Now from een logges fledden is selyness
Mynsterres alleyn can boaste the hallie Seyncte,
Now doeth Englonde weare a bloudie dresse
And wyth her champyonnes gore her face depeyncte;
Peace fledde, disorder sheweth her dark rode ,
And thorow ayre doth flie, yn garments steyned with bloude.
poem by Thomas Chatterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bristowe Tragedie: Or The Dethe Of Syr Charles Badwin
THE featherd songster chaunticleer
Han wounde hys bugle horne,
And tolde the earlie villager
The commynge of the morne.
Kynge EDWARDE sawe the ruddie streakes
Of lyghte eclypse the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.
'Thou'rt ryght,' quod hee, 'for, by the Godde
That syttes enthron'd on hyghe!
CHARLES BAWDIN, and hys fellowes twain,
To-daie shall surelie die.
Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale
Hys Knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite;
'Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie
'Hee leaves thys mortall state.'
Syr CANTERLONE thenne bendedd low;
Wythe harte brymm-fulle of woe;
Hee journey'd to the castle-gate,
And to Syr CHARLES dydd goe.
Butt whenne hee came, hys children twaine,
And eke hys lovynge wyfe,
Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,
For goode Syr CHARLESES lyfe.
'O goode Syr CHARLES!' sayd CANTERLONE,
'Badde tydyngs I doe brynge.'
'Speke boldlie, manne,' sayd brave Syr CHARLES,
'Whatte says thie traytor kynge?'
'I greeve to telle, before yonne sonne
Does fromme the welkinn flye,
Hee hath uponne hys honour sworne,
Thatt thou thalt surelie die.'
'Wee all must die, quod brave Syr CHARLES;
'Of thatte I'm not affearde;
'Whatte bootes to lyve a little space?
'Thanke JESU, I'm prepar'd.
'Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not,
'I'de sooner die to-daie
'Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,
'Tho' I shoulde lyve for aie.'
Thenne CANTERLONE hee dydd goe out,
To telle the maior straite
To gett all thynges ynne reddyness
For goode Syr CHARLESES fate.
Thenne Maisterr CANYNGE saughte the kynge,
And felle down onne hys knee;
'I'm come,' quod hee, 'unto your grace
'To move your clemencye.'
Thenne quod the kynge, 'Youre tale speke out,
'You have been much oure friende;
'Whatever youre request may bee,
'Wee wylle to ytte attende.'
'My nobile leige! alle my request
'Ys for a nobile knyghte,
'Who, tho' may hap hee has donne wronge,
'He thoghte ytte stylle was ryghte.
'Hee has a spouse and children twaine,
'Alle rewyn'd are for aie;
'Yff thatt you are resolv'd to lett
'CHARLES BAWDIN die to-daie.'
'Speke nott of such a traytour vile,'
The kynge ynne furie sayde;
'Before the evening starre doth sheene,
'BAWDIN shall loose hys hedde.
'Justice does loudlie for hym calle,
'And hee shalle have hys meede:
'Speke, Maister CANYNGE! Whatte thynge else
'Att present doe you neede?
'My nobile leige!' goode CANYNGE sayde,
'Leave justice to our Godde,
'And laye the yronne rule asyde;
'Be thyne the olyve rodde.
'Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines,
'The best were synners grete;
'CHRIST'S vycarr only knowes ne synne,
'Ynne alle thys mortall state.
'Lett mercie rule thyne infante reign;
''Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure;
'From race to race thy familie
'Alle sov'reigns shall endure.
'But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou
'Beginne thy infante reign;
'Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows
'Wylle never long remayne.'
'CANYNGE, awaie! thys traytour vile
'Has scorn'd my power and mee;
'Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne
'Intreate my clemencye?'
'My nobile leige! the trulie brave
'Wylle val'rous actions prize,
'Respect a brave and nobile mynde,
'Altho' ynne enemies.'
'CANYNGE, awale! By Godde ynne Heav'n
'Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve,
'I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade
'Whilst thys Syr CHARLES dothe lyve.
'By MARIE, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n,
'Thys sunne shall be hys laste.'
Thenne CANYNGE dropt a brinie teare,
And from the presence paste.
Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,
Hee to Syr CHARLES dydd goe,
And satt hymm downe uponne a stoole,
And teares beganne to flowe.
'Wee all must die,' quod brave Syr CHARLES;
'Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne;
'Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate
'Of all wee mortall menne.
'Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul
'Runns overr att thyne eye;
'Is ytte for my most welcome doome
'Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?
Quod godlie CANYNGE, 'I doe weepe,
'Thatt thou so soone must dye;
'And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe;
''Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye.'
'Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye
'From godlie fountaines sprynge;
'Dethe I despise, and alle the power
'Of EDWARDE, traytor kynge.
'Whan throgh the tyrant's welcom means
'I shall resigne my lyfe,
'The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde
'For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.'
'Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,
'Thys was appointed mee;
'Shall mortal manne repyne or grudge
'Whatt Godde ordeynes to bee?
'Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,
'Whan thousands dy'd arounde;
'Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode
'Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde.
'How dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte,
'Thatt cutte the airie waie,
'Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte,
'And close myne eyes for aie?
'And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,
'Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?
'No! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere,
'Bee alle the manne display'd.
'Ah, goddelyke HENRIE! Godde forefende,
'And guarde thee and thye sonne,
'Yff 'tis hys wylle, but yff 'tis nott,
'Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.
'My honest friende, my faulte has beene
'To serve Godde and mye prynce;
'And thatt I no tyme-server am,
'My dethe wylle soone convynce.
'Ynne Londonne citye was I born;
'Of parents of grete note;
'My fadre dydd a nobile armes
'Emblazon onne hys cote.
'I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone
'Where soone I hope to goe;
'Where wee for ever shall bee blest,
'From oute the reech of woe
'Hee taughte mee justice and the laws
'Wyth pitie to unite;
'And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe
'The wronge cause fromm the ryghte.
'Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande
'To feede the hungrie poore,
'Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie
'The hungrie fromme my doore.
'And none can saye, butt alle mye lyfe
'I have hys wordyes kept;
'And summ'd the actyonns of the daie
'Eche nyghte before I slept.
'I have a spouse, goe aske of her,
'Yff I defyl'd her bedde?
'I have a kynge, and none can laie
'Blacke treason onne my hedde.
'Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,
'Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne;
'Whie should I thenne appeare dismay'd
'To leave thys worlde of payne?
'Ne! hapless HENRIE! I rejoyce,
'I shalle ne see thye dethe;
'Moste willynglie ynne thye just cause
'Doe I resign my brethe.
'Oh, fickle people! rewyn'd londe!
'Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;
'Whyle RICHARD'S sonnes exalt themselyes,
'Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.
'Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace,
'And godlie HENRIE'S reigne,
'Thatt you dydd choppe youre easie daies
'For those of bloude and peyne?
'Whatte tho' I onne a sledde bee drawne,
'And mangled by a hynde,
'I doe defye the traytor's pow'r,
'Hee can ne harm my mynde;
'Whatte tho', uphoisted onne a pole,
'Mye lymbes shall rotte ynne ayre,
'And ne ryche monument of brasse
'CHARLES BAWDIN'S name shall bear;
'Yett ynne the holie booke above,
'Whyche tyme can't eate awaie,
'There wythe the sarvants of the Lorde
'Mye name shall lyve for aie.
'Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne
'I leave thys mortall lyfe
'Farewell, vayne worlde, and all that's deare,
'Mye sonnes and lovynge wyfe!
'Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes,
'As e'er the moneth of Maie;
'Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,
'Wyth my dere wyfe to staie.
Quod CANYGE, 'Tys a goodlie thynge
'To bee prepar'd to die;
'And from thys world of peyne and grefe
'To Godde ynne Heav'n to flie.'
And nowe the bell beganne to tolle,
And claryonnes to sounde;
Syr CHARLES hee herde the horses feete
A prauncyng onne the grounde.
And just before the officers,
His lovynge wyfe came ynne,
Weepynge unfeigned teeres of woe,
Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.
'Sweet FLORENCE! nowe I praie forbere
'Ynne quiet lett mee die;
'Praie Godde, thatt ev'ry Christian soule
'Maye looke onne dethe as I.
'Sweet FLORENCE! why these brinie teeres?
'Theye washe my soule awaie,
'And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,
'Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.
''Tys butt a journie I shall goe
'Untoe the lande of blysse;
'Nowe, as a proof of husbande's love,
'Receive thys holie kysse.'
Thenne FLORENCE, fault'ring ynne her saie,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,
'Ah, cruele EDWARDE! bloudie kynge!
'My herte ys welle nyghe broke.
'Ah, sweete Syr CHARLES! why wylt thou goe,
'Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?
'The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,
'Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe.'
And nowe the officers came ynne
To brynge Syr CHARLES awaie
Whoe turnedd toe his lovynge wyfe,
And thus toe her dydd saie
'I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe;
'Truste thou ynne Godde above,
'And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde,
'And ynne theyre hertes hym love.
'Teache them to runne the nobile race
'Thatt I theyre fader runne:
'FLORENCE! shou'd dethe thee take -- adieu!
'Yee officers, leade onne.'
Thenne FLORENCE rav'd as anie madde,
And dydd her tresses tere;
'Oh! staie, mye husbande! lorde! and lyfe!' --
Syr CHARLES thenne dropt a teare.
'Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loud,
Shee fellen onne the floore;
Syr CHARLES exerted alle hys myghte,
And march'd fromm oute the dore.
Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne
Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete;
Lookes, thatt enshone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.
Before hym went the council-menne,
Ynne scarlett robes and golde
And tassils spanglynge ynne the sunne,
Muche glorious to beholde.
The Freers of Seincte AUGUSTYNE next
Appeared to the fyghte,
Alle cladd ynne homelie russett weedes,
Of godlie monkysh plyghte.
Ynne diffraunt parts a godlie psaume
Moste sweetlie theye dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backes syx mynstrelles came,
Who tun'd the strunge bataunt.
Thenne fyve-and-twentye archers came;
Echone the bowe dydd bende,
From rescue of kynge HENRIES friends
Syr CHARLES forr to defend.
Bolde as a lyon came Syr CHARLES;
Drawne onne a clothe-layde sledde,
Bye two blacke stedes ynne trappynges white,
Wyth plumes uponne theyre hedde.
Behynde hym fyve-and-twentye moe
Of archers stronge and stoute,
Wyth bended bowe echone ynne hande,
Marched ynne goodlie route.
Seincte JAMESES Freers marched next,
Echone hys parte dydd chaunt;
Behynde theyre backs syx mynstrelles came,
Who tun'd the strunge bataunt.
Thenne came the maior and eldermenne,
Ynne clothe of scarlett deck't;
And theyre attendyng menne echone,
Lyke Easterne princes trickt.
And after them, a multitude
Of citizenns dydd thronge;
The wyndowes were alle fulle of heddes,
As hee dydd passe alonge.
And whenne hee came to the hyghe crosse,
Syr CHARLES dydd turne and saie,
O Thou, thatt savest manne fromme synne,
Wasshe mye soule clean thys daie!
Att the grete mynsterr wyndowe sat
The kynge ynne myckle state,
To see CHARLES BAWDIN goe alonge,
To hys most welcom fate.
Soone as the sledde drewe nyghe enowe,
Thatt EDWARDE hee myghte heare,
The brave Syr CHARLES hee dydd stande uppe,
And thus hys wordes declare.
'Thou seest me; EDWARDE! traytour vile!
'Expos'd to infamie;
'Butt bee assur'd, disloyall manne
'I'm greaterr nowe thanne thee.
'Bye foule proceedyngs, murdre, bloude,
'Thou wearest nowe a crowne;
'And hast appoynted mee to dye,
'By power nott thyne owne.
'Thou thynkest I shall dye to-daie;
'I have beene dede 'till nowe,
'And soone shall lyve to weare a crowne
'For aie uponne my browe:
'Whylst thou, perhapps, for som few yeares,
'Shalt rule thys fickle lande,
'To lett them knowe howe wyde the rule
'Twixt kynge and tyrant hande:
'Thye pow'r unjust, thou traytour slave!
'Shall falle onne thye owne hedde --'
Fromm out of hearyng of the kynge
Departed thenne the sledde.
Kynge EDWARDE'S soule rush'd to hys face,
Hee turn'd hys hedde awaie,
And to hys broder GLOUCESTER
Hee thus dydd speke and saie.
'To hym that soe-much-dreaded dethe
'Ne ghastlie terrors brynge,
'Beholde the manne! hee spake the truthe,
'Hee's greater thanne a kynge!
'Soe lett hym die!' Duke RICHARD sayde;
'And maye echone oure foes
'Bende downe theyre neckes to bloudie axe,
'And feede the carryon crowes.
And nowe the horses gentlie drewe
Syr CHARLES uppe the hyghe hylle;
The axe dydd glysterr ynne the sunne,
Hys pretious bloude to spylle.
Syrr CHARLES dydd uppe the scaffold goe,
As uppe a gilded carre
Of victorye, bye val'rous chiefs
Gayn'd ynne the bloudie warre.
And to the people hee dydd saie,
'Beholde you see mee dye;
'For servynge loyally mye kynge,
'Mye kynge most rightfullie.
As longe as EDWARDE rules thys lande,
'Ne quiet you wylle knowe;
'Youre sonnes and husbandes shalle bee slayne,
'And brookes wythe bloude shalle flowe.
'You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge,
'Whenne ynne adversitye;
'Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,
'And for the true cause dye.
Thenne hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,
A pray'r to Godde dydd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe
Hys partynge soule to take.
Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde
Most seemlie onne the blocke;
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-manne stroke:
And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,
And rounde the scaffolde twyne;
And teares, enow to washe't awaie,
Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne.
The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre
Ynnto foure parties cutte;
And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde,
Uponne a pole was putte.
One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,
One onne the mynster-tower,
And one from off the castle-gate
The crowen dydd devoure:
The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate,
A dreery spectacle;
Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe crosse,
Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile.
Thus was the ende of BAWDIN'S fate:
Godde prosper longe oure kynge,
And grante hee maye, wyth BAWDIN'S soule,
Ynne heav'n Godd's mercie synge!
poem by Thomas Chatterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bowge of Courte
In Autumpne whan the sonne in vyrgyne
By radyante hete enryped hath our corne
Whan luna full of mutabylyte
As Emperes the dyademe hath worne
Of our pole artyke smylynge halfe in scorne
At our foly and our vnstedfastnesse
The tyme whan Mars to werre hym dyd dres
I callynge to mynde the great auctoryte
Of poetes olde whyche full craftely
Under as couerte termes as coude be
Can touche a troughte and cloke it subtylly
Wyth fresshe vtteraunce full sentencyously
Dyuerse in style some spared not vyce to wrythe
Some of moralyte nobly dyde endyte
Wherby I rede theyr renome and theyr fame
Maye neuer dye bute euermore endure
I was sore moued to a force the same
But Ignoraunce full soone dyde me dyscure
And shewed that in this arte I was not sure
For to Illumyne she sayde I was to dulle
Auysynge me my penne awaye to pulle
And not to wrythe/ for he so wyll atteyne
Excedynge ferther than his connynge is
His hede maye be harde but feble is his brayne
Yet haue I knowen suche er this
But of reproche surely he maye not mys
That clymmeth hyer than he may fotynge haue
What and he slyde downe who shall hym saue
Thus vp & down my mynde was drawen & cast
That I ne wyste what to do was beste
Soo sore enwered that I was at the laste
Enforsed to slepe and for to take some reste
And to lye downe as soone as I me dreste
At harwyche porte slumbrynge as I laye
In myne hostes house called powers keye
Me thoughte I sawe a shyppe goodly of sayle
Come saylynge forth into that hauen brood
Her takelynge ryche and of hye apparayle
She kyste an anker and there she laye at rode
Marchauntes her borded to see what she had lode
Therein they founde Royall marchaundyse
Fraghted with plesure of what ye coude deuyse
But than I thoughte I wolde not dwell behynde
Amonge all other I put myselfe in prece
Than there coude I none aquentaunce fynde
There was moche noyse anone one cryed cese
Sharpely commaundynge eche man holde hys pece
Maysters he sayde the shyp that ye here see
The bowge of courte it hyghte for certeynte
The awnner therof is lady of estate
Whoos name to tell is dame saunce pere
Her marchaundyse is ryche and fortunate
But who wyll haue it muste paye therfore dere
This Royall chaffre that is shypped here
Is called fauore to stonde in her good grace
Than sholde ye see there pressynge in a pace
Of one and other that wolde this lady see
Whiche sat behynde a traues of sylke fyne
Of golde of tessew the fynest that myghte be
In a trone whiche fer clerer dyde shyne
Than Phebus in his spere celestyne
Whoos beaute honoure goodly porte
I haue to lytyll connynge to reporte
But of eche thynge there as I toke hede
Amonge all other was wrytten in her trone
In golde letters this worde whiche I dyde rede
Garder le fortune que est mauelz et bone
And as I stode redynge this verse myselfe allone
Her chyef gentylwoman daunger by her name
Gaue me a taunte and sayde I was to blame
To be so perte to prese so proudly vppe
She sayde she trowed that I had eten sause
She asked yf euer I dranke of saucys cuppe
And I than softly answered to that clause
That so to saye. I had gyuen her no cause
Than asked she me Syr so god the spede
What is thy name and I sayde it was drede
What mouyd the quod she hydder to come
Forsoth quod I to bye some of youre ware
And with that worde on me she gaue a glome
With browes bente and gan on me to stare
Full daynnously and fro me she dyde fare
Leuynge me stondynge as a mased man
To whome there came another gentylwoman
Desyre her name was and so she me tolde
Sayenge to me broder be of good chere
Abasshe you not but hardely be bolde
Auaunce yourselfe to aproche and come nere
What though our chaffer be neuer so dere
Yet I auyse you to speke for ony drede
Who spareth to speke in fayth he spareth to spede
Maystres quod I. I haue none aquentaunce
That wyll for me be medyatoure and mene
And this another I haue but smale substaunce
Pece quod Desyre ye speke not worth a bene
Yf ye haue not in fayth I wyll you lene
A precyous Iewell no rycher in this londe
Bone auenture haue here now in your honde
Shyfte now therwith let see as ye can
In bowge of courte cheuysaunce to make
For I dare saye that there nys erthly man
But an he can bone auenture take
There can no fauour nor frendshyp hym forsake
Bone auenture may brynge you in suche case
That ye shall stonde in fauoure and in grace
But of one thynge I werne you er I goo
She that styreth the shyp make her your frende
Maystres quod I. I praye you tell me why soo
And how I maye that waye & meanes fynde
Forsothe quod she howeuer blowe the wynde
Fortune gydeth and ruleth all oure shyppe
Whome she hateth shall ouer the seeboorde skyp
Whome she loueth of all plesyre is ryche
Whyles she laugheth and hath luste for to playe
Whome she hateth she casteth in the dyche
For whan she frouneth she thynketh to make a fray
She cheryssheth him and hym she casseth a waye
Alas quod I how myghte I haue her sure
In fayth quod she by bone auenture
Thus in a rowe of martchauntes a grete route
Suwed to fortune that she wold be theyre frynde
They thronge in fast and flocked her aboute
And I with them prayed her to haue in mynde
She promysed to vs all she wolde be kynde
Of bowge of court she asketh what we wold haue
And we asked fauoure/ and fauour she vs gaue
Thus endeth the prologue. And begynneth the bowge of Courte breuely compyled.
Drede
The sayle is vp fortune ruleth our helme
We wante no wynde to passe now ouerall
Fauoure we haue toughther than ony elme
That wyll abyde and neuer frome vs fall
But vnder hony oftetyme lyeth bytter gall
For as methoughte in our shyppe I dyde see
Full subtyll persones in nombre foure and thre
The fyrste was Fauell full of flatery
Wyth fables false that well coude fayne a tale
The seconde was Suspecte whiche that dayly
Mysdempte eche man with face deedly & pale
And Haruy hafter that well coude picke a male
With other foure of theyr affynyte
Dysdayne. Ryotte. Dyssymuler. Subtylte.
Fortune theyr frende with whome oft she dyde daunce
They coude not faile thei thought they were so sure
And oftentymes I wolde myselfe auaunce
With them to make solace and pleasure
But my dysporte they coude not well endure
They sayde they hated for to dele with Drede
Than Fauell gan wyth fayre speche me to fede
Fauell.
Noothynge erthely that I wonder so sore
As of your connynge that is so excellent
Deynte to haue with vs suche one in store
So vertuously that hath his dayes spente
Fortune to you gyftes of grace hath lente
Loo what it is a man to haue connynge
All erthly tresoure it is surmountynge
Ye be an apte man as ony can be founde
To dwell with vs & serue my ladyes grace
Ye be to her yea worth a thousande pounde
I herde her speke of you within shorte space
Whan there were dyuerse that sore dyde you manace
And though I say it I was myselfe your frende
For here be dyuerse to you that be vnkynde
But this one thynge ye maye be sure of me
For by that lorde that bought dere all mankynde
I can not flater I muste be playne to the
And ye nede ought man shewe to me your mynde
For ye haue me whome faythfull ye shall fynde
Whyles I haue ought by god thou shalt not lacke
And yf nede be a bolde worde I dare cracke
Nay naye be sure whyles I am on your syde
Ye maye not fall truste me ye maye not fayle
Ye stonde in fauoure and fortune is your gyde
And as she wyll so shall our grete shyppe sayle
Thyse lewde cokwattes shall neuermore preuayle
Ageynste you hardely therfore be not afrayde
Farewell tyll soone but no worde that I sayde
Drede.
Than thanked I hym for his grete gentylnes
But as methoughte he ware on hym a cloke
That lyned was with doubtfull doublenes
Methoughte of wordes that he had full a poke
His stomak stuffed oftetymes dyde reboke
Suspycyon methoughte mette hym at a brayde
And I drewe nere to herke what they two sayde
In fayth quod suspecte) spake drede no worde of me
Why what than wylte thou lete men to speke
He sayth he can not well accorde with the
Twyst quod suspecte) goo playe hym I ne reke
By cryste quod fauell drede is soleyne freke
What lete vs holde him vp man for a whyle
Ye soo quod suspecte) he maye vs bothe begyle
And whan he came walkynge soberly
Wyth whom/ and /ha/ and with a croked loke
Methoughte his hede was full of gelousy
His eyen rollynge his hondes faste they quoke
And to me warde the strayte waye he toke
God spede broder to me quod he than
And thus to talke with me he began
Suspycyon
Ye remembre the gentylman ryghte nowe
That commaunde with you methought a praty space
Beware of him for I make god auowe
He wyll begyle you and speke fayre to your face
Ye neuer dwelte in suche another place
For here is none that dare well other truste
But I wolde telle you a thynge and I durste
Spake he a fayth no worde to you of me
I wote and he dyde ye wolde me telle
I haue a fauoure to you wherof it be
That I muste shewe you moche of my counselle
But I wonder what the deuyll of helle
He sayde of me whan he with you dyde talke
By myne auyse vse not with him to walke
The soueraynst thynge that ony man maye haue
Is lytyll to saye/ and moche to here and see
For but I trusted you so god me saue
I wolde noothynge so playne be
To you oonly methynke I durste shryue me
For now am I plenarely dysposed
To shewe you thynges that may not be disclosed
Drede
Than I assured hym my fydelyte
His counseyle secrete neuer to dyscure
Yf he coude fynde in herte to truste me
Els I prayed hym with all my besy cure
To kepe it hymselfe for than he myghte be sure
That noo man erthly coude hym bewreye
Whyles of his mynde it were lockte with the keye
By god quod he this and thus it is
And of his mynde he shewed me all and some
Farewell quod he we wyll talke more of this
Soo he departed there he wolde be come
I dare not speke I promysed to be dome
But as I stode musynge in my mynde
Haruy hafter came lepynge lyghte as lynde
Upon his breste he bare a versyngeboxe
His throte was clere and lustely coude fayne
Methoughte his gowne was all furred wyth foxe
And euer he sange/ sythe I am nothynge playne
To kepe him frome pykynge it was a grete payne
He gased on me with his gotyshe berde
Whan I loked on hym my purse was half aferde
Heruy hafter.
Syr god you saue why loke ye so sadde
What thynge is that I maye do for you
A wonder thynge that ye waxe not madde
For and I studye sholde as ye doo nowe
My wytte wolde waste I make god auowe
Tell me your mynde methynke ye make a verse
I coude it skan and ye wolde it reherse
But to the poynte shortely to procede
Where hathe your dwellynge ben er ye cam here
For as I trowe I haue sene you indede
Er this whan that ye made me Royall chere
Holde vp the helme loke vp & lete god stere
I wolde be mery what wynde that euer blowe
Heue & how rombelow row the bote norman rowe
Prynces of youghte can ye synge by rote
Or shall I sayle wyth you a felashyp assaye
For on the booke I can not synge a note
Wolde to god it wolde please you some daye
A baladeboke before me for to laye
And lerne me to synge Re my fa sol
And whan I fayle bobbe me on the noll
Loo what is to you a pleasure grete
To haue that connynge & wayes that ye haue
By goddis soule I wonder how ye gete
Soo greate pleasyre or who to you it gaue
Syr pardone me I am an homely knaue
To be with you thus perte and thus bolde
But ye be welcome to our housholde
And I dare saye there is no man hereInne
But wolde be glad of your company
I wyste neuer man that so soone coude wynne
The fauoure that ye haue with my lady
I praye to god that it maye neuer dy
It is your fortune for to haue that grace
As I be saued it is a wonder case
For as for me I serued here many a daye
And yet vnneth I can haue my lyuynge
But I requyre you no worde that I saye
For and I knowe ony erthly thynge
That is agayne you ye shall haue wetynge
And ye be welcome syr so god me saue
I hope hereafter a frende of you to haue
Drede.
Wyth that as he departed soo fro me
Anone ther mette with him as methoughte
A man/ but wonderly besene was he
He loked hawte he sette eche man at noughte
His gawdy garment with scornnys was all wrought
With Indygnacyon lyned was his hode
He frowned as he wolde swere by cockes blode
He bote the lyppe he loked passynge coye
His face was belymmed as byes had him stounge
It was no tyme with him to Iape nor toye
Enuye hathe wasted hys lyuer and his lounge
Hatred by the herte so had hym wrounge
That he loked pale as asshes to my syghte
Dysdayne I wene this comerous carkes hyghte
To heruy hafter than he spake of me
And I drewe nere to harke what they two sayde
Now quod Dysdayne as I shall saued be
I haue grete scorne & am ryghte euyll apayed
Than quod Heruy why arte thou so dysmayde
By cryste quod he for it is shame to saye
To see Iohan dawes that came but yesterdaye
How he is now taken in conceyte
This doctour dawcocke Drede I wene he hyghte
By goddis bones but yf we haue som sleyte
It is lyke he wyll stonde in our lyghte
By god quod Heruy & it so happen myghte
Lete vs therfore shortely at a worde
Fynde some mene to caste him ouer the borde
By him that me boughte than quod Dysdayne
I wonder sore he is in such conceyte
Turde quod Hafter I wyll the nothynge layne
There muste for hym be layde some prety beyte
We tweyne I trowe be not withoute dysceyte
Fyrste pycke a quarell & fall oute with hym then
And soo outface hym with a carde of ten
Forthwith he made on me a prowde assawte
With scornfull loke meuyd all in moode
He wente aboute to take me in a fawte
He frounde he stared he stampped where he stoode
I loked on hym I wende he had be woode
He set the arme proudly vnder the syde
And in this wyse he gan with me to chyde
Disdayne.
Remembrest thou what thou sayd yesternyght
Wylt thou abyde by the wordes agayne
By god I haue of the now grete dyspyte
I shall the angre ones in euery vayne
It is greate scorne to see suche an hayne
As thou arte one that cam but yesterdaye
With vs olde seruauntes such maysters to playe
I tell the I am of countenaunce
What weneste I were. I trowe thou knowe not me
By goddis woundes but for dysplesaunce
Of my querell soone wolde I venged be
But no force I shall ones mete with the
Come whan it wyll oppose the I shall
Whatsomeuer auenture therof fall
Trowest thou dreuyll I saye thou gawdy knaue
That I haue deynte to see the cherysshed thus
By goddis syde my sworde thy berde shall shaue
Well ones thou shalte be chermed I wus
Naye strawe for tales thou shalte not rule vs
We be thy betters and so thou shalte vs take
Or we shall the oute of thy clothes shake
Drede.
Wyth that came Ryotte russhynge all atones
A rusty gallande to ragged and to rente
And on the borde he whyrled a payre of bones
Quater treye dews he clatered as he wente
Nowe haue at all by saynte Thomas of kente
And euer he threwe & kyst I wote nere what
His here was growen thoroweoute his hat
Thenne I behelde how he dysgysed was
His hede was heuy for watchynge ouernyghte
His eyen blereed his face shone lyke a glas
His gowne so shorte that it ne couer myghte
His rumpe he wente so all for somer lyghte
His hose was garded wyth a lyste of grene
Yet at the knee they were broken I wene
His cote was checked with patches rede & blewe
Of kyrkeby kendall was his shorte demye
And ay he sange in fayth decon thou crewe
His elbowe bare he ware his gere so nye
His nose a droppynge his lyppes were full drye
And by his syde his whynarde & his pouche
The deuyll myghte daunce therin for ony crowche
Counter he coude (O lux) vpon a potte
An eestrychefedder of a capons tayle
He set vp fresshely vpon his hat a lofte
What reuellroute quod he and gan to rayle
How ofte he hadde hit Ienet on the tayle
Of felyce fetewse and lytell prety cate
How ofte he knocked at her klyckedgate
What sholde I tell more of his rebaudrye
I was ashamed so to here hym prate
He had no pleasure but in harlotrye
Ay quod he in the deuylles date
What arte thou I sawe the nowe but late
Forsothe quod I in this courte I dwell nowe
Welcome quod Ryote I make god auowe
Ryote.
And syr in fayth why comste not vs amonge
To make the mery as other felowes done
Thou muste swere and stare man aldaye longe
And wake all nyghte and slepe tyll it be none
Thou mayste not studye or muse on the mone
This worlde is nothynge but ete drynke & slepe
And thus with vs good company to kepe
Plucke vp thyne herte vpon a mery pyne
And lete us laugh a placke or tweyne at nale
What the deuyll man myrthe was neuer one
What loo man see here of dyce a bale
A brydelyngecaste for that is in thy male
Now haue at all that lyeth vpon the burde
Fye on this dyce they be not worth a turde
Haue at the hasarde or at the dosen browne
Or els I pas a peny to a pounde
Now wolde to god thou wolde leye money downe
Lorde how that I wolde caste it full rounde
Ay in my pouche a buckell I haue founde
The armes of calyce I haue no coyne nor crosse
I am not happy I renne ay on the losse
Now renne muste I to the stewys syde
To wete yf malkyn my lemman haue gete oughte
I lete her to hyre that men maye on her ryde
Her harnes easy ferre and nere is soughte
By goddis sydes syns I her thyder broughte
She hath gote me more money with her tayle
Than hath some shyppe that into bordews sayle
Had I as good an hors as she is a mare
I durste auenture to Iourney thorugh Fraunce
Who rydeth on her he nedeth not to care
For she is trussed for to breke a launce
It is a curtel that well can wynche & praunce
To her wyll I nowe all my pouerte lege
And tyll I come haue here is myne hat to plege
Drede
Gone is this knaue this rybaude foule & leude
He ran as fast as euer that he myghte
Unthryftynes in hym may well be shewed
For whome tyborne groneth both daye and nyghte
And as I stode and kyste asyde my syghte
Dysdayne I sawe with Dyssymulacyon
Standynge in sadde communicacion
But there was poyntynge & noddynge with his hede
And many wordes sayde in secrete wyse
They wandred ay and stode styll in no stede
Methoughte alwaye Dyscymular dyde deuyse
Me passynge sore myne herte than gan aryse
I dempte & drede theyr talkynge was not good
Anone dyscymular came where I stode
Than in his hode I sawe there faces tweyne
That one was lene & lyke a pyned goost
That other loked as he wolde me haue slayne
And to mewarde as he gan for to coost
Whan that he was euen at me almoost
I sawe a knyfe hyd in his one sleue
Wheron was wryten this worde myscheue
And in his other sleue methought I sawe
A spone of golde full of hony swete
To fede a fole and for to preye a dawe
And on that sleue these wordes were wrete
A false abstracte cometh from a fals concrete
His hode was syde his cope was roset graye
Thyse were the wordes he to me dyde saye
Dyssymulation
How do ye mayster ye loke so soberly
As I be saued at the dredefull daye
It is a perylous vyce this enuy
Alas a connynge man ne dwelle maye
In no place well but foles with hym fraye
But as for that connynge hath no foo
Saue hym that nought can/ scrypture sayth soo.
I knowe your vertu and your lytterkture
By that lytel connynge that I haue
Ye be malygned sore I you ensure
But ye haue crafte yourselfe alwaye to saue
It is grete scorne to se a mysproude knaue
With a clerke that connynge is to prate
Lete theym go lowse theym in the deuylles date
For allbeit that this longe not to me
Yet on my backe I bere suche lewde delynge
Ryghte now I spake with one I trowe I see
But what a strawe I maye not tell allthynge
By god I saye there is a grete hertebrennynge
Betwene the persone ye wote of you
Alas I coude not dele so with a Iew
I wolde eche man were as playne as I
It is a worlde I saye to here of some
I hate this faynynge fye vpon it fye
A man can not wote where to become
I wys I coude tell but humlery home
I dare not speke we be so layde awayte
For all our courte is full of dysceyte
Now by saynte fraunceys that holy man & frere
I hate this wayes agayne you that they take
Were I as you I wolde ryde them full nere
And by my trouthe but yf an ende they make
Yet wyll I saye some wordes for your sake
That shall them angre I holde thereon a grote
For some shall wene be hanged by the throte
I haue a stoppyngeoyster in my poke
Truste me and yf it come to a nede
But I am lothe for to reyse a smoke
Yf ye coude be otherwyse agrede
And so I wolde it were so god me spede
For this maye brede to a confusyon
Withoute god make a good conclusyon
Naye see where yonder stondeth the teder man
A flaterynge knaue & false he is god wote
The dreuyll stondeth to herken and he can
It were more thryft he boughte him a newe cote
It wyll not be/ his purse is not on flote
All that he wereth it is borowed ware
His wytte is thynne his hode is thredebare
More coude I saye but what this is ynowe
Adewe tyll soone we shall speke more of this
Ye muste be ruled as I shall tell you howe
Amendis maye be of that is now a mys
And I am your syr so haue I blys
In euery poynte that I can do or saye
Gyue me your honde farewell & haue good daye
Drede
Sodaynly as he departed me fro
Came pressynge in one in a wonder araye
Er I was ware behynde me he sayde bo
Thenne I astonyed of that sodeyne fraye
Sterte all at ones I lyked nothynge his playe
For yf I had not quyckely fledde the touche
He had plucte oute the nobles of my pouche
He was trussed in a garmente strayte
I haue not sene suche anothers page
For he coude well vpon a casket wayte
His hode all pounsed and garded lyke a cage
Lyghte lymefynger he toke none other wage
Harken quod he loo here myne honde in thyne
To vs welcome thou arte by saynte Quyntyne
Disceyte.
But by that lorde that is one two and thre
I haue an errande to rounde in your ere
He tolde me so by god ye maye truste me
Parde remembre whan ye were there
There I wynked on you/ wote ye not where
In (A) loco I mene iuxta (B)
Woo is hym that is blynde and maye not see
But to here the subtylte and the crafte
As I shall tell you yf ye wyll harke agayne
And whan I sawe the horsons wolde you hafte
To holde myne honde by god I had grete payne
For forthwyth there I had him slayne
But that I drede mordre wolde come oute
Who deleth with shrewes hath nede to loke aboute
Drede.
And as he rounded thus in myne ere
Of false collusyon confetryd by assente
Methoughte I see lewde felawes here and there
Came for to slee me of mortall entente
And as they came the shypborde faste I hente
And thoughte to lepe/ and euen with that woke
Caughte penne and ynke & wroth this lytyll boke
I wolde therwith no man were myscontente
Besechynge you that shall it see or rede
In euery poynte to be indyfferente
Syth all in substaunce of slumbrynge doth procede
I wyll not saye it is mater indede
But yet oftyme suche dremes be founde trewe
Now constrewe ye what is the resydewe
poem by John Skelton
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The Canterbury Tales; The Milleres Tale
PROLOGUE TO THE MILLERES TALE
Heere folwen the wordes bitwene the Hoost and the Millere
Whan that the Knyght had thus his tale ytoold,
In al the route ne was ther yong ne oold
That he ne seyde it was a noble storie,
And worthy for to drawen to memorie;
And namely the gentils everichon.
Oure Hooste lough, and swoor, 'So moot I gon,
This gooth aright, unbokeled is the male,
Lat se now who shal telle another tale,
For trewely the game is wel bigonne.
Now telleth on, sir Monk, if that ye konne
Somwhat to quite with the Knyghtes tale.'
The Miller that for-dronken was al pale,
So that unnethe upon his hors he sat,
He nolde avalen neither hood ne hat,
Ne abyde no man for his curteisie,
But in Pilates voys he gan to crie,
And swoor by armes and by blood and bones,
'I kan a noble tale for the nones,
With which I wol now quite the Knyghtes tale.'
Oure Hooste saugh that he was dronke of ale,
And seyde, 'Abyd, Robyn, my leeve brother,
Som bettre man shal telle us first another,
Abyd, and lat us werken thriftily.'
'By Goddes soule,' quod he, 'that wol nat I,
For I wol speke, or elles go my wey.'
Oure Hoost answerde, 'Tel on, a devele wey!
Thou art a fool, thy wit is overcome!
'Now herkneth,' quod the Miller, 'alle and some,
But first I make a protestacioun
That I am dronke, I knowe it by my soun;
And therfore, if that I mysspeke or seye,
Wyte it the ale of Southwerk I you preye.
For I wol telle a legende and a lyf
Bothe of a carpenter and of his wyf,
How that a clerk hath set the wrightes cappe.'
The Rev answerde and seyde, 'Stynt thy clappe,
Lat be thy lewed dronken harlotrye,
It is a synne and eek a greet folye
To apeyren any man or hym defame,
And eek to bryngen wyves in swich fame;
Thou mayst ynogh of othere thynges seyn.'
This dronke Miller spak ful soone ageyn,
And seyde, 'Leve brother Osewold,
Who hath no wyf, he is no cokewold.
But I sey nat therfore that thou art oon,
Ther been ful goode wyves many oon,
And evere a thousand goode ayeyns oon badde;
That knowestow wel thyself, but if thou madde.
Why artow angry with my tale now?
I have a wyf, pardee, as wel as thow,
Yet nolde I for the oxen in my plogh
Take upon me moore than ynogh,
As demen of myself that I were oon;
I wol bileve wel, that I am noon.
An housbonde shal nat been inquisityf
Of Goddes pryvetee, nor of his wyf.
So he may fynde Goddes foysoun there,
Of the remenant nedeth nat enquere.'
What sholde I moore seyn, but this Miller
He nolde his wordes for no man forbere,
But tolde his cherles tale in his manere;
Me thynketh that I shal reherce it heere.
And therfore every gentil wight I preye,
For Goddes love, demeth nat that I seye
Of yvel entente, but that I moot reherce
Hir tales alle, be they bettre or werse,
Or elles falsen som of my mateere.
And therfore who-so list it nat yheere,
Turne over the leef, and chese another tale;
For he shal fynde ynowe, grete and smale,
Of storial thyng that toucheth gentillesse,
And eek moralitee, and hoolynesse.
Blameth nat me if that ye chese amys;
The Miller is a cherl, ye knowe wel this,
So was the Reve, and othere manye mo,
And harlotrie they tolden bothe two.
Avyseth yow, and put me out of blame,
And eek men shal nat maken ernest of game.
THE TALE
(One John, a rich and credulous carpenter of Oxford, is
beguiled by his wife Alison, through Nicholas, a poor
scholar boarding with them. Absolon, the parish clerk, is
slighted by Alison; but wreaks vengeance on Nicholas.)
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Of Too Much Spekynge Or Bablynge
He that his tunge can temper and refrayne
And asswage the foly of hasty langage
Shall kepe his mynde from trouble, sadnes and payne,
And fynde therby great ease and avauntage;
Where as a hasty speker falleth in great domage
Peryll and losse, in lyke wyse as the pye
Betrays hir byrdes by hir chatrynge and crye....
Is it not better for one his tunge to kepe
Where as he myght (perchaunce) with honestee,
Than wordes to speke whiche make hym after wepe
For great losse folowynge wo and adversyte?
A worde ones spokyn revoked can not be,
Therfore thy fynger lay before thy types,
For a wyse mannys tunge without advysement trypes.
He that wyll answere of his owne folysshe brayne
Before that any requyreth his counsayle
Shewith him selfe and his hasty foly playne,
Wherby men knowe his wordes of none avayle.
Some have delyted in mad blaborynge and frayle
Whiche after have supped bytter punysshement
For their wordes spoken without advysement....
Many have ben whiche sholde have be counted wyse
Sad and discrete, and right well sene in scyence;
But all they have defyled with this one vyse
Of moche spekynge: o cursyd synne and offence
Ryte it is that so great inconvenience
So great shame, contempt rebuke and vylany
Sholde by one small member came to the hole body.
Let suche take example by the chatrynge pye,
Whiche doth hyr nest and byrdes also betraye
By hyr grete chatterynge, clamoure dyn and crye,
Ryght so these folys theyr owne foly bewraye.
But touchynge wymen of them I wyll nought say,
They can not speke, but ar as coy and styll
As the horle wynde or clapper of a mylle.
poem by Sebastian Brant
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesly
Part the First
Mery it was in the grene forest
Amonge the leves grene,
Wheras men hunt east and west,
Wyth bowes and arrowes kene,
To ryse the dere out of theyr denne,
Suche sightes hath ofte bene sene,
As by thre yemen of the north countrey,
By them it is I meane.
The one of them hight Adam Bel,
The other Clym of the Clough,
The thyrd was William of Cloudesly,
An archer good ynough.
They were outlawed for venyson,
These yemen everychone;
They swore them brethren upon a day,
To Englyshe-wood for to gone.
Now lith and lysten, gentylmen,
That of myrthes loveth to here:
Two of them were single men,
The third had a wedded fere.
Wyllyam was the wedded man,
Muche more then was hys care:
He sayde to hys brethren upon a day,
To Carleile he would fare,
For to speke with fayre Alyce his wife,
And with hys chyldren thre.
'By my trouth,' sayde Adam Bel,
'Not by the counsell of me.
'For if ye go to Carleile, brother,
And from thys wylde wode wende,
If the justice may you take,
Your lyfe were at an ende.'
'If that I come not to-morrowe, brother,
By pryme to you agayne,
Truste you then that I am 'taken,'
Or else that I am slayne.'
He toke hys leave of hys brethren two,
And to Carleile he is gon;
There he knocked at hys owne windowe,
Shortlye and anone.
'Wher be you, fayre Alyce,' he sayd,
'My wife and chyldren thre?
Lyghtly let in thyne owne husbande,
Wyllyam of Cloudesle.'
'Alas!' then sayde fayre Alyce,
And syghed wonderous sore,
'Thys place hath been besette for you,
Thys halfe yere and more.'
'Now am I here,' sayde Cloudesle,
'I would that in I were:
Now fetche us meate and drynke ynoughe,
And lets make good chere.'
She fetched hym meate and drynke plentye,
Lyke a true wedded wyfe,
And pleased hym wyth that she had,
Whome she loved as her lyfe.
There lay an old wyfe in that place,
A lytle besyde the fyre,
Whych Wyllyam had found, of charytye,
More than seven yere.
Up she rose and forth she goes,
Evill mote she speede therfore,
For she had sett no fote on ground
In seven yere before.
She went unto the justice-hall,
As fast as she could hye:
'Thys night,' shee sayd, 'is come to town
Wyllyam of Cloudesle.'
Thereof the justice was full fayne,
And so was the shirife also;
'Thou shalt not trauaile hether, dame, for nought,
Thy meed thou shalt have ore thou go.'
They gave to her a ryght good goune
Of scarlate, 'and of graine:'
She toke the gyft and home she wente,
And couched her doune agayne.
They rysed the towne of mery Carleile
In all the haste they can,
And came thronging to Wyllyames house,
As fast as they might gone.
There they besette that good yeman,
Round about on every syde,
Wyllyam hearde great noyse of folkes,
That thither-ward fast hyed.
Alyce opened a back-wyndow,
And loked all aboute,
She was ware of the justice and shirife bothe,
Wyth a full great route.
'Alas! treason,' cryed Alyce,
'Ever wo may thou be!
Goe into my chamber, husband,' she sayd,
'Swete Wyllyam of Cloudesle.'
He toke hys sweard and hys bucler,
Hys bow and hys chyldren thre,
And wente into hys strongest chamber,
Where he thought the surest to be.
Fayre Alyce, like a lover true,
Took a pollaxe in her hande:
Said, 'He shal dye that cometh in
Thys dore, whyle I may stand.'
Cloudesle bente a right good bowe,
That was of a trusty tre,
He smot the justise on the brest,
That hys arowe brest in thre.
''A' curse on his harte,' saide William,
'Thys day thy cote dyd on;
If it had ben no better then meyne,
It had gone nere thy bone.'
'Yelde the, Cloudesle,' sayd the justise,
'And thy bowe and thy arrowes the fro.'
''A' curse on hys hart,' sayd fair Alyce,
'That my husband councelleth so.'
'Set fyre on the house,' saide the sherife,
'Syth it wyll no better be,
And brenne we therin William,' he saide,
'Hys wyfe and chyldren thre.'
They fyred the house in many a place,
The fyre flew up on hye;
'Alas!' then cryed fayre Alice,
'I se we here shall dy.'
William openyd a backe wyndow,
That was in hys chamber hye,
And there with sheetes he did let downe
His wyfe and chyldren thre.
'Have here my treasure,' sayde William,
'My wyfe and my chyldren thre,
For Christes love do them no harme,
But wreke you all on me.'
Wyllyam shot so wondrous well,
Tyll hys arrowes were all agoe,
And the fyre so fast upon hym fell,
That hys bowstryng brent in two.
The sparkles brent and fell upon
Good Wyllyam of Cloudesle;
Than was he a wofull man, and sayde,
'This is a cowardes death to me.
'Lever had I,' sayde Wyllyam,
'With my sworde in the route to renne,
Then here among myne enemyes wode,
Thus cruelly to bren.'
He toke hys sweard and hys buckler,
And among them all he ran;
Where the people were most in prece,
He smot downe many a man.
There myght no man abyde hys stroke,
So fersly on them he ran;
Then they threw wyndowes and dores on him,
And so toke that good yeman.
There they hym bounde both hand and fote,
And in depe dungeon hym cast;
'Now Cloudesle,' sayd the justice,
'Thou shalt be hanged in hast.'
''A payre of new gallowes,'' sayd the sherife,
''Now shal I for the make;'
And the gates of Carleil shal be shutte:
No man shal come in therat.
'Then shall not helpe Clym of the Cloughe,
Nor yet shall Adam Bell,
Though they came with a thousand mo,
Nor all the devels in hell.'
Early in the mornynge the justice uprose,
To the gates first gan he gon,
And commaunded to be shut full close
Lightile everychone.
Then went he to the market place,
As fast as he coulde hye;
A payre of new gallowes there he set up
Besyde the pyllorye.
A lytle boy 'amonge them asked,'
'What meaneth that gallow-tre?'
They sayde 'to hange a good yeman,
Called Wyllyam of Cloudesle.'
That lytle boye was the towne swyne-heard,
And kept fayre Alyces swyne;
Oft he had seene William in the wodde,
And geuen hym there to dyne.
He went out att a crevis in the wall,
And lightly to the woode dyd gone;
There met he with these wightye yemen
Shortly and anone.
'Alas!' then sayde that lytle boye,
'Ye tary here all to longe;
Cloudesle is taken and dampned to death,
All readye for to honge.'
'Alas!' then sayd good Adam Bell,
'That ever we see thys daye!
He had better with us have taryed,
So ofte as we dyd hym praye.
'He myght have dwelt in grene foreste,
Under the shadowes grene,
And have kepte both hym and us in reste,
Out of trouble and teene.'
Adam bent a ryght good bow,
A great hart sone hee had slayne;
'Take that, chylde,' he sayed, 'to thy dynner,
And bryng me myne arrowe agayne.'
'Now go we hence,' sayd these wightye yeomen,
'Tary we no lenger here;
We shall hym borowe, by God his grace,
Though we bye it full dere.'
To Caereil wente these good yemen,
All in a mornyng of Maye.
Here is a Fyt of Cloudeslye,
And another is for to saye.
Part the Second
And when they came to mery Carleile,
All in 'the' mornynge tyde,
They founde the gates shut them untyll
About on every syde.
'Alas!' then sayd good Adam Bell,
'That ever we were made men!
These gates be shut so wonderous fast,
We may not come therein.'
Then bespake him Clym of the Clough,
'Wyth a wyle we wyl us in bryng;
Let us saye we be messengers,
Streyght come nowe from our king.'
Adam said, 'I have a letter written,
Now let us wysely werke,
We wyl saye we have the kynges seale;
I holde the porter no clerke.'
Then Adam Bell bete on the gate,
With strokes great and stronge;
The porter marveiled who was therat,
And to the gate he throng.
'Who is there nowe,' sayd the porter
'That maketh all thys knockinge?'
'We be tow messengers,' quoth Clim of the Clough,
'Be come ryght from our kyng.'
'We have a letter,' sayd Adam Bel,
'To the justice we must it bryng;
Let us in, our message to do,
That we were agayne to the kyng.'
'Here commeth none in,' sayd the porter,
'By Hym that dyed on a tre,
Tyll a false thefe be hanged up,
Called Wyllyam of Cloudesle.'
Then spake the good yeman Clym of the Clough,
And swore by Mary fre,
'And if that we stande long wythout,
Lyke a thefe hanged thou shalt be.
'Lo! here we have the kynges seale;
What, lurden, art thou wode?'
The porter went it had ben so,
And lyghtly dyd off hys hode.
'Welcome be my lordes seale,' he saide;
'For that ye shall come in.'
He opened the gate full shortlye,
And euyl openyng for him.
'Now are we in,' sayde Adam Bell,
'Whereof we are full faine,
But Christ he knowes, that harowed hell,
How we shall com out agayne.'
'Had we the keys,' said Clim of the Clough,
'Ryght wel then shoulde we spede;
Then might we come out wel ynough
When we se tyme and nede.'
They called the porter to counsell,
And wrange hys necke in two,
And caste hym in a depe dongeon,
And toke hys keys hym fro.
'Now am I porter,' sayd Adam Bel,
'Se, brother, the keys are here;
The worst porter to merry Carleile,
That ye had thys hundred yere.
'And now wyll we our bowes bend,
Into the towne wyll we go,
For to delyuer our dere brother,
That lyeth in care and wo.'
Then they bent theyr good ewe bowes,
And loked theyr stringes were round;
The markett place in mery Carleile
They beset in that stound.
And as they loked them besyde,
A paire of new galowes 'they' see,
And the justice with a quest of squyers,
Had judged William hanged to be.
And Cloudesle lay redy there in a carte,
Fast bound both fote and hande,
And a stronge rop about hys necke,
All readye for to hange.
The justice called to him a ladde,
Cloudesles clothes hee shold have,
To take the measure of that yeman,
Thereafter to make hys grave.
'I have sene as great mervaile,' saild Cloudesle,
'As betweyne thys and pryme,
He that maketh a grave for me,
Hymselfe may lye therin.'
'Thou speakest proudlye,' said the justice,
'I shall the hange with my hande.'
Full wel herd this his brethren two,
There styll as they dyd stande.
Then Cloudesle cast hys eyen asyde,
And saw hys 'brethren twaine'
At a corner of the market place,
Redy the justice for to slaine.
'I se comfort,' sayd Cloudesle,
'Yet hope I well to fare;
If I might have my handes at wyll,
Ryght lytle wolde Icare.'
Then spake good Adam Bell
To Clym of the Clough so free,
'Brother, se ye marke the justyce wel,
Lo yonder you may him se.
'And at the shyrife shote I wyll,
Stronglyt wyth an arrowe kene;
A better shote in mery Carleile
Thys seven yere was not sene.'
They loosed their arrowes both at once,
Of no man had they dread;
The one hyt the justice, the other sheryfe,
That both theyr sides gan blede.
All men voyded, that them stode nye,
When the justice fell to the grounde,
And the sherife nye hym by,
Eyther had his deathes wounde.
All the citizens fast gan flye,
They durst no longer abyde;
There lyghtly they loosed Cloudeslee,
Where he with ropes lay tyde.
Wyllyam start to an officer of the towne,
Hys axe out of hys hande he wronge,
On eche syde he smote them downe,
Hee thought he taryed to long.
Wyllyam sayde to hys brethren two,
'Thys daye let us lyve and de;
If ever you have nede as I have now,
The same shall you finde by me.'
They shot so well in that tyde,
For theyr stringes were of silke ful sure,
That they kept the stretes on every side:
That batayle did long endure.
The fought together as brethren tru,
Lyke hardy men and bolde;
Many a man to the ground they thrue,
And many a herte made colde.
But when their arrowes were all gon,
Men preced to them full fast;
They draw theyr swordes then anone,
And theyr bowes from them they cast.
They went lyghtlye on theyr way,
Wyth swordes and buclers round;
By that it was myd of the day,
They made many a wound.
There was many an out-horne in Carleil blowen,
And the belles bacward dyd ryng;
Many a woman sayde alas!
And many theyr handes dyd wryng.
The mayre of Carleile forth was com,
Wyth hym a ful great route;
These yemen dred hym full sore,
Of theyr lyves they stode in great doute.
The mayre came armed a full great pace,
With a pollaxe in hys hande;
Many a strong man wyth him was,
There in that stowre to stande.
The mayre smot at Cloudesle with his bil,
Hys bucler he brast in two;
Full many a yeman with great evyll,
'Alas! treason' they cryed for wo.
'Kepe we the gates fast,' they bad,
'That these traytours thereout not go.'
But al for nought was that they wrought,
For so fast they downe were layde,
Tyll they all thre, that so manfulli fought,
Were gotten without at a braide.
'Have here your keyes,' sayd Adam Bel,
'Myne office I here forsake;
If you do by my counsell,
A new porter do ye make.'
He threw theyr keys at theyr heads,
And bad them evell to thryve;
And all that letteth any good yeman
To come and comfort his wyfe.
Thus be these good yemen gon to the wod,
And lyghtly as lefe on lynde;
The lough and be mery in theyr mode,
Theyr enemyes were ferr behynd.
And when they came to Englyshe-wode,
Under the trusty tre,
There they found bowes full good,
And arrowes full great plentye.
'So God me help,' sayd Adam Bell
And Clym of the Clough so fre,
'I would we were in mery Carleile,
Before that fayre meynye.'
They set them downe and made good chere,
And eate and dranke full well:
A second Fyt of the wightye yeomen:
Another I wyll you tell.
Part the Third.
As they sat in Englyshe-wood,
Under the green-wode tre,
They thought they herd a woman wepe,
But her they mought not se.
Sore then syghed the fayre Alyce:
'That ever I sawe thys day!
For nowe is my dere husband slayne,
Alas! and wel-a-way!
'Myght I have spoken wyth hys dere brethren,
Or with eyther of them twayne,
To shew to them what him befell,
My heart were out of payne.'
Cloudesle walked a lytle beside,
He looked under the grene wood linde,
He was ware of his wyfe, and chyldren thre,
Full wo in harte and mynde.
'Welcome, wyfe,' then sayde Wyllyam,
'Under 'this' trusti tre;
I had wende yesterdaye, by swete Saynt John,
Thou sholdest me never 'have' se.'
'Now well is me that ye be here,
My harte is out of wo.'
'Dame,' he sayde, 'be mery and glad,
And thanke my brethren two.'
'Herof to speake,' said Adam Bell,
'I-wis it is no bote;
The meate, that we must supp withall,
It runneth yet fast on fote.'
Then went they downe into a launde,
These noble archares all thre,
Eche of them slew a hart of greece,
The best that they cold se.
'Have here the best, Alyce, my wyfe,'
Sayd Wyllyam of Cloudesle;
'By cause ye so bouldly stode by me,
When I was slayne full nye.'
Then went they to suppere,
Wyth suche meate as they had,
And thanked God of ther fortune;
They were both mery and glad.
And when they had supped well,
Certayne wythouten lease,
Cloudesle sayd, 'We wyll to our kyng,
To get us a charter of peace.
'Alyce shal be at sojournyng
In a nunnery here besyde;
My tow sonnes shall wyth her go,
And ther they shall abyde.
'Myne eldest son shall go wyth me,
For hym have 'you' no care,
And he shall breng you worde agayn,
How that we do fare.'
Thus be these yemen to London gone,
As fast as they myght 'he',
Tyll they came to the kynges palace,
Where they woulde nedes be.
And whan they came to the kynges courte,
Unto the pallace gate,
Of no man wold they aske no leave,
But boldly went in therat.
They preced prestly into the hall,
Of no man had they dreade;
The porter came after and dyd them call,
And with them gan to chyde.
The usher sayde, 'Yemen, what wold ye have?
I pray you tell to me;
You myght thus make offycers shent:
Good Syrs, of whence be ye?'
'Syr, we be out-lawes of the forest,
Certayne withouten lease,
And hether we be come to our kyng,
To get us a charter of peace.'
And when they came before the kyng,
As it was the lawe of lande
The kneled downe without lettyng,
And eche held up his hand.
The sayed, 'Lorde, we beseche the here,
That ye wyll graunt us grace,
For we have slayne your fate falow dere
In many a sondry place.'
'What be your nams?' then said our king,
'Anone that you tell me:'
They sayd, 'Adam Bell, Clim of the Clough,
And Wyllyam of Cloudesle.'
'Be ye those theves,' then sayd our kyng,
'That men have tolde of to me?
Here to God I make an avowe,
Ye shal be hanged al thre.
'Ye shal be dead without mercy,
As I am kynge of this lande.'
He commanded his officers everichone
Fast on them to lay hande.
There they toke these good yemen,
And arested them al thre:
'So may I thryve,' sayd Adam Bell,
'Thys game lyketh not me.
'But, good Lorde, we beseche you now,
That yee graunt us grace.
Insomuche as we do to you come,
Or els that we may fro you passe,
'With such weapons as we have here,
Tyll we be out of your place;
And yf we lyve this hundreth yere,
We wyll aske you no grace.'
'Ye speake proudly,' sayd the kynge,
'Ye shall be hanged all thre.'
'That were great pitye,' then sayd the quene,
'If any grace myght be.
'My Lorde, whan I came fyrst into this lande,
To be your wedded wyfe,
The fyrst boone that I wold aske,
Ye would graunt it me belyfe;
'And I never asked none tyll now,
Therefore, good Lorde, graunt it me.'
'Now aske it, madam,' sayd the kynge,
'And graunted it shal be.'
'Then, good my Lord, I you beseche,
These yemen graunt ye me.'
'Madame, ye might have asked a boone
That shuld have been worth them all thre.
'Ye myght have asked towres and townes,
Parkes and forestes plente.'
'None soe pleasant to my pay,' shee sayd;
'Nor none so lefe to me.'
'Madame, sith it is your desyre,
Your askyng graunted shal be;
But I had lever have given you
Good market townes thre.'
The quene was a glad woman,
And sayde, 'Lord, gramarcy;
I dare undertake for them,
That true men shal they be.
'But, good my Lord, speke som mery word,
That comfort they may se.'
'I graunt you grace,' then sayd our king,
'Washe, felos, and to meate go ye.'
They had not setten but a whyle,
Certayne without lesynge,
There came messengers out of the north,
With letters to our kynge.
And whan the came before the kynge,
They knelt downe on theyr kne,
And sayd, 'Lord, your officers grete you well,
Of Carleile in the north cuntre.'
'How fareth my justice,' sayd the kyng,
'And my sherife also?'
'Syr, they be slayne, without leasynge,
And many an officer mo.'
'Who hath them slayne?' sayd the kyng;
'Anone thou tell to me:'
'Adam Bell, and Clime of the Clough,
And Wyllyam of Cloudesle.'
'Alas for rewth!' then sayd our kynge,
'My hart is wonderous sore;
I had lever than a thousande pounde,
I had knowne of thys before.
'For I have graunted them grace,
And that forthynketh me,
But had I knowne all thys before,
They had been hanged all thre.'
The kyng hee opened the letter anone,
Hymselfe he red it thro,
And founde how these outlawes had slain
Thre hundred men and mo.
Fyrst the justice and the sheryfe,
And the mayre of Carleile towne;
Of all the constables and catchipolles
Alyve were 'scant' left one.
The baylyes and the bedyls both,
And the sergeauntes of the law,
And forty fosters of the fe,
These outlawes had yslaw,
And broke his parks, and slayne his dere;
Of all they chose the best;
So perelous out-lawes as they were,
Walked not by easte nor west.
When the kynge this letter had red,
In hys harte he syghed sore;
'Take up the tables, anone,' he bad,
'For I may eat no more.'
The kyng called hys best archars,
To the buttes wyth hym to go;
'I wyll se these felowes shote,' he sayd,
'In the north have wrought this wo.'
The kynges bowmen buske them blyve,
And the quenes archers also,
So dyd these thre wyghtye yemen,
With them they thought to go.
There twyse or thryse they shote about,
For to assay theyr hande;
There was no shote these yemen shot,
That any prycke myght stand.
Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudesle,
'By Him that for me dyed,
I hold hym never no good archar,
That shoteth at buttes so wyde.'
'At what a butte now wold ye shote,
I pray thee tell to me?'
'At suche a but, Syr,' he sayd,
'As men use in my countre.'
Wyllyam wente into a fyeld,
And 'with him' his two brethren:
There they set up two hasell roddes,
Full twenty score betwene.
'I hold him an archar,' said Cloudesle,
'That yonder wande cleveth in two;'
'Here is none suche,' sayd the kyng,
'Nor none that can so do.'
'I shall assaye, Syr,' sayd Cloudesle,
'Or that I farther go.'
Cloudesly, with a bearyng arowe,
Clave the wand in two.
'Thou art the best archer,' then said the king,
'For sothe that ever I se.'
'And yet for your love,' sayd Wyllyam,
'I wyll do more maystery.'
'I have a sonne is seven yere olde,
He is to me full deare;
I wyll hym tye to stake,
All shall se that be here,
'And lay an apple upon hys head,
And go syxe score hym fro,
And I my selfe, with a brode arrow,
Shall cleve the apple in two.'
'Now haste the,' then sayd the kyng,
'By Hym that dyed on a tre;
By yf thou do not as thou hest sayde,
Hanged shalt thou be.
'And thou touche his head or gowne,
In syght that men may se,
By all the sayntes that be in heaven,
I shall hange you all thre.'
'That I have promised,' said William,
'That I wyll never forsake:'
And there even before the kynge,
In the earth he drove a stake,
And bound thereto his eldest sonne,
And bad hym stand styll therat,
And turned the childes face him fro,
Because he should not start.
An apple upon his head he set,
And then his bowe he bent;
Syxe score paces they were meaten,
And thether Cloudesle went.
There he drew out a fayr brode arrowe,
Hys bowe was great and longe,
He set that arrowe in his bowe,
That was both styffe and stronge.
He prayed the people, that wer there,
That they would still stand,
'For he that shoteth for such a wager,
Behoveth a stedfast hand.'
Muche people prayed for Cloudesle,
That hys lyfe saved myght be,
And whan he made hym redy to shote,
There was many weeping ee.
'But' Cloudesle clefte the apple in two,
As many a man myght se.
'Over Gods forbode,' sayde the kinge,
'That thou shold shote at me.
'I geve thee eightene pence a day,
And my bowe shalt thou bere,
And over all the north countre,
I make thee chyfe rydere.'
'And I thyrtene pence a day,' said the quene,
'By God and by my fay;
Come feche thy payment when thou wylt,
No man shall say the nay.'
'Wyllyam, I make the a gentleman,
Of clthyng and of fe,
And thy two brethren, yemen of my chambre,
For they are so semely to se.
'Your sonne, for he is tendre of age,
Of my wyne-seller he shall be,
And when he commeth to mans estate,
Better avaunced shall he be.'
'And, Wyllyam, bring to me your wife,' said the quene.
'Me longeth her sore to se;
She shall be my chefe gentlewoman,
To governe my nurserye.'
The yemen thanked them full curteously,
'To some byshop wyl we wend,
Of all the synnes that we have done
To be assoyld at his hand.'
So forth be gone these good yemen,
As fast as they might 'he;'
And after came and dwelled with the kynge,
And dyed good men all thre.
Thus endeth the lives of these good yemen,
God send them eternall blysse,
And all that with a hand-bowe shoteth,
That of heven they may never mysse. Amen.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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