En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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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 Newe Ballade Made Of Thomas Crumwel, Called Trolle On Away

Trolle on away, trolle on awaye,
Synge heave and howe rombelowe trolle on away.

Both man and chylde is glad to here tell
Of that false traytoure Thomas Crumwell,
Now that he is set to learn to spell.
Synge trolle on away.

When fortune lokyd the in thy face,
Thou haddyst fayre tyme, but thou lackydyst grace;
Thy cofers with golde thou fyllydst a pace.
Synge trolle on away.

Both plate and chalys came to thy fyst,
Thou lockydst them vp where no man wyst,
Tyll in the kynges treasoure suche thinges were myst.
Synge trolle on away.

Both crust and crumme came thorowe thy handes,
Thy marchaundyse sayled over the sandes,
Therfore nowe thou art layde fast in bandes.
Synge trolle on away.

Fyrste when Kynge Henry, God saue his Grace!
Perceyud myschefe kyndlyd in thy face,
Then it was tyme to purchase the a place.
Synge trolle on away.

Hys grace was euer of gentyll nature,
Mouyed with petye, and made the hys seruyture;
But thou, as a wretche, suche thinges dyd procure.
Synge trolle on away.

Thou dyd not remembre, false heretyke,
One God, one fayth, and one kynge catholyke,
For thou hast bene so long a scysmatyke.
Synge trolle on away.

Thou woldyst not learne to knowe these thre;
But euer was full of iniquite:
Wherfore all this lande hathe ben troubled with the.
Synge trolle on away.

All they, that were of the new trycke,
Agaynst the churche thou baddest them stycke;
Wherfore nowe thou hast touchyd the quycke.
Synge trolle on away.

Both sacramentes and sacrementalles
Thou woldyst not suffre within thy walles;
Nor let vs praye for all chrysten soules.
Synge trolle on away.

Of what generacyon thou were no tonge can tell,
Whyther of Chayme, or Syschemell,
Or else sent vs frome the deuyll of hell.
Synge trolle on away.

Thou woldest neuer to vertue applye,
But couetyd euer to clymme to hye,
And nowe haste thou trodden thy shoo awrye.
Synge trolle on away.

Who-so-euer dyd winne thou wolde not lose;
Wherfore all Englande doth hate the, as I suppose,
Bycause thou wast false to the redolent rose.
Synge trolle on away.

Thou myghtest have learned thy cloth to flocke
Upon thy gresy fullers stocke;
Wherfore lay downe thy heade vpon this blocke.
Synge trolle on away.

Yet saue that soule, that God hath bought,
And for thy carcas care thou nought,
Let it suffre payne, as it hath wrought.
Synge trolle on away.

God saue Kyng Henry with all his power,
And Prynce Edwarde, that goodly flower,
With al hys lordes of great honoure.
Synge trolle on away.
Hevye and how rombelowe trolle on awaye.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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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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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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Chevy-Chase

The Perse owt off Northombarlonde,
And a vowe to God mayd he
That he wold hunte in the mowntayns
Off Chyviat within days thre,
In the magger of doughte Dogles,
And all that ever with him be.

The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat
He sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away:
'Be my feth,' sayd the doughteti Doglas agayn,
'I wyll let that hontyng yf that I may.

Then the Perse owt off Banborowe cam,
With him a myghtee meany,
With fifteen hondrith archares bold off blood and bone;
The wear chosen owt of shyars thre.

This begane on a Monday at morn,
In Cheviat the hyllys so he;
They chylde may rue that ys un-born,
It wos the mor pitte.

The dryvars thorowe the woodes went,
For to reas the dear;
Bomen byckarte uppone the bent
With ther browd aros cleare.

Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went,
On every syde shear;
Greahondes thorowe the grevis glent,
For to kyll thear dear.

This began in Chyviat the hyls abone,
yerly on a Monnyn-day;
Be that it drewe to the oware off none,
A hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay.

The blewe a mort uppone the bent,
The semblyde on sydis shear;
To the quyrry then the Perse went,
To se the bryttlynge off the deare.

He sayd, 'It was the Doglas promys
This day to met me hear;
But I wyste he wolde faylle, verament;'
A great oth the Perse swear.

At the laste a squyar off Northomberlonde
Lokyde at his hand full ny;
He was war a the doughetie Doglas commynge,
With him a mygtte meany.

Both with spear, bylle, and brande,
Yt was a myghtti sight to se;
Hardyar men, both off hart nor hande,
Wear not in Cristiante.

The wear twenti hondrith spear-men good;
Without any feale;
The wear borne along be the watter a Twynde,
Yth bowndes of Tividale.

'Leave of the brytlyng of the dear,' he sayd,
'and to your boys lock ye tayk good hede;
For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne
Had ye never so mickle nede.'

The doughtei Dogglas on a stede,
He rode alle his men beforne;
His armour glytteryde as dyd a glede;
A boldar barne was never born.

'Tell me whos men ye ar', he says,
'Or whos men that ye be:
Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Cyviat chays,
In the spyt of myn and of me.'

The first mane that ever him an answear mayd,
Yt was the good lord Perse:
'We wyll not tell the whoys men we ar,' he says
'Nor whos men that we be;
But we wyll hounte hear in this chays,
In the spyt of thyne and of the.

'The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat
We have kyld, and cast to carry them away:'
'Be my troth,' sayd the doughete Dogglas agayn,
'Therefor the ton of us shall de this day.'

Then sayd the doughte Doglas
Unto the lord Perse:
'To kyll alle thes giltles men,
Alas, it wear great pitte!

'But, Perse, Thowe art a lorde of lande,
I am a yerle callyd within my contre;
Let all our men uppone a parti stande,
And do the battell off the and of me.'

Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne', sayd the lorde Perse,
'Who-so-ever ther-to says nay!
Be my troth, doughtte Doglas,' he says,
'Thou shalt never se that day.

'Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France,
Nor for no man of a woman born,
But, and fortune be my chance,
I dar met him, on man for on.'

Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde,
Richard Wytharynton was his nam;
'It shall never be told in Sothe-Ynglonde,' he says,
'To Kyng Herry the Fourth for sham.

'I wat youe byn great lordes twaw,
I am a poor squyar of lande;
I wylle never se my captayne fyght on a fylde,
And stande my selffe and loocke on,
But whylle I may my weppone welde,
I wylle no fayle both hart and hande.'

That day, that day, that dredfull day!
The first fit here I fynde;
And youe wyll here any more a the hountynge a the Chyviat,
Yet ys there mor behynde.

The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent,
Ther hartes wer good yenoughe;
The first off arros that the shote off,
Seven skore spear-men the sloughe.

Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent,
A captayne good yenoughe,
And that was sene verament,
For he wrought hom both woo and wouche.

The Dogglas partyd his ost in thre,
Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde;
With suar spears off mygtte tre,
The bunny in on every syde;

Thrughe our Yngglyshe archery
Gave many a wounde fulle wyde;
Many a doughete the garde to dy,
Which ganyde them no pryde.

The Ynglyshe men let ther boys be,
And pulde owt brandes that were brighte;
It was a hevy syght to se
Bryght swordes on basnites lyght.

Thorowe ryche male and myneyeple,
Many sterne the strocke done streght;
Many a freyke that was fulle fre,
Ther under foot dyd lyght.

At last the Duglas and the Perse met,
Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne;
The swapte togethar tylle the both swat,
With swordes that wear of fyn myllan.

Thes worthe freckys for to fyght,
Ther-to the wear fulle fayne,
Tylle the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente,

'Yelde the,Perse,' sayde the Doglas,
And i feth I shalle the brynge
Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis
Of Jamy our Skottish kynge.

'Thou shalte have they ransom fre,
I hight the hear this thinge;
Forr the manfullyste man yet art thowe
That ever I conqueryd in filde fighttynge.'

'Nay,' sayd the lord Perse,
'I told it the beforne,
That I wolde never yeldyde be
To no man of a woman born.'

With that ther cam an arrowe hastely,
Forthe off a myghtte wane;
Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas
In at the brest-bane.

Thorowe lyvar and longes bathe
The sharpte arrowe ys gane,
That never after in all his lyffe-days
He spayke mo wordes but ane:
That was, 'Fygte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may,
For my lyff-days ben gan.'

The Perse leanyde on his brande,
And saw the Duglas de;
He tooke the dede mane by the hande,
And sayd, 'Wo ys me for the!'

To have savyde thy lyffe, I wolde have partyde with
My landes for years thre,
For a beter man, of hart nare of hande,
Was nat in all the north contre.'

Off all that se a Skottishe knyght,
Was callyd Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry;
He saw the Duglas to the deth was dyght,
He spendyd a spear, a trusti tre.

He rod uppone a corsiare
Throughe a hondrith archery:
He never synttyde, nar never blane,
Tylle he cam to the good lord Perse.

He set uppone the lorde Perse
A dynte that was full soare;
With a suar spear of a myghtte tre
Clean thorow the body he the Perse ber,

A the tothar syde that a man myght se
A large cloth-yard and mare:
Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiante
Then that day slan wear ther.

An archar off Northomberlonde
Say slean was the lord Perse;
He bar a bende bowe in his hand,
Was made off trusti tre.

An arow that a cloth-yarde was lang
To the harde stele halyde he;
A dynt that was both sad and soar
He sat on Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry.

The dynt yt was both sad and sar
That he of Monggomberry sete;
The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar
With his hart-blood the wear wete.

Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle,
but still in stour dyd stand,
Heawyng on yche othar, whylle the myghte dre,
With many a balfull brande.

This battell begane in Chyviat
An owar befor the none,
And when even-songe bell was rang,
The battell was nat half done.

The tocke on ethar hande
Be the lyght off the mone;
Many hade no strenght for to stande,
In Chyviat the hillys abon.

Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde
West away but seventi and thre;
Of twenti hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde,
But even five and fifti.

But all wear slayne Cheviat within;
The hade no strenthe to stand on hy;
The chylde may rue that ys unborne,
It was the more pitte.

Thear was slayne, withe the lord Perse,
Ser Johan of Agerstone,
Ser Rogar, the hinde Hartly,
Ser Wyllyam, the bolde Hearone.

Ser Jorg, the worthe Loumle,
A knyghte of great renowen,
Ser Raff, the ryche Rugbe,
With dyntes wear beaten dowene.

For Wetharryngton my harte was wo,
That ever he slayne shulde be;
For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to,
yet he knyled and fought on hys kny.

Ther was slayne, with the dougheti Duglas,
Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry,
Ser Davvy Lwdale, that worthe was,
His sistars son was he.

Ser Charls a Murre in that place,
That never a foot wolde fle;
Ser Hewe Maxwelle, a lorde he was,
With the Doglas dyd he dey.

So on the morrowe the mayde them byears
Off birch and hasell so gray;
Many wedous, with wepying tears,
Cam to fache ther makys away.

Tivydale may carpe off care,
Northombarlond may mayk grea mon,
For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear
On the March-parti shall never be non.

Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe,
To Jamy the Skottishe kynge,
That dougheti Duglas, lyff-tenant of the Marches,
He lay slean Chyviot within.

His handdes dyd he weal and wryng,
He sayd, 'Alas, and woe ys me!
Such an othar captayn Skotland within,'
He sayd, 'ye-feth shuld never be.'

Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone,
Till the fourth Harry our kynge,
That lord Perse, leyff-tenante of the Marchis,
He lay slayne Chyviat within.

'God have merci on his solle,' sayde Kyng Harry,
'Good lord, yf thy will it be!
I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde,' he sayd,
'As good as ever was he:
but, Perse, and I brook my lyffe,
Thy deth well quyte shall be.'

As our noble kynge mayd his avowe,
lyke a noble prince of renowen,
For the deth of the lord Perse
He dyde the battel of Hombylldown;

Wher syx and thritte Skottishe knyghtes
On a day wear beaten down;
Glendale glytteryde on ther amour bryght,
Over castille, towar and town.

This was the hontyne off the Cheaviat,
That tear begane this spurn;
Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe
Call it the battell of Otterburn.

At Otterburn begane this spurne,
Uppone a Monnynday;
Ther was the doughte Doglas slean,
The Perse never went away.

Ther was never a tym on the Marchepartes
Sen the Doglas and the Perse met,
But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronne not,
As the reane doys in the stret.

Jhesue Crist our balys bete,
And to the blys us brynge!
Thus was the hountynge of the Chivyat:
God sen us alle good endyng!

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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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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 Pastime of Pleasure

The good Dame Mercy with Dame Charyte
My body buryed full ryght humbly
In a fayre temple of olde antyquyte,
Where was for me a dyryge devoutely
And with many a masse full ryght solempnely;
And over my grave, to be in memory,
Remembraunce made this lytell epytaphy:

"O erthe, on erthe it is a wonders cace
That thou arte blynde and wyll not the knowe.
Though upon erthe thou hast thy dwellynge-place,
Yet erthe at laste must nedes the overthrowe.
Thou thynkest the to be none erthe I trowe;
For yf thou dydest, thou woldest than apply
To forsake pleasure and to lerne to dy.

"O erthe, of erthe why arte thou so proude?
Now what thou arte call to remembraunce.
Open thyn eres unto my songe aloude.
Is not thy beauté, strength, and puyssaunce,
Though it be cladde with cloth{.e}s of plesaunce,
Very erthe and also worm{.e}s fode,
Whan erthe to erthe shall so tourne the blode?
...
"The vyle carkes set upon a fyre
Dooth often haunte the synne of lechery,
Fulfyllynge the foule carnall desyre.
Thus erthe with erthe is corrupte mervaylously;
And erthe on erthe wyll nothynge puryfye
Tyll erthe to erthe be nere subverted.
For erthe with erthe is so perverted.

"O mortall folke! you may beholde and se
Howe I lye here, sometyme a myghty knyght;
The end of joye and all prosperyte
Is dethe at last, through his course and myght;
After the day there cometh the derke night;
For though the day be never so longe,
At last the belles ryngeth to evensonge.

"And my selfe called La Graunde Amoure,
Sekynge adventure in the worldly glory,
For to attayne the ryches and honoure,
Did thynke full lytell that I sholde here ly,
Tyll dethe dyde marke me full ryght pryvely.
Lo what I am! and whereto you must!
Lyke as I am so shall you be all dust.

"Than in your mynde inwardely dyspyse
The bryttle worlde, so full of doublenes,
With the vyle flesshe, and ryght sone aryse
Out of your slepe of mortall hevynes;
Subdue the devill with grace and mekenes,
That after your lyfe frayle and transytory,
You may then lyve in joye perdurably."

poem by Stephen Hawes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Example of Vertu : Cantos VIII.-XIV.

Capitalum VIII.

Dame Sapyence taryed a lytell whyle
Behynd the other saynge to Dyscrecyon
And began on her to laugh and smyle
Axynge her how I stode in condycyon
Well she sayd in good perfeccyon
But best it is that he maryed be
For to eschewe all yll censualyte
I knowe a lady of meruelous beaute
Spronge out of hyghe and noble lynage
Replete with vertue and full of bounte
Whiche vnto youth were a good maryage
For she is comen of royall apparage
But herde it wyll be to gete her loue
Without youth frayltye do sore reproue
I kneled downe than vpon my kne
Afore dame Sapyence with humble chere
Besechynge her of me to haue pyte
And also Dyscrecyon her syster dere
Than dame Sapyence came me nere
Saynge youth wyll ye haue a wyfe
And her to loue durynge her lyfe
Ye madame that wolde I fayne
Yf that she be both fayre and bryght
I wyll her loue euer more certayne
And pleas her alway with all my myght
Of suche a persone wolde I haue a syght
With all my herte now at this houre
Wolde to god I had so fayre a floure
Than sayd dyscrecyon there is a kynge
Dwellynge fer hens in a fayre castell
Of whome I oft haue herd grete talkynge
Whiche hath a doughter as I you tell
I trowe that youth wyll lyke her well
She is both good eke fayre and pure
As I report me vnto dame Nature
But yf that youth sholde her go seke
Ye must syster than hym well indue
With your grete power so good and meke
That he all frayltye may eschue
For by the way it wyll oft pursue
On hym by flatery and grete temptacyon
That shall brynge hym in tribulacyon
As for that sayd she he shall not care
For he shall theym sone ouercome
And of theyr flatery ryght well beware
For I to hym shall gyue grete wysedome
Theyr dedes to withstande & make theym dōme
Wherfore dere syster as I you pray
Unto her lede hym now on the way
Loke that ye send me in his necessyte
By dame swyftnes full sone a letter
By whiche that I may knowe the certaynte
That I may come to ayde hym beter
So that fraylte to hym be no freter
And though I be not alway vysyble
With hym my power he hath inuyncyble
Than sayd dame Sapyence to dyscrecyon
Fare well dere syster I may not tary
Loke ye of youth haue the tuycyon
That he fall not into vaynglory
And that ye puruey for hym shortly
That he may wedde the fayre dame clennesse
Whiche for her loue haue ben in duresse
With that dame Sapyence downe went
Into her place that was the doctrynall
Of famous clerkes in connynge splendent
A myrrour of lernyng that was dyuynall
With all the craftes artyfycyall
Byfore her dame Fortune went to her mancyon
And eke dame hardynes to her habytacyon

Capitulum nonum

Forth than went dyscrecyon and I
Out of the castell into a grene
Where byrdys sange by grete melody
There daunst also the fayre quene
Besyde a ryuer named Ephesene
Ouer whiche we wente to the other syde
That was a medowe both longe and wyde
Longe there we wandred tyll at the last
We came vnto a ryght grete wyldernes
By that tyme Phebus was ouer past
Wherfore we walked in grete derkenes
The whiche to me was a grete heuynes
For Lucyna eke dyd her shrowde
Under a blacke and mysty clowde
For she was horned and no thynge cleere
And entred into the sygne of caprycorne
Ryght ferre from phebus fulgent speere
And not ayenst hym the crowne had worne
I went vp and downe tyll on the morne
That phebus his golden reyes dyd sprede
Than dyscrecyon ferther forth me lede
Amonge thornes sharpe & bestes wylde
There was the lyon the wolf & the bere
But I coude mete nother man ne chylde
But many serpentes that dyde me fere
And by a swete smelle I knewe a pantere
So forth I went by longe contynuaunce
Tyll that I sawe an herber of pleasaunce
To whiche I toke anone my waye
Where that I sawe a lady excellent
Rydynge on a goote in fresshe arraye
Ryght yonge of age & lusty of entent
Prayenge me to her for to assent
As to fulfyll the flesshly pleasure
Whiche she desyred me out of mesure
Nay sayd dyscrecyon that may not be
No sayd I in no maner of wyse
To her request I wyll now agree
But euermore here foule lust despyse
For I my selfe do now aduyse
To kepe me chast that I may mary
Fayre dame Clennes that noble lady

So forth I went walkynge my iournay
Metynge a lady olde and amyable
Syttynge in a castell both fressh and gay
On an olyphauntes backe in strength so stable
Whiche it to bere was good and able
Hauynge in her hande a cup of golde
Sette with perles ryght many afolde
She sayd she was the lady of rychesse
The quene of welth and worldely glory
Praynge me to company with her noblenesse
And she than wolde promote me shortely
To innumerable ryches and make me worthy
Where I am poore and sette by nought
By her to worshyp I sholde be brought
Unto her I answered I wolde not so
As for to hunt in the parke of pryde
The whiche to Clennes is mortall fo
But with Dyscrecyon I wyll abyde
Whiche doth a wyfe for me prouyde
By whome I shall haue the possessyowne
Of heuenly kyngdome & grete renowne
So forth I went and had grete trauayle
Without the comfort of ony persons
Saue of dyscrecyon whiche dyd me counsayle
As she went walkynge with me alone
Unto her I made full grete mone
And lykened the wyldernes by morall scence
Unto worldely trouble by good experyence
She sayd the fyrst lady that I dyd mete
Iclyped was dame Sensualyte
Whiche can well flater with wordes swete
Causynge a man to fall into fragylyte
And for to haunt the carnall freylte
Whiche vnto clennes is abhomynable
For they in werke be gretely varyable
The seconde was pryde enduyd with couetyse
A lady of ryght fruytles medytacyon
Delytynge gretly in the synne of auaryce
The whiche is cause of her dampnacyon
For she by her fals supportacyon
Blyndeth many a mannes conscyence
And dryueth ryght oft fer in absence
So ferther I went tyll at the last
I was in a mase goynge in and oute
Ther was none other way I was agast
But forth I walked in grete doute
Now here now there and so rounde aboute
Than sayd vnto me dame Dyscrecyon
Ye are in the besynes of worldely fastyon
There in I trauayled by longe space
Tyll that I mette a lady gloryous
Indued with vertue and grete grace
To whom I sayd o lady precyous
As ye seme to be good and vertuous
I you beseche now without delaye
Unto dame Clennes to teche me the waye
I Sapyence now wyll shewe to the
The ryght waye vnto fayre clennes
And yf thou wylt be ruled by me
Thou shalt mary that noble prynces
Yes that wyll I sayd than douteles
Dyscrecyon sayd she wolde be my suerte
Sapyence sayd none better myght be
Than sayd dyscrecyon to dame sapyence
Welcome to vs my syster dere
And I to her dyd humble reuerence
Saynge who had went to fynde you here
Yes she sayd I haue ben neere
You often tymes syth my departynge
And haue ben cause of your goode gydynge

Capitulum X.

Come on your waye walke on a pace
For ye longe for to haue a syght
Of dame Clennes so clere a face
So goodely of body in beauty bryght
That there can not be so fayre a wyght
So forth we walked to a ryuer syde
That ebbed and flowed at euery tyde
Than I saw a castell a pales royall
Bylded with marble blacke as the gette
With glasse wyndowes as clere as crystall
Whiche on the other syde was sette
No man to the castell myght gette
But ouer the water on a lytell brydge
Not halfe so brode as a hous rydge
But as I cast myn eye than asyde
I saw a lady wounderous fayre
Demure of contenaunce without pryde
That went her selfe for to repayre
By the water syde to take the ayre
Beholde and se than sayd dame sapyence
Yonder is dame Clennes the sterre of excellence
Full glad was I than in my mynde
For to se that flour of complacence
The syght of her dyd my herte bynde
Euer her to loue with percynge influence
Unto her I sayd o well of contynence
Unto your grace fayne wolde I go
Ner lettynge of this water blo
To me she answered than agayne
Saynge this worlde withouten mys
Is but a vanyte no thynge certayne
In the lyke wyse as this water is
Ye can not come to me now ywys
But by that brydge that goth ouer
This stormy troublous & wawy water
Therof sayd sapyence he shall not lette
Well sayd Clennes be you his gyde
And dyscrecyon also for to be sette
For to vpholde hym vnto the other syde
That he do not in the water slyde
So to the brydge they dyde me lede
I quacked than for fere and drede
I sawe there wryten this lytterall sence
No man this brydge may ouer go
But he be pure without neglygence
And stedfast in goddes byleue also
Yf he be ignoraunt and do not so
He must nedys into this water fall
Ouer the heed and be drowned with all
They led me ouer this brydge so peryllous
Tyll that I came to a preuy place
Where were wryten with letters gloryous
This is the kyngdome of grete grace
No man by yonde this marke may trace
But yf he be brought in by dame wysedome
If he so be he is moche welcome
So forthermore yet forth we went
Into a hall that was solacyous
Made of precyous stones splendent
That theym to se it was ryght wounderous
They were there so gretly plenteuous
That the hall paued was for the nones
With none other grauell but precyous stones

There was dame Clennes that lady gent
And eke her fader the kynge of loue
He satte in a chayre ryght clere and excellent
At the vpper ende of the hall aboue
He satte styll and dyd not remoue
Gyrde with wylowes and myght not se
No maner a thynge in his degre
He had two wynges ryght large and grete
And his body also was naked
And a dart in his ryght hand was sette
And a torche in his left hand brenned
A botell aboute his necke was hanged
His one leg armed and naked the other
Hym for to se it was a wonder
Sapyence bad me meruayll no thynge
For she wold shewe me the sygnifycacyon
Why he so sate by shorte rekenynge
Accordynge to a morylyzacyon
Now of the fyrste to make relacyon
Loue sholde be gyrde faste with stabylyte
Without whiche loue can haue no suerte
Loue may not se but is alway blynde
And wenyth no man can haue perseueraūce
Where that he loueth by naturall kynde
But he do shewe hym by wordes of vteraūce
Trught he bewreyeth hym by contenaunce
For hard it wyll be loue so to couere
But that som man shall it perceuere
Also his nakednes doth sygnyfy
That true loue no thynge ellys desyreth
But the very persone and eke body
That he so well and feruentely loueth
His wynges also well betokenyth
That his mynde fleeth vnto the persone
That he doth loue so well alone
And also loue is stryken with a sharpe darte
That maketh a man for to complayn
Whan that it hath wounded sore his herte
It brenneth hote lyke fyre certeyn
Than loue his purpose wolde fayne atteyn
And is euermore both hoot and drye
Tyll his lady gyue hym drynke of mercy
His one legge is armed to defende
The ryght that longeth vnto amyte
And wronge loue for to amende
His naked legge betokeneth charyte
That is the Ioye of grete felycyte
So charyte ryght loue and good concorde
With stablynes reygneth in this myghty lorde

Capitulum XI.

Than forth me led good dame Sapyence
Afore that myghty lordes mageste
Come on she sayd put the in presence
hat thou mayst se dame clennes beaute
Ponder in thy mynde by veryte
That so fayre as she was not quene helyn
Quene Ipolyte or yonge Polyxyn
This lady is clene without corrupcyon
And wereth thre crownes for her vyrgynyte
One is for people of perfyt relygyon
An other for maydens kepynge chastyte
The therde for true wedowes as y&superu; mayst se
I wyll the now to her fader present
Her for to mary yf she wyll consent
Than sayd dame sapyence o noble emperour
O souerayne lorde and royall potestate
O vyctoryous prynce & famous conquerour
O kynge of loue and seaser of debate
To the no creature may say chekmate
I present the now this vertuous knyght
For to mary clennes your doughter bryght
I thanke you he sayd for your good wyll
But he that to Clennes maryed must be
He must my commaundement fyrste fulfyll
As to scomfyte the dragon with heedes thre
That is a serpent of grete subtylte
Whiche well betokeneth as we do fynde
The worlde the flesshe & the deuyll by kynde
Sapyence sayd I sholde not fayle
To do his commaūdement for Clennes sake
As for to sle the dragon in batayle
That lay in a marys in a grete lake
Whiche was moche stynkynge foule & blake
Wysedome bade me be not aferde
For she wolde gyue me a shelde and swerde
And arme me also with fayre armure
To vaynquysshe that dragon so ferse & grete
She sayd it sholde be so good and sure
That I no harme of hym sholde gete
Though he his teth on me had sete
Yet sholde I slee hym for all his myght
By my grete strokes whan I dyd fyght
Fyrst she my legge harneys sette on
And after my plackerd of grete ryches
She armed me her selfe alone
And laced my helmet of her gentylnes
I thanked her for her grete goodnes
And gaue me my swerde and sheld also
Saynge lete vs to the dragon go
This is the armure for the soule
That in his epystole wrote saynt Poule
Good hope thy legge harneys shall be
The habergyn of ryghtwysnes gyrde w&supert; chastyte
Thy plackarde of besynes w&supert; braūches of almes dede
Thy shelde of beleue and mekenes for the hede
Thy swerde shall be the to defend
The worde of god the deuyll to blynde

Dame sapyence & I dyd take our lycence
Of the kynge of loue in vertue depured
And of his doughter shynynge in excellence
Whiche to me sayd with wordes assured
O vertuous knyght you for me haue dured
Ingrete wo & payne but thynke you verely
To scomfyt that dragon by wysedome shortly
Than went we forth to that serpent
In merueylous trauayle of sorowe and bale
By that tyme the daye ryght fayre was spent
And phebus his course began to auale
But at the last we came into a dale
Wher we felt the sauer of a dungeon
Of the foule and stynkynge dragon
Nere to that dragon there was a way
That men vsed vpon a fayre hyll
Unto hyghe heuen so fressh and gay
But that dragon lette theym theyr wyll
And by the way he dyd theym kyll
Bryngynge theym vnto the dungeon
Iclyped the place of grete oblyuyon
I had not be there halfe an houre
But that this dragon me approched
As though that he wolde me deuoure
He so fersly than on me marched
The batayle bytwene vs longe contynued
But he had me ryght sone ouercome
If I had not helpe of dame wysedome
I strake at hym fast with my swerde
And with my shelde dyd me defende
Wysedome bad me not be aferde
But my stroke that for to amende
As fer as my myght weld extende
So by her wordes I plucked vp myn herte
And dyd than vnto the dragon sterte
But he caught me than in his clawes
And so we wrasteled longe to gyder
But he hyld me sharpely in his pawes
Tyll wysedom my feblenesse dyd consyder
Beholde she sayd dame clennes yonder
Than as a syde I cast all my syght
I sawe that lady so pure and bryght
My strength than dobeled an hundred folde
And I from hym brake by vertuous prowes
My herte was warme that afore was colde
With the cōfortable syght of fayre dame clennes
Than I to hym gaue strokes of exces
And with my sharpe swerde cut of anone
Two of his heedes leuynge hym but one
These two heedes by good morall sens
The worlde and the flesshe do sygnyfy
As I in scrypture haue intellygence
The fyrste the worlde that is transytory
Lyeth bytwene man and heuenly glory
Lettyuge hym often of his passage
If it of hym can gete auauntage
The seconde is the flesshly desyre
That troubleth a man ryght sore within
Settynge his courage vpon a fyre
Causynge hym to enclyne to dedely syn
His flessh the batayll of hym doth wyn
Often bryngynge hym into dampnacyon
If repentaunce were not his saluacyon
Repentaunce alway requyreth mercy
And penaunce to god is a satisfaccyon
For god desyreth euermore truely
An humble herte full of contrycon
And the worlde desyreth restytucyon
Of goodes that haue be goten wrongfully
To be restored vnto the ryghtfull party
Whan I by wysedom had won the vyctory
Of these two heedes I was ryght glad
His thyrde heed marched ayenst me sharpely
But I my swerd in my hand had
Strykynge at hym with strokes sad
And blode of hym coude I drawe none
For he had nother flesshe ne bone
But at the last I dyd hym vaynquysshe
Dryuynge hym home to his derke regyon
Of infernall payne that shall not fynysshe
For hell is called his propre mancyon
And of all other of his opynyon
That do the preceptes of god forsake
And to deuelyche werkes theym do be take
God by his ryghtwysnes made a lawe
By whiche man for dedely synne is condēpned
If god his vengeaunce do not withdrawe
In euerlastynge payne he sholde be prysoned
But and man mercy of hym requyred
With penytent hert he sholde it haue
And with his mercy he wyll man saue.

Capitulum XII.
Whan I had scomfyte this serpent venymous
Sapyence to me ryght gentely sayd
Blessyd be god ye are so gracyous
That ye shall mary Clennes the mayd
But yet erwhyles ye were a frayd
Ye I sayd and swet full ryght sore
Tyll ye newe strength dyd me restore
This batayll was grete & longe endured
Whiche caused me to be ryght wery
But sapyence with her wordes me mured
With walles of comfort makynge me mery
Come on she sayd and walke on lyghtly
Unto the castell that we come fro
I answered to her I wolde do so
Than forth we went a grete pace
Tyll that we came to the castell syde
There mette vs ladyes with grete solace
And welcomed vs at the same tyde
So fayre a sort in the worlde so wyde
May not be founde by no maner of reason
As I sawe there at the same season
The fyrste lady that dyd vs mete
Iclyped was dame perseueraunce
Whiche to me sayd with wordes swete
Blessyd be god of your good gouernaunce
That hath kept you from the incomberaunce
Of the serpent with the heedes thre
And caused you vyctor of hym to be
Than came dame fayth that lady gloryous
Welcome she sayd with wordes amyable
I am ryght glad ye ar so vyctoryous
Of that foule dragon so abhomynable
She sayd that I was euermore stable
In her in dede eke worde and thought
Or elles my labour had ben to nought
Than spake the lady fayre dame charyte
Welcome vertue the noble veteran
Sythens that ye alway haue loued me
From the fyrst season that ye began
Bothe in your youth & syth ye were man
Ye haue had me in humble reuerence
And haue ben ruled by my preemynence
Than sayd dame prayer in my presence
Ye neuer cast me in oblyuyaunce
By no slouth nor wordely neglygence
But haue had me in grete remembraunce
Whiche hath ben to me very grete pleasaunce
Wherfore welcome vertue my dere
Unto this castell that ye se here
Than came fast to me dame lowelynes
Clyppynge me harde with louely chere
Byddynge me welcome with grete gladnes
As by her contenaūce it dyd well appere
Come on she sayd and walke on nere
So than amonge these fayre ladyes all
I went in to the grete castell hall
And there met me dame clennes blyue
And dame grace bare vp her trayne
Whiche euer to her was affyrmatyue
From whome dame clennes myght not refrayne
Than sayd she to me I am ryght fayne
That ye ar comen in to this place
Where ye shall wedde me in short space
Upon my kne I kneled than downe
Saynge o sterre of the blysse eterne
O well of vertue and of grete renowne
O dyuyne comfort moost sempyterne
Whan I your beautye do so well decerne
Ye set myn hert vpon a brennynge fyre
With feruent loue to come to my desyre
To me she answered in this wyse.
O my dere herte my spouse so pure
Why do ye not on your fete aryse
You of my true loue shall be sure
For ye my hert haue now in cure
Lete vs go now to our fader reuerente
So forthe vnto hym than we wente
Whan that we came afore his fayre face
Dame clennes made curtesye vnto the grounde
Saynge o fader kynge of grete grace
This knyght to loue ye are now bounde
And so am I for I haue often founde
Grete kyndnes on hym both nyght and day
For he hath loued me ryght well alway
Welcome he sayd ryght noble knyght
How haue ye done sythens your departynge
Haue ye scomfyted with your myght
The merueylous dragon so gretly stynkynge
Ye I sayd with the power shynynge
Of my maystresse good dame sapyence
I dyd hym vaynquysshe by her experyence
Wher is dame Sapyence than sayd he
And eke her syster dame dyscrecyon
Syr I sayd they are comen with me
And they haue had me in iurisdyccyon
Syns my departynge without destruccyon
Than spake dame sapyence by her faculte
Unto that myghty lordes mageste
Saynge this knyght than cleped vertue
Hath loued your doughter by longe contynuaūce
With stable loue so faythfull and true
And for her sake hath put to vteraunce
The thre heeded dragon by wyse puruyaunce
Wherfore me thynke he ought to mary
Your doughter Clennes that noble lady
The kynge sayd me thynke the same
If that my doughter wyll agre
And she do not she moche is to blame
Consyderynge his wysedome & grete beaute
Come hyder he sayd my doughter fre
To be wyfe to vertue wyll ye consent
Ye fader she sayd with hole entent
Than he called vnto his presence
Perseueraunce charyte and fydelyte
With lowlynes prayer and intellygence
Shewynge vnto theym the certeynte
How clennes his doughter wedded shall be
Unto me now vertu in all godely hast
By fore that thre dayes be ryght fully past
He called me than to his magnyfycence
Byddynge me go to bed and to rest
In the chaumbre of clene conscyence
Than so to do I thought it the best
For phebus was tourned into the west
So sapyence and I went forthe to bed
For lake of rest oppressed was my hed
A lytyll welp within this chaumbre was
That lay wakynge and barked alway
That no man in to it sholde passe
That wolde with conscyence make a fray
I dyd slepe there tyll that it was day
Than vp I rose and made me redy
Callynge vnto me dame sapyence shortely
Saynge vnto her o lady and maystres
O comfortable salue vnto euery sore
O fontayne of welth and carbuncle of clernes
Without ye helpe me I am forlore
Wherfore I shewe you as now before
Without I mary fayre dame clennes
I shall endure in mortall heuynes
Therof sayd she be no thynge adred
For ye shall mary here ryght soone
By me your mater shall be well sped
And the same daye it shall be doone
Aboute the houre truely of noone
And there shall be at your good dyner
Charyte fayth penaunce and prayer
Dame sapyence led me into a gardeyn
Where Clennes was amonge floures swete
Her to repayre without dysdeyn
As I to her wente she dyd me mete
Bryngynge me a floure called the margarete
Whiche is a floure ryght swete and precyous
Indued with beaute and moche vertuous
This floure I kyst often ryght swetely
Settynge it nere vnto my hert
Dame Clennes loked vpon me louely
Saynge that I sholde not depert
Tyll she had shewed me a grete couert
So with her I wente without delay
Where byrdes sate on many a spray
By this tyme phebus had begon
His ascencyall cours in grete bryghtnes
In to the sygne of the fierous lyon
Exylynge the fenerous frosty coldnes
And depryuynge the noxyall derkenes
And also setherus his fragraunt breth
Dystylled had vpon euery heth
Than to her I sayd my lady dere
Beholde this weder so clere and fayre
How royall walkynge that it is here
Lyke a place of pleasure you to repayre
Amonge the floures so swete of ayre
An other she had as she me tolde
Bryghter than phebus a thousande folde
This is a place of recreacyon
My mynde to comfort after study
In welth pleasure and delectacyon
For yf I sholde my selfe applye
Euer to pray to god an hye
Without this place I may not be sure
An other tyme in prayer to endure
But the other gardyn is celestyall
That longeth to vs by enherytaunce
And is entayled to vs in generall
For our clene lyfe & vertuous gouernaūce
Who that vs loueth without doubtauūce
With vs shall go to eternall glory
In short space or elles to purgatory
Than forth we went to her fader royall
Whiche welcomed vs by grete humylyte
Saynge my doughter dere and specyall
Ye shall this daye by grete solempnyte
Be wedded to vertue with benygnyte
We kneled downe and thanked his grace
And than forth we went to an other place

Capitulum XIII.
In to a chapell gayly gloryfyed
And also hanged with cloth of tyssue
A place it was ryght gretly deyfyed
The roof was set with stones of vertue
As with rubyes and emeraudes bryght of hue
The rood loft was yuery garnysshed with gold
Set with dyamoundes ryght many a fold
Ther I dyd se the arke of god
With many sayntes that suffred martyrdom
And also I sawe there Moyses rod
And saynt Austyn that brought crystendom
Into englonde by his grete wysedom
And the xii. apostles that fast gan wryte
Of our byleue and eke dyd endyte
There was saynt peter the noble pope
That dyd stande on the ryght syde
Of the hyghe auter in a ryche cope
Dame clennes and I dyd there abyde
And vp there came than at that tyde
Dame prayer with her syster charyte
And eke dame penytence with humylyte
Than came dame fayth anone to vs
With ryghtwysenes peas and dame mercy
With dame contrycyon gay and gloryous
Whiche after theym dyd not longe tary
And than came bede and eke saynt gregory
With saynt ambrose the noble doctour
Whiche of our fayth was good protectour
Than came the kynge of feruent loue
Led with argos in goodely wyse
Without whome he myght not remoue
From his sete by ryght prudent gyse
Who loueth argos wyll not deuyse
Nor yet begynne no maner of thynge
Without in his mynde hese good endynge
Also saynt Ierome the noble cardynall
Came vp to vs by humble reuerence
Whiche euermore was a good doctrynall
Prechynge to vs by vertuous influence
With exhortacyon of dyuyne complacence
And than foure bysshoppes in grete dygnyte
Ryght connynge cernynge vnto the deyte
On hym wayted by grete dylygence
And neuer dyd forsake his company
But hym obeyed by good experyence
And from his cōmaundement dyd not vary
But in the chapell they dyd there tary
And than saynt Ierome wente to the kynge
Of feruent loue vnto hym saynge
O amyable kynge seasour of debate
O ioyner of vertue and well of vnyte
O royall emperour o souerayne estate
O messenger of feruent amyte
O feruent dart of cordyall pryuyte
Here is your doughter fayre dame clennes
That must be maryed with good ryghtwysenes
Unto vertue the louely knyght
Whiche the batayle now hath won
By dame sapyence helpe and myght
Of the foule thre heeded dragon
This maryage by me shall be don
Go ye now streyght into your tabernacle
Whiche is to you moost propre habytacle
Than the souerayne kynge to hym dyd call
Dame fayth dyscrecyon and dame sapyence
With dame contrycyon & charyte withall
And eke dame mercy and dame penytence
Unto theym saynge ye haue intellygence
That this daye clennes my doughter dere
Shall be maryed to vertue that ye se here
Than they dyde all come vnto me
With dame peas and dame grace
And after theym came dame virgynyte
Whiche in her armes dyd me enbrace
Saynge that I was to her grete solace
Gyuynge me vnto my good maryage
A gowne of syluer for grete aparage
She gafe an other of the same
Unto dame clennes puttynge it one
Upon her back withouten blame
After whiche Clennes wente anone
Unto her fader her selfe alone
And I with saynt Ierome dyd there tary
To wed dame Clennes that noble lady
And all the ladyes with meke contenence
Stode on a rewe besyde the closette
Of Clennes fader without resystence
Whiche hanged was gayly with blue veluet
And with perles & rubyes rychely set
Than forth came Clennes with two aūgels led
Whiche theyr golden wynges abrode dyd spred
Dame grace after her bare vp her trayn
And .xv. ladyes her dyd ensue
Fyrst went dame humylyte certayn
And after her than dyd pursue
Dame fayth in stablenes so true
Ledynge with her the fayre dame pease
That welth and ryches doth well encrease
Than went dame reason with perseueraūce
And than dame mercy with contricyon
And than exersyce with remembraunce
After whome went dame restytucyon
With dame prayer and dame confessyon
And dame charyte with obedyence
And after theym came fayre dame abstynence
Saynt Ierome dyd make there coniunccyon
Of dame Clennes and me in matrimonye
With heuenly wordes and vertuous fastyon
And aungels came downe from heuen hye
As saynt Mychell with gabryell & the gerachye
To helpe saynt peter the masse to synge
The organs went and the bellys dyd rynge
My penne for feblenes may not now wryte
Nor my tonge for domnes may not expresse
Nor my mynde for neglygence may not endyte
Of the aungelycall Ioye and swete gladnesse
That I sawe there without heuynesse
And whan this weddynge holy was fynysshed
The aungels than to heuen vanysshed
Than downe I went in to the hall
Where ordeyned was by grete solempnyte
A dyner of vertue moost celestyall
To whiche came my wyf full of benygnyte
On the one syde led by good auctoryte
With saynt Edmond the noble kynge
And martyr whiche dyd her downe brynge
And she was led on the other syde
With saynt Edward the kynge and confessour
And so bytwene theym wente this bryde
To whom all the ladyes made grete honour
As alway seruynge her without errour
And a lytell whyle anone after her
Ergos brought downe her noble fader
The kynge of loue than sat hym downe
At the table for that tyme to ette
Causynge dame Clennes for her renowne
On his one syde than for to be sette
And I on the other without ony lette
And besyde me sapyence and dyscrecyon
And than by theym sat dame contrycyon
Than sate saynt Edwarde with vyrgynyte
And afore hym sate dame obedyence
Saynt Edmond and dame charyte
And than dame prayer with dame abstynence
And than dame fayth shynynge in excellence
With saynt Ierome and saynt Austeyn
And than saynt gregory without dysdeyn
There was two aungels holdynge fast
The table cloth at euery ende
Knelynge downe humbly and stedfast
Whose seruyce no man coude amende
Other there were that dyd entende
Us for to serue with theyr grete dylygence
That in theym founde coude be no neglygence
There dyd saynt Peter by grete holynes
Serue vs of our swete lordes body
Fyrst he serued the fader of clennes
And after that he serued her shortly
With charyte fayth and dame mercy
And I with dyscrecyon and dame sapyence
Of saynt Peter was serued with grete indulgence
So dame obedyence with contrycyon
With saynt Edwarde and virgynyte
In lykewyse were serued without corrupcyon
And saynt Edmond with dame charyte
And saynt Ierome with dame humylyte
With saynt austyn and saynt gregory
What nede I lenger of theym specyfy
This was a fest moost swete and precyous
To fede the soule with dyuyne comfort
This was a mete moost dere and gloryous
That causeth all man for to resorte
To sempyternall lyfe and comforte
Than saynt ambrose beynge dyuyne
After our mete gafe vs good wyne
By this tyme was I .lx. yere olde
And desyred for to lyue in peace
For I began to growe two folde
And my feblenes dyde sore encreace
For nature her strength than dyd seace
Wherfore after this ghoostly fest
I thought with my wyfe to abyde in rest
And I to her sayd with louynge chere
O my swete spouse moost fayre and beauteous
To me euer ryght leyfe and dere
Where is your lande that is solacyous
Ye shewyd me of your gardeyn gloryous
Unto whiche now fayne wolde I go
There for to dwell and you also
Syr she sayd the aungell raphaell
Shall with these martyrs & noble confessours
Brynge you thyder with theym to dwell
Where ye shall see all your progenytours
With many sayntes and gloryous auctours
This lande is heuen that to vs longeth
As our euydence the gospell telleth
Than came my fader in lawe to vs
Saynge by ryght I dyd combynd
Clennes my doughter with vertue precyous
And you must I loue by naturell kynde
For on you now is all my mynde
Afore hym I kyst my wyfe moost swetely
For we loued to gyder hote and truely
Than came my good aungell to me
Causynge me with hym for to go
With clennes my wyfe wher I dyd se
The paynes of hell full of grete wo
There was the dragon that I dyd slo
Bounde with chaynes in fyer infynall
With the seuen dedely synnes in generall
Than my good aungell to me sayd
If ye had loued dame sensualyte
The whiche with you dyd make a brayde
Ye had ben dampned by ryght and equyte
In to this pytte full of all iniquyte
Wherfore thanke god that sent you wysedome
Suche deedly perylles for to ouercome
Also the lady with the cup of golde
Is here condempned for her grete pryde
In endeles payne both hote and colde
Where in for synne she shall abyde
This is a dongeon longe and wyde
Made for theym that do synne dedely
And of cryst Ihesu wyll axe no mercy
This is a place full of all derkenes
Wherin be serpentes foull and odyous
This is a place of mortall heuynes
Where I sawe deuyles blacke and tedyous
Dampned soules turmented with hokes rygorous
This is the vppermoost parte of hell
In whiche paynyms dampned do dwell
For as moche as they lacked instruccyon
For to be leue in god omnypotent
They haue deserued the lesse correccyon
Yet theyr payne haue none extinguysshement
For they are dampned by true sentyment
For theyr byleue and fals idolatry
That made theyr goddes of mars & mercury
Than went we doune to an other vaute
Where Iewes lay in grete paynes stronge
Whome deuylles tourmented by grete assaute
Drawynge theym with hokes a longe
For theyr opynyon so fals and wronge
Whiche byleued not in the natyuyte
Of Ihesu cryst and the vyrgyn Mare
Nor yet that he dyd suffre passyon
Bothe for theym and all mankynde
Nother yet of his resurreccyon
In theyr byleue they are so blynde
Yet as in bokes wryten we do fynde
That they haue ben taught many a tyme
For to forsake theyr owne fals cryme
Than went we downe to a depper vale
Where crysten soules dyd weppe & crye
In grete sorowe payne and bale
Brennynge in fyer moost hote and drye
And some in Ice ryght depe dyd lye
For to expresse it is impossyble
The paynes there they are so horryble
These crysten men knowe goddes lawe
And euery daye had informacyon
From deuelysshe werkes theym to withdrawe
That they sholde not fall in dampnacyon
Yet wyll they not make sequestracyon
Of goddes cōmaundement but syn deedly
Therfore here are they dampned ryght wysey
And thou haddest set thy delectacyon
In flesshely pleasure and vayne glory
Thou haddest ben here without saluacyon
Without thou of god had axed mercy
Who that it axeth shall haue it truely
Yf he be contryt and do repent
That he his lyfe in yll hath spent
This place sythens it is moost heuy
Moost derke and moost ferre from lyghtnes
As philosophers afferme by astronomy
Is in the myddes of the erthe doutles
That is a place of dyssolate derkenes
Wherfore by reason it must nedes be sette
In the myddes of the erthe both longe & grette.

Capitulum XIIII.

My good aungell by his grete vertue
Shewed me all this in a shorte space
And after hym I dyd than pursue
With my wyfe vnto the fayre place
That we came fro full of all solace
Where was my fader in the company
Of many sayntes that dyd there tary
My wyfe and me than for to brynge
To the place of eternall glory
With heuenly tewnes swetely syngynge
That theym to here it was grete melody
More than ony tonge can specyfy
This was theyr songe so swete and gloryous
That they dyd synge with voyce so vertuous
O celestyall kynge one two and thre
All people prayse the god and lorde
Whiche art in heuen o noble trynyte
Whose royall power and miserycorde
Confermed is by thyn hye accorde
On vs with trouth for to endure
Withouten ende as we are sure
Glory be to the fader almyghty
And to the sone and to the holy ghoost
Thre persones and one god truely
Whose power neuer can be loost
For he is lorde of myghtes moost
And so hath ben without begynnynge
And euer shall be without endynge
Whan we were in the ayre of asure
There dyd vs mete the noble Ierarchy
As Cherubyn and Seraphyn so pure
With other aungels in theyr company
That dyd proclayme & synge on hye
With voyce insacyat moost melodyous
To god aboue Sanctus sanctus sanctus
There dyd I se the planettes seuen
Moue in ordre by alteracyon
To merueylous for me to neuen
For they seassed not theyr operacyon
Some assended some made declynacyon
Entrynge theyr houses of the .xii. synes
Some indyrectly and some by dyrecte lynes
To heuen we styed a place moost gloryous
Where that we dyd beholde the deyte
With insaciable contenaunce moost desyrous
And truely than the more that we
Dyd loke vpon his souerayne beaute
The more our desyre dyd encreace
This is a Ioye that shall not seace
This is a regyon moost full of swetnes
This is a realme of delectacyon
This is a lande of infenyte gladnes
Without ony stormy tribulacyon
This place is of eterne saluacyon
Where aungels and sayntes for theyr solace
Euermore do loke on goddes face
What sholde I wryte thynges of dyuynyte
Or endyght of suche maters hye
Sythen it no thynge longeth to my faculte
Therfore of it I wyll not lenger tarye
For fere that I in it sholde varye
And by cause that trouth shall be my mede
I wyll now leue and take me to my crede
So vertue and clennes by good ryght
Truely in maryage ioyned must be
For they loue to gyder with all theyr myght
Without dyscencyon or duplycyte
And they both are alway in vnyte
To whome heuen by tayll generall
Entayled is by a dede memoryall
Now are they to gyder to heuen gone
There for to dwell in Ioye eternall
Where that there is the heuenly trone
Of our sauyour Ihesu deere & specyall
Who that hym loueth truely ouer all
Ledynge his lyfe with vertue and clennes
Shall come vnto the glory endeles
But in the fynysshynge of my mater
To god the maker of all thynge
Deuoutely now I make my prayer
To saufe kynge Henry our ryghtfull kynge
From all treason and dolefull mornynge
And for to maynteyn the grete honour
Of this swete rede rose so fayre a colour
This floure was kepte ryght longe in close
Amonge the leuys holsom and sote
And regally sprange and arose
Out of the noble stoke and rote
Of the rede rose tre to be our bote
After our bale sente by grete grace
On vs to reygne by ryght longe space
O lorde god what Ioye was this
Unto his moder so good and gracyous
Whan that she sawe her sone I wys
Of his ennemys to be so vyctoryous
It caused her to be moost Ioyous
And yet there of no wonder why
For he was ryght longe from her truely
A ioyfull metynge than bytwene
The moder and the sone so dere
A daye of gladnes bryght and shene
Fressher than phebus myddaye spere
Whan her sone to vs dyd appere
He dyd vs lyght with his pure bemys
Quenchynge of mars the fyrous lemys
O heuenly kynge o eternall emperoure
O thre persons and one god equall
I praye the to kepe from all doloure
This moder with her sone in specyall
With all theyr noble buddes in generall
And laude be to the that dyd enhaunce
Hym to his ryght and propre herytaunce
The whyte rose that w&supert; tempestes troublous
Aualed was and eke blowen asyde
The reed rose fortyfyed and made delycyous
It pleased god for hym so to prouyde
That his redolent buddes shall not slyde
But euer encrease and be vyctoryous
Of fatall brerys whiche be contraryous
Thus god by grace dyd well combyne
The rede rose and the whyte in maryage
Beynge oned ryght clere doth shyne
In all clennes and vertuous courage
Of whose ryght and royall lynage
Prynce Henry is spronge our kynge to be
After his fader by ryght good equyte
O noble prynce Henry our seconde treasure
Surmontynge in vertue & myrour of beaute
O geme of gentylnes & lanterne of plasure
O rubycound blossome and sterre of humylyte
O famous bud full of benygnyte
I pray to god well for to encrease
Your hyghe estate in rest and pease
O thoughfull hert for lack of connynge
Now layde to slepe this longe wynters nyght
Ryse vp agayne loke on the shynynge
Of fayre lucyna clere and bryght
Beholde eke mercury with his fayre lyght
Castynge a doune his stremys mery
It may well glad thyn emyspery
O gower fountayne moost aromatyke
I the now lake for to depure
My rudnes with thy lusty retoryke
And also I mys as I am sure
My mayster Chaucers to take the cure
Of my penne for he was expert
In eloquent termes subtyll and couert
Where is now lydgate flourynge in sentence
That shold my mynde forge to endyte
After the termes of famous eloquence
And strength my penne well for to wryte
With maters fresshe of pure delyte
They can not helpe me there is no remedy
But for to praye to god almyghty
For to dystyll the dewe of influence
Upon my brayn so dull and rude
And to enlumyn me with his sapyence
That I my rudnes may exclude
And in my mater well to conclude
Unto thy pleasure and to the reders all
To whome I excuse me now in generall.

Explicit exemplum virtutis.

poem by Stephen Hawes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Goddwyn; A Tragedie

PERSONS REPRESENTED.
HAROLDE, bie T. Rowleie, the Aucthoure.
GODDWYN, bie Johan de Iscamme.
ELWARDE, bie Syrr Thybbot Gorges.
ALSTAN, bie Syrr Alan de Vere.
KYNGE EDWARD; bie Mastre Wilyam Canynge.
Odhers bie Knyghtes Mynnstrells.

PROLOGUE
WHYLOMME bie pensmenne moke ungentle name
Have upon Goddwynne Erle of Kente bin layde,
Dherebie benymmynge hymme of faie and fame;
Unliart divinistres haveth saide,
Thatte he was knowen toe noe hallie wurche ;
Botte thys was all hys faulte, he gyfted ne the churche.
The aucthoure of the piece whiche we enacte,
Albeytte a clergyon trouthe wyll wrytte.
Inne drawynge of hys menne no wytte ys lackte;
Entyn a kynge mote bee full pleased to nyghte.
Attende, and marcke the partes nowe to be done;
Wee better for toe doe do champyon anie onne.

GODDWYN; A TRAGEDIE.
ACT I.
GODDWYN AND HAROLDE.
GODDWYN.
HAROLDE!
HAROLDE.
M ie loverde!
GODDWYN.
O! I weepe to thyncke,
What foemen riseth to isrete the londe.
Theie batten onne her fleshe, her hartes bloude dryncke,
And all ys graunted from the roieal honde.
HAROLDE.
Lette notte this agreme blyn ne aledge stonde;
Bee I toe wepe, I wepe in teres of gore.
Am I betrassed , syke shulde mie burlie bronde
Depeyncte the wronges on hym from whom I bore.
GODDWYN.
I ken thie spryte ful welle; gentle thou art,
Stringe , ugsomme rou as smethynge armyes seeme;
Yett efte , I feare, thie chefes toe grete a parte,
And that thie rede bee efte borne downe bie breme .
What tydynges from the kynge?
HAROLDE.
His Normans know.
I make noe compheeres of the shemrynge trayne.
GODDWYN.
Ah Harolde! tis a syghte of myckle woe,
To kenne these Normannes everich rennome gayne.
What tydynge withe the foulke ?
HAROLDE.
Stylle mormorynge atte yer shap , stylle toe the kynge
Theie rolle theire trobbles, lyche a sorgie sea.
Hane Englonde thenne a tongue, butte notte a stynge?
Dothe alle compleyne, yette none wylle ryghted bee?
GODDWYN.
Awayte the tyme, whanne Godde wylle sende us ayde.
HAROLDE.
No, we muste streve to ayde oureselves wyth powre.
Whan Godde wylle sende us ayde! tis fetelie prayde.
Moste we those calke awaie the lyve-longe howre?
Thos croche oure armes, and ne toe lyve dareygne ,
Unburled , undelievre , unespryte ?
Far fro mie harte be fled thyk thoughte of peyne,
Ile free mie countrie, or Ille die yn fyghte.
GODDWYN.
Botte lette us wayte untylle somme season fytte.
Mie Kentyshmen, thie Summertons shall ryse;
Adented prowess to the gite of witte,
Agayne the argent horse shall daunce yn skies.
Oh Harolde, heere forstraughteynge wanhope lies.
Englonde, oh Englonde, tys for thee I blethe .
Whylste Edwarde to thie sonnes wylle nete alyse ,
Shulde anie of thie sonnes sele aughte of ethe ?
Upponne the trone I sette thee, helde thie crowne;
Botte oh! twere hommage nowe to pyghte thee downe.
Thou arte all preeste, & notheynge of the kynge.
Thou arte all Norman, nothynge of mie blodde.
Know, ytte beseies thee notte a masse to synge;
Servynge thie leegefolcke thou arte servynge Godde.
HAROLDE.
Thenne Ille doe heaven a servyce. To the skyes
The dailie contekes of the londe ascende,
The wyddowe, fahdrelesse, & bondemennes cries
Acheke the mokie aire & heaven astende
On us the rulers doe the folcke depende
Hancelled from erthe these Normanne hyndes shalle bee;
Lyche a battently low , mie swerde shalle brende ;
Lyche fallynge softe rayne droppes, I wyll hem slea .
Wee wayte too longe; our purpose wylle defayte
Aboune the hyghe empryze , & rouze the champyones strayte.
GODDWYN.
Thie suster --
HAROLDE.
Aye, I knowe, she is his queene.
Albeytte , dyd shee speeke her foemen fayre,
I wulde dequace her comlie semlykeene ,
And foulde mie bloddie anlace yn her hayre.
GODDWYN.
Thye fhuir blyn .
HAROLDE.
No, bydde the leathal mere ,
Upriste withe hiltrene wyndes & cause unkend ,
Beheste it to be lete ; so twylle appeare,
Eere Harolde hyde hys name, his contries frende.
The gule-steyncte brygandyne , the adventayle
The feerie anlace brede shal make mie gare prevayle.
GODDWYN.
Harolde, what wuldest doe?
HAROLDE.
Bethyncke thee whatt,
Here liethe Englonde, all her drites unfree,
Here liethe Normans coupynge her bie lotte,
Caltysnyng everich native plante to gre
Whatte woulde I doe? I brondeous wulde hem slee ;
Tare owte theyre sable harte bie ryghtefulle breme ;
Theyre deathe a meanes untoe mie lyfe shulde bee,
Mie spryte shulde revelle yn theyr harte-blodde streme.
Eftsoones I wylle bewryne mie ragefulle ire,
And Goddis anlace wielde yn furie dyre.
GODDWYN.
Whatte wouldest thou wythe the kynge?
HAROLDE.
Take offe hys crowne;
The ruler of somme mynster hym ordeyne;
Sette uppe som dygner than I han pyghte downe;
And peace in Englonde shulde be brayd agayne.
GODDWYN.
No, lette the super-hallie seyncte kynge reygne,
Ande somme moe reded rule the untentyff reaulme;
Kynge Edwarde, yn hys cortesie, wylle deygne
So to yielde the spoiles, and alleyne were the heaulme
Botte from mee harte bee everych thoughte of gayne,
Nor anie of mie kin I wysche him to ordeyne.
HAROLDE.
Tell me the meenes, and I wylle boute ytte strayte;
Bete mee to slea mieself, ytte shalle be done.
GODDWYN.
To thee I wylle swythynne the menes unplayte ,
Bie whyche thou, Harolde, shalte be proved mie sonne.
I have longe seen whatte peynes were undergon,
Whatte agrames braunce out from the general tree;
The tyme ys commynge, whan the mollock gron
Drented of alle yts swolynge owndes shalle bee;
Mie remedie is goode; our menne shall ryse.
Eftsoons the Normans and owre agrame flies.
HAROLDE.
I will to the West, and gemote alle the knyghtes,
Wythe bylles that pancte for blodde, and sheeldes as brede
As the ybroched moon, when blaunch she dyghtes
The wodeland grounde or water-mantled mede;
Wythe hondes whose myghte canne make the doughtiest blede,
Who efte have knelte upon forslagen foes,
Whoe wythe yer fote orrests a castle-stede
Who dare on kynges for to bewrecke yiere woes;
Nowe wylle the menne of Englonde haile the daie,
Whan Goddwyn leades them to the ryghtfulle fraie.
GODDWYN.
Botte firste we'll call the loverdes of the West,
The erles of Mercia, Conventrie and all;
The moe wee gayne, the gare wylle prosper beste,
Wythe syke a nomber wee can never fall.
HAROLDE.
True, so wee sal doe best to lyncke the chayne,
And alle attenes the spreddynge kyngedomme bynde.
No crouched champyone wythe an harte moe feygne
Dyd yssue owte the hallie swerde to fynde,
Than I nowe strev to ryd mie londe of peyne.
Goddwyn, what thanckes owre laboures wylle enhepe!
I'lle ryse mie friendes unto the bloddie pleyne;
I'lle wake the honnoure thatte ys now aslepe.
When wylle the chiefes mete atte thie feastive halle,
That I wythe voice alowde maie there upon 'em calle?
GODDWYN.
Next eve, mie sonne.
HAROLDE.
Nowe, Englonde, ys the tyme,
Whan thee or thie felle foemens cause moste die.
Thie geason wronges bee reyne ynto theyre pryme;
Nowe wylle thie sonnes unto thie succoure flie.
Alyche a storm egederinge yn the skie,
Tys fulle ande brasteth on the chaper grounde;
Sycke shalle mie fhuirye on the Normans flie,
And alle theyre mittee
Nowe, nowe, wylle Harolde or oppressionne falle,
Ne moe the Englyshmenne yn vayne for hele shal calle.

ACT II.
SCENE I.
KYNGE EDWARDE AND HIS QUEENE.
QUEENE.
BOTTE, loverde , whie so manie Normannes here?
Mee thynckethe wee bee notte yn Englyshe londe.
These browded straungers alwaie doe appere,
Theie parte yor trone , and sete at your ryghte honde.
KYNGE.
Go to, goe to, you doe ne understonde.
Theie yeave mee lyffe, and dyd mie bowkie kepe;
Theie dyd mee feeste, and did embowre me gronde;
To trete hem ylle wulde lette mie kyndnesse slepe.
QUEENE.
Mancas you have yn store, and to them parte;
Youre leege-folcke make moke dole , you have theyr worthe asterte .
KYNGE.
I heste no rede of you. I ken mie friendes.
Hallie dheie are, fulle ready mee to hele ,
Theyre volundes are ystorven to self endes;
No denwere yn mie breste I of them fele.
I muste to prayers; goe yn, and you do wele;
I muste ne lose the dutie of the daie;
Go inne, go ynne, ande viewe the azure rele
Fulle welle I wote you have noe mynde toe praie.
QUEENE.
I leeve youe to doe hommage heaven-were
To serve yor leege-folcke toe is doeynge hommage there.

SCENE II.
KYNGE AND SIR HUGHE.
KYNGE.
Mie friende, Syr Hughe, whatte tydynges brynges thee here?
HUGHE.
There is no mancas yn mie loverdes ente .
The hus dyspense unpaied doe appere;
The laste receivure ys eftesoones dispente
KYNGE.
Thenne guylde the Weste.
HUGHE.
Mie loverde, I dyd speke
Untoe the mitte Erle Harolde of the thynge;
He raysed hys honde, and smote me onne the cheke,
Saieynge, go beare thatte message to the kynge.
KYNGE.
Arace hym of hys powere; bie Goddis worde,
Ne moe thatte Harolde shall ywield the erlies swerde.
HUGHE.
Atte seeson sytte, mie loverde, lette itt bee;
Botte nowe the folcke doe soe enalse hys name,
Inne strevvynge to slea hymme, ourselves wee slea;
Syke ys the doughtyness of hys grete fame.
KYNGE.
Hughe, I beethyncke, thie rede ys notte to blame.
Botte thou maiest fynde fulle store of marckes yn Kente.
HUGHE.
Mie noble loverde, Godwynn ys the same
He sweeres he wylle notte swelle the Normans ent.
KYNG
Ah traytoure! botte mie rage I wylle commaunde.
Thou arte a Normanne, Hugh; a straunger to the launde.
Thou kenneste howe these Englysche erle doe bere
Such stedness in the yll and evylle thynge,
Botte atte the goode theie hover yn denwere ,
Onknowlachynge gif thereunto to clynge.
HUGHE.
Onwordie syke a marvelle of a kynge!
O Edward; thou deservest purer leege ;
To thee heie shulden all theire mancas brynge;
Thie nodde should save menne, and thie glomb forslege .
I amme no curriedowe I lacke no wite
I speke whatte bee the trouthe, and whatte all see is ryghte.
KYNGE.
Thou arte a hallie mann; I doe thee pryze.
Comme, comme, and here and hele mee ynn mie praires.
Fulle twentie mancas I wylle thee alise ,
And twayne of hamlettes to thee and thie heyres.
So shalle all Normannes from mie londe be fed,
Theie alleyn have syke love as to acquyre yer bredde.

ACT III.
CHORUS.
WHAN Freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned veste,
To everie knyghte her warre-songe sunge,
Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spredde;
A gorie anlace bye her honge.
She daunced onne the heathe;
She hearde the voice of deathe;
Pale-eyned assryghte, hys harte of sylver hue,
In vayne assayled her bosomme to acale
She hearde onflemed the shriekynge voice of woe,
And sadnesse ynne the owlette shake the dale.
She shooke the burled speere,
On hie she jeste her sheelde,
Her foemen all appere,
And flizze alonge the feelde.
Power, wythe his heafod straught ynto the skyes,
Hys speere a sonne-beame, and his sheelde a starre,
Alyche twaie brendeynge gronfyres rolls hys eyes,
Chastes with hys yronne feete and soundes to war.
She syttes upon a rock;
She bendes before his speere,
She ryses from the shocke,
Wieldynge her owne yn ayre.
Harde as the thonder dothe she drive ytte on,
Wytte scillye wympled gies ytte to hys crowne,
Hys longe sharpe speere, hys spreddynge sheelde ys gon,
He falles, and fallynge rolleth thousandes down.
War, goare-faced war, bie envie burld , arist
Hys feerie heaulme noddynge to the ayre,
Tenne bloddie arrowes ynne hys streynynge fyste --

poem by Thomas Chatterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Cōuercyon of Swerers

The fruytfull sentence & the noble werkes
To our doctryne wryten in olde antyquyte
By many grete and ryght notable clerkes
Grounded on reason & hyghe auctoryte
Dyde gyue vs example by good moralyte
To folowe the trace of trouthe and ryghtwysnes
Leuynge our synne and mortall wretchednes
By theyr wrytynge dothe vnto vs appere
The famous actes of many a champyon
In the courte of fame renowned fayre and clere
And some endyted theyr entencyon
Cloked in coloure harde in construccyon
Specyally poetes vnder cloudy fygures
Coueryd the trouthe of all theyr scryptures
So hystoryagraphes all the worthy dedes
Of kynges and knyghtes dyde put in wrytynge
To be in mynde for theyr memoryall medes
How sholde we nowe haue ony knowledgynge
Of thynges past/but by theyr endytynge
Wherfore we ought to preyse them doubteles
That spente theyr tyme in suche good besynes
Amonge all other my good mayster Lydgate
The eloquent poete and monke of bery
Dyde bothe contryue/and also translate
Many vertuous bookes to be in memorye
Touchynge the trouthe well and sentencyously
But syth that his dethe was intollerable
I praye god rewarde hym in lyfe perdurable
Amonge all thynges nothynge so prouffytable
As is scyence with the sentencyous scrypture
For worldly rychesse is often transmutable
As dayly dothe appere well in vre
Yet scyens a bydeth and is moost sure
After pouerte to attayne grete rychesse
Scyens is cause of promocyon doubtles
I lytell or nought expert in poetrye
Remembrynge my youth so lyght and frayle
Purpose to compyle here full breuyatly
A lytell treatyse wofull to bewayle
The cruell swerers whiche do god assayle
On euery syde his swete body to tere
With terryble othes as often as they swere
But also for drede plonged in neclygence
My penne doth quake to presume to endyte
But hope at laste to recure this scyence
Exorteth me ryght hardely to wryte
To deuoyde ydlenesse by good appetyte
For ydlenesse the grete moder of synne
Euery vyce is redy to lette ynne
I with the same ryght gretely infecte
Lykely to deye tyll grace by medecyne
Recured my sekenes my payne to abiecte
Commaundynge me by her hye power deuyne
To drawe this treatyse for to enlumyne
The reders therof by penytencyall pyte
And to pardon me of theyr benygnyte

Ryght myghty prynces of euery crysten rygyon
I sende you gretynge moche hertly & grace
Right wel to gouerne vpryght your dominyon
And all your lordes I greete in lyke cace
By this my lettre your hertes to enbrace
Besechynge you to prynte it in your mynde
How for your sake I toke on me mankynde
And as a lambe moost mekely dyde enclyne
To suffre the dethe for your redempcyon
And ye my kynges whiche do nowe domyne
Ouer my comons in terrestryall mancyon
By pryncely preemynence and Iuredyccyon
In your regall courtes do suffre me be rente
And my tender body with blode all be sprente
Without my grace ye maye nothynge preuayle
Though ye be kynges for to mayntene your see
To be a kynge it may nothynge auayle
But yf my grace preserue his dygnyte
Beholde your seruauntes how they do tere me
By cruell othes now pvon euery syde
Aboute the worlde launcynge my woūdes wyde
All the graces whiche I haue you shewed
Reuolue in mynde ryght ofte ententyfly
Beholde my body with blody proppes endewed
Within your realmes nowe torne so pyteously
Towsed and tugged with othes cruelly
Some my heed some myn armes and face
Some my herte do all to rente and race
They newe agayne do hange me on the rode
They tere my sydes and are nothynge dysmayde
My woundes they open and deuoure my blode
I god and man moost wofully arayde
To you complayne it maye not be denayde
ye nowe to tug me/ye tere me at the roote
yet I to you am chefe refuyte and boote
Wherfore ye kynges reygnynge in renowne
Refourme your seruauntes in your courte abused
To good example of euery maner towne
So that theyr othes whiche they longe haue vsed
On payne and punysshement be holly refused
Meke as a Lambe I suffre theyr grete wronge
I maye take vengeaunce thoughe I tary longe
I do forbere I wolde haue you amende
And graunte you mercy and ye wyll it take
O my swete brederne why do ye offende
Agayne to tere me whiche deyed for your sake
Lose my kyndenes and frome synne awake
I dyde redeme you frome the deuylles chayne
And spyte of me ye wyll to hym agayne
Made I not heuen the moost gloryous mansyon
In whiche I wolde be gladde to haue you in
Now come swete brederne to myn habytacyon
Alas good brederne with your mortall synne
Why flee ye frome me/to torne agayne begynne
I wrought you I bought you ye can it not denye
Yet to the deuyll ye go nowe wyllyngly

See
Me
Be
kynde
Agayne
My payne
Reteyne
in mynde
My swete bloode
On the roode
Dyde the good
my broder
My face ryght red
Myn armes spred
My woundes bled
thynke none oder
Beholde thou my syde
Wounded so ryght wyde
Bledynge sore that tyde
all for thyn owne sake
Thus for the I smerted
Why arte y&superu; harde herted
Be by me conuerted
and thy swerynge aslake
Tere me nowe no more
My woundes are sore
Leue swerynge therfore
and come to my grace
I am redy
To graunte mercy
To the truely
for thy trespace
Come nowe nere
My frende dere
And appere
before me
I so
In wo
Dyde go
se se
I
Crye
Hy
the

Unto me dere broder my loue and my herte
Turmente me no more with thyn othes grete
Come vnto my Ioye and agayne reuerte
Frome the deuylles snare and his subtyll net
Beware of the worlde all aboute the set
Thy flesshe is redy by concupyscence
To burne thy herte with cursed vyolence
Thoughe these thre enmyes do sore the assayle
Upon euery syde with daungerous iniquite
But yf thou lyst/they may nothynge preuayle
Nor yet subdue the with all theyr extremyte
To do good or yll/all is at thy lyberte
I do graunte the grace thyn enemyes to subdue
Swete broder accepte it theyr power to extue
And ye kynges and prynces of hye noblenes
With dukes and lordes of euery dygnyte
Indued with manhode wysdome and ryches
Ouer the comons hauynge the soueraynte
Correcte them whiche so do tere me
By cruell othes without repentaunce
Amende by tyme lest I take vengeaunce.

non accipies nomen dei tui in vaniam.
Exodi vicesimo

Unto the man I gaue commaundement
Not to take the name of thy god vaynfully
As not to swere but at tyme conuenyent
Before a Iuge to bere recorde truely
Namynge my name with reuerence mekely
Unto the Iuge than there in presence
By my name to gyue to the good credence
A my brederne yf that I be wrothe
It is for cause ye falsly by me swere
Ye knowe your selfe that I am very trothe
Yet wrongfully ye do me rente and tere
Ye neyther loue me nor my Iustyce fere
And yf ye dyde ye wolde full gentylly
Obeye my byddynge well and perfytely
The worldly kynges hauynge the soueraynte
Ye do well obey without resystence
Ye dare not take theyr names in vanyte
But with grete honoure and eke reuerence
Than my name more hye of magnyfycence
Ye ought more to drede whiche am kynge of all
Bothe god and man and reygne celestyall
No erthely man loueth you so well
As I do/whiche mekely dyde enclyne
For to redeme you from the fendes of hell
Takynge your kynde by my godhede dyuyne
you were the fendes I dyde make you myne
For you swete bretherne I was on the rode
Gyuynge my body my herte and my blode
Than why do ye in euery maner of place
With cruell othes tere my body and herte
My sydes and woundes it is a pyteous cace
Alas swete brederne I wolde you conuerte
For to take vengeaunce ye do me coherte
From the hous of swerers shall not be absent
The plage of Iustyce to take punysshement.

Uir multum iurans implebitur iniquitate et non discendet a domo eius plaga.
Unde. Ecclesiastici .xxxiii.

A man moche swerynge with grete iniquite
Shall be replete/and from his mancyon
The plage of vengeaunce shall not cessed be
Wherfore ye brederne full of abusyon
Take good hede to this dyscrypcyon
Come nowe to me and axe forgyuenes
And be penytente and haue it douteles

Non potest male mori qui bene vixit et vix bene moritur qui male vixit.
Augustinns.

Who in this worlde lyueth well and ryghwysly
Shall deye well by ryght good knowlegynge
Who in this worlde lyueth yll and wrongfully
Shall hardly scape to haue good endynge
I do graunte mercy but no tyme enlongynge
Wherfore good brederne whyles that ye haue space.
Amende your lyfe and come vnto my grace
My wordes my prelates vnto you do preche
For to conuerte you from your wretchednes
But lytell anaylleth you nowe for to teche
The worlde hathe cast you in suche blyndnes
Lyke vnto stones your harres hathe hardnes
That my swete wordes may not reconsyle
Your hertes harde with mortall synne so vyle
Wo worthe your hartes so planted in pryde
Wo worthe your wrath and mortall enuye
Wo worthe slouth that dothe with you abyde
Wo worthe also inmesurable glotony
Wo worthe your tedyus synne of lechery
Wo worthe you whome I gaue free wyll
Wo worthe couetyse that dothe your soules spyll
Wo worthe shorte Ioye cause of payne eternall
Wo worthe you that be so peruerted
Wo worthe your pleasures in the synnes mortall
Wo worthe you for whome I sore smerted
Wo worthe you euer but ye be conuerted
Wo worthe you whose makynge I repente
Wo worthe your horryble synne so vyolente
Wo worthe you whiche do me forsake
Wo worthe you whiche wyllyngely offende
Wo worthe your swerynge whiche dothe not aslake
Wo worthe you whiche wyll nothynge amende
Wo worthe vyce that dothe on you attende
Wo worthe your grete vnkyndenes to me
Wo worthe your hertes withouten pyte
Wo worthe your falshode and your doublenesse
Wo worthe also your corrupte Iugement
Wo worthe delyte in worldely rychesse
Wo worthe debate without extynguyshement
Wo worthe your wordes so moche impacyent
Wo worthe you vnto whome I dyde bote
And worthe you that tere me at the rote
Blessyd be ye that loue humylyte
Blessyd be ye that loue trouthe and pacyence
Blessyd be ye folowynge werkes of equyte
Blessyd be ye that loue well abstynence
Blessyd be ye vyrgyns of excellence
Blessyd be ye whiche loue well vertue
Blessyd be ye whiche do the worlde eschue
Blessyd be ye that heuenly Ioye do loue
Blessyd be ye in vertuous gouernaunce
Blessyd be ye whiche do pleasures reproue
Blessyd be ye that consyder my greuaunce
Blessyd be ye whiche do take repentaunce
Blessyd be ye remembrynge my passyon
Blessyd be ye makynge petycyon
Blessyd be ye folowynge my trace
Blessyd be ye louynge trybulacyon
Blessyd be ye not wyllynge to trespace
Blessyd be ye of my castycacyon
Blessyd be ye of good operacyon
Blessyd be ye vnto me ryght kynde
Blessyd be you whiche haue me in your mynde
Blessyd be ye leuynge yll company
Blessyd be ye hauntynge the vertuous
Blessyd be ye that my name magnefy
Blessyd be ye techynge the vycyous
Blessyd be ye good and relygyous
Blessyd be ye in the lyfe temperall
Whiche applye yourselfe to Ioye celestyall
The brytyll worlde ryght often transmutable
Who wyll in it his lyfe and tyme well spende
Shall Ioye attayne after inestymable
For in the worlde he must fyrst condyscende
To take grete payne as his power wyll extende
Agaynst the worlde the flesshe and the deuyll
By my grete grace for to withstande theyr euyll
For who can be a gretter fole than he
That spendeth his tyme to hym vncertayne
For a breuyat pleasure of worldly vanyte
Than after that to haue eternall payne
Who of the worlde delyteth and is fayne
Shall after sorowe and cry ve ve
In an other worlde quante sunt tenebre
Who is wyser than he that wyll applye
In the worlde take payne by due dylygence
After shorte payne to come grete glorye
Whiche is eterne moost hye of excellence
Where he shall se my grete magnyfycence
With many aungelles whiche for theyr solace
Insacyately do beholde my face
Regarde no Ioye of the erthly consystory
For lyke as Phebus dothe the snowe relente
So passeth the Ioyes of the worlde transytory
Tyme renneth fast tyll worldely lyfe be spente
Consyder this in your entendemente
Blessed be they that my wordes do here
And kepe it well/for they are to me dere
Therfore good brederne your hertes enclyne
To loue and drede me that am omnipotent
Bothe god and man in Ioye celestyne
Beholde my body all to torne and rente
With your spytefull othes cruell and vyolente
I loue you ye hate me ye are to harde herted
I helpe you ye tere me lo how for you I smerted
Mercy and peace dyde make an vnyte
Bytwene you and me but trouth & ryght wysnesse
Do nowe complayne byddynge my godheed se
How that ye breke the lege of sothfastnesse
They tell me that by Iustyce doubtelesse
I must take vengeaunce vpon you sykerly
That by your swerynge/agayne me crucefye
For at the request of good mercy and peace
I haue forborne you longe and many a daye
Yet more and more your synnes do encrease
Wherfore my Iustyce wyll no more delaye
But take vengeaunce for all your proude araye
I warne you ofte ye are nothynge the better
But ye amende my vengeaunce shall be gretter

Contra iuratores {epui} in celo crucifigentes per vera ardū dixit dominne. Nonne satis pro te vulneratus sum? nonne satis pro te afflictus sum desine amplius peccare qr magis aggrauat vulnus peccati &quod; vulnus lateris mei

Am not I wounded for the suffycyent
Haue I not for the ynoughe afflyccyon
Leue more to synne by good amendement
The wounde of synne to me is more passyon
Than the wounde of my syde for thy redempcyon
Thoughe I do spare I shall not desteny
But ye amende to brenne eternally
With my blody woundes I dyde your chartre seale
Why do you tere it/why do ye breke it so
Syth it to you is the eternall heale
And the releace of euerlastynge wo
Beholde this lettre with the prynte also
Of myn owne seale by perfyte portrayture
Prynte it in mynde and ye shall helthe recure
And ye kynges and lordes of renowne
Exhorte your seruauntes theyr swerynge to cease
Come vnto me and cast your synne adowne
And I my vengeaunce shall truely releace
With grace and plente/I shall you encreace
And brynge you whiche reuolue inwardly
This my complaynt/to eternall glory.
Amen.

poem by Stephen Hawes
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King Edward IV. And The Tanner of Tamworth

In summer time, when leaves grow greene,
And blossoms bedecke the tree,
King Edward wolde a hunting ryde,
Some pastime for to see.

With hawke and hounde he made him bowne,
With horne, and eke with bowe;
To Drayon Basset he tooke his waye,
With all his lordes a rowe.

And he had ridden ore dale and downe
By eight of clocke in the day,
When he was ware of a bold tanner,
Come ryding along the waye.

A fayre russet coat the tanner had on,
Fast buttoned under his chin,
And under him a good cow-hide,
And a mare of four shilling.

'Nowe stand you still, my good lordes all,
Under the grene wood spraye;
And I will wend to yonder fellowe,
To weet what he will saye.

'God speede, God speede thee,' said our king,
'Thou art welcome, sir,' sayd hee.
'The readyest waye to Drayton Basset
I praye thee to shewe to mee.'

'To Drayton Basset woldst thou goe,
Fro the place where thou dost stand?
The next payre of gallowes thou comest unto,
Turne in upon thy right hand.'

'That is an unreadye waye,' sayd our king,
'Thou doest but jest I see;
Nowe shewe me out the nearest waye,
And I pray thee wend with mee.'

'Awaye with a vengeance!' quoth the tanner:
'I hold thee out of thy witt:
All day have I rydden on Brocke, my mare,
And I am fasting yett.'

'Go with me downe to Drayton Basset,
No daynties we will spare;
All daye shalt thou eate and drinke of the best,
And I will paye thy fare.'

'Gramercye for nothing,' the tanner replyde,
'Thou payest no fare of mine:
I trowe I've more nobles in my purse,
Than thou hast pence in thine.'

'God give thee joy of them,' sayd the king,
'And send them well to priefe;'
The tanner wolde fame have beene away,
For he weende he had beene a thiefe.

'What art thou,' he sayde, 'thou fine fellowe?
Of thee I am in great feare;
For the cloathes thou wearest upon thy backe
Might beseeme a lord to weare.'

'I never stole them,' quoth our king,
'I tell you, sir, by the roode.'
'Then thou playest, as many an unthrift doth,
And standest in midds of thy goode.'

'What tydinges heare you,' sayd the kynge,
'As you ryde farre and neare?'
'I heare no tydinges, sir, by the masse,
But that cowe-hides are deare.'

'Cowe-hides! cowe-hides! what things are those?
I marvell what they bee?'
'What, art thou a foole?' the tanner reply'd;
'I carry one under mee.'

'What craftsman art thou,' sayd the king;
'I praye thee tell me trowe.'
'I am a barker, sir, by my trade;
Nowe tell me what art thou?'

'I am a poore courtier, sir,' quoth he,
'That am forth of service worne;
And faine I wolde thy prentise bee,
Thy cunninge for the learne.'

'Marrye heaven forfend,' the tanner replyde,
'That thou my prentise were;
Thou woldst spend more good than I shold winne
By fortye shilling a yere.'

'Yet one thinge wold I,' sayd our king,
'If thou wilt not seeme strange;
Thoughe my horse be better than thy mare,
Yet with thee I faine wold change.'

'Why if with me thou faine wilt change,
As change full well maye wee,
By the faith of my bodye, thou proude fellowe,
I will have some boot of thee.'

'That were against reason,' sayd the king,
'I sweare, so mote I thee;
My horse is better than thy mare,
And that thou well mayst see.'

'Yea, sir, but Brocke is gentle and mild,
And softly she will fare;
Thy horse is unrulye and wild, I wiss,
Aye skipping here and theare.'

'What boote wilt thou have?' our king reply'd;
'Now tell me in this stound.'
'Noe pence, nor half pence, by my faye,
But a noble in gold so round.'

'Here's twentye groates of white moneye,
Sith thou will have it mee.'
'I would have sworne now,' quoth the tanner,
'Thou hadst not had one pennie.

'But since we too have made a change,
A change we must abide;
Although thou hast gotten Brocke, my mare,
Thou gettest not my cowe-hide.'

'I will not have it,' sayd the kynge,
'I sweare, so mought I thee;
Thy foule cowe-hide I wolde not beare,
If thou woldst give it to mee.'

The tanner hee tooke his good cowe-hide,
That of the cow was hilt,
And threwe it upon the king's sadelle,
That was soe fayrelye gilte.

'Now help me up, thou fine fellowe,
'Tis time that I were gone:
When I come home to Gyllian, my wife,
Sheel say I am gentilmon.'

The king he tooke him up by the legge
The tanner a f** lett fall;
'Nowe marrye, goode fellowe,' sayd the kyng,
'Thy courtesye is but small.'

When the tanner he was in the kinges sadelle,
And his foote in the stirrup was,
He marvelled greatlye in his minde,
Whether it were golde or brass.

But when his steede saw the cows toile wagge,
And eke the blacke cowe-horne,
He stamped, and stared, and awaye he ranne,
As the devill had him borne.

The tanner he pulld, the tanner he sweat,
And held by the pummil fast;
At length the tanner came tumbling downe,
His necke he had well-nye brast.

'Take thy horse again with a vengeance,' he sayd,
'With mee he shall not byde.'
'My horse wolde have borne thee well enoughe,
But he knewe not of thy cowe-hide.

'Yet if againe thou faine woldst change,
As change full well may wee,
By the faith of my bodye, thou jolly tanner,
I will have some boote of thee.'

'What boote wilt thou have,' the tanner replyd,
'Nowe tell me in this stounde?'
'No pence nor half-pence, sir, by my faye,
But I will have twentye pound.'

'Here's twentye groates out of my purse,
And twentye I have of thine;
And I have one more, which we will spend
Together at the wine.'

The king set a bugle-horne to his mouthe,
And blewe both loude and shrille;
And soone came lords, and soone came knights,
Fast ryding over the hille.

'Nowe, out alas!' the tanner he cryde,
'That ever I sawe this daye!
Thou art a strong thiefe; yon come thy fellowes
Will beare my cowe-hide away.'

'They are no thieves,' the king replyde,
'I sweare, soe mote I thee;
But they are the lords of the north countrey,
Here come to hunt with mee.'

And soone before our king they came,
And knelt downe on the grounde;
Then might the tanner have beene awaye,
He had lever than twentye pounde.

'A coller, a coller, here,' sayd the king,
'A coller,' he loud gan crye;
Then woulde he lever then twentye pound,
He had not beene so nighe.

'A coller, a coller!' the tanner he sayd,
'I trowe it will breed sorrowe;
After a coller commeth a halter;
I trowe I shall be hang'd to-morrowe.'

'Be not afraid, tanner,' said our king;
'I tell thee, so mought I thee,
Lo here I make thee the best esquire
That is in the north countrie.'

'For Plumpton-Parke I will give thee,
With tenements faire beside,-
'Tis worth three hundred markes by the yeare,-
To maintaine thy good cowe-hide.'

'Gramercye, my liege,' the tanner replyde;
'For the favour thou hast me showne,
If ever thou comest to merry Tamworth,
Neates leather shall clout thy shoen.'

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Of Hym That Togyder Wyll Serve Two Masters

A fole he is and voyde of reason
Whiche with one hounde tendyth to take
Two harys in one instant and season;
Rightso is he that wolde undertake
Hym to two lordes a servaunt to make;
For whether that he be lefe or lothe,
The one he shall displease, or els bothe.

A fole also he is withouten doute,
And in his porpose sothly blyndyd sore,
Which doth entende labour or go aboute
To serve god, and also his wretchyd store
Of worldly ryches: for as I sayde before,
He that togyder will two maysters serve
Shall one displease and nat his love deserve.

For he that with one hounde wol take also
Two harys togyther in one instant
For the moste parte doth the both two forgo,
And if he one have: harde it is and skant
And that blynd fole mad and ignorant
That draweth thre boltis atons in one bowe
At one marke shall shote too high or too lowe....

He that his mynde settyth god truly to serve
And his sayntes: this worlde settynge at nought
Shall for rewarde everlastynge joy deserve,
But in this worlde he that settyth his thought
All men to please, and in favour to be brought
Must lout and lurke, flater, laude, and lye:
And cloke in knavys counseyll, though it fals be.

If any do hym wronge or injury
He must it suffer and pacyently endure
A double tunge with wordes like hony;
And of his offycis if he wyll be sure
He must be sober and colde of his langage,
More to a knave, than to one of hye lynage.

Oft must he stoupe his bonet in his honde,
His maysters back he must oft shrape and clawe,
His brest anoyntynge, his mynde to understonde,
But be it gode or bad therafter must he drawe.
Without he can Jest he is nat worth a strawe,
But in the mean tyme beware that he none checke;
For than layth malyce a mylstone in his necke.

He that in court wyll love and favour have
A fole must hym fayne, if he were none afore,
And be as felow to every boy and knave,
And to please his lorde he must styll laboure sore.
His many folde charge maketh hym coveyt more
That he had lever serve a man in myserye
Than serve his maker in tranquylyte.

But yet when he hath done his dylygence
His lorde to serve, as I before have sayde,
For one small faute or neglygent offence
Suche a displeasoure agaynst hym may be layde
That out is he cast bare and unpurvayde,
Whether he be gentyll, yeman grome or page;
Thus worldly servyse is no sure herytage.

Wherfore I may prove by these examples playne
That it is better more godly and plesant
To leve this mondayne casualte and payne
And to thy maker one god to be servaunt,
Which whyle thou lyvest shall nat let the want
That thou desyrest justly, for thy syrvyce,
And than after gyve the, the joyes of Paradyse.

poem by Sebastian Brant
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King Estmere

Hearken to me, gentlemen,
Come and you shall heare;
He tell you of two of the boldest brethren,
That ever born y-were.

The tone of them as Adler yonge,
The tother was Kyng Estmere;
The were as bolde men in their deedes,
As any were, farr and neare.

As they were drinking ale and wine
Within Kyng Estmeres halle:
'When will ye marry a wyfe, brother,
A wyfe to gladd us all?'

Then bespake him Kyng Estmere,
And answered him hatilee
'I know not that ladye in any lande,
That is able to marry with mee.'

'Kyng Adland hath a daughter, brother,
Men call her bright and sheene;
If I were kyng here in your stead,
That ladye shold be queene.'

Sayes, 'Reade me, reade me, deare brother,
Throughout merry England,
Where we might find a messenger
Betweene us two to sende.'

Sayes, 'You shall ryde yourselfe, brother,
He beare you companee;
Many throughe fals messengers are deceived,
And I feare lest soe shold wee.'

Thus the renisht them to ryde
Of twoe good renisht steedes,
And when they came to Kyng Adlands halle,
Of red golde shone their weedes.

And when the came to Kyng Adlands halle
Before the goodlye yate,
Ther they found good Kyng Adland
Rearing himselfe theratt.

'Nowe Christ thee save, good Kyng Adland,
Nowe Christ thee save and see.'
Sayd, 'You be welcome, Kyng Estmere,
Right hartilye to mee.'

'You have a daughter,' sayd Adler yonge,
'Men call her bright and sheene;
My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe,
Of Englande to be queene.'

'Yesterdaye was att my dere daughter
Syr Bremor the Kyng of Spayne;
And then she nicked him of naye;
I feare sheele do youe the same.'

'The Kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim,
And leevith on Mahound;
And pitye it were that fayre ladye
Shold marrye a heathen hound.'

'But grant to me,' sayes Kyng Estmere,
'For my love I you praye,
That I may see your daughter dere
Before I goe hence awaye.'

'Althoughe itt is seven yeare and more
Syth my daughter was in halle,
She shall come downe once for your sake,
To glad my guestes alle.'

Downe then came that mayden fayre,
With ladyes lacede in pall,
And halfe a hondred of bolde knightes,
To bring her from bowre to hall,
And eke as manye gentle squieres,
To waite upon them all.

The talents of golde were on her head sette,
Hunge low downe to her knee;
And everye rynge on her small finger
Shone of the chrystall free.

Sayes, 'Christ you save, my deare Madame;'
Sayes, 'Christ you save and see;'
Sayes, 'You be welcome, Kyng Estmere,
Right welcome unto mee.

'And iff you love me, as you saye,
So well and hartilee,
All that ever you are comen about
Soone sped now itt may bee.'

Then bespake her father deare:
'My daughter, I saye naye;
Remember well the Kyng of Spayne,
What he sayd yesterdaye.

'He wold pull downe my halles and castles,
And reave me of my lyfe:
And ever I feare that paynim kyng,
Iff I reave him of his wyfe.'

'Your castles and your towres, father,
Are stronglye built aboute;
And therefore of that foule paynim
Wee neede not stande in doubte.

'Plyght me your troth nowe, Kyng Estmere,
By heaven and your right hande,
That you will marrye me to your wyfe,
And make me queene of your land.'

Then Kyng Estmere he plight his troth
By heaven and his righte hand,
That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,
And make her queene of his land.

And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,
To goe to his owne countree,
To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,
That marryed the might bee.

They had not ridden scant a myle,
A myle forthe of the towne,
But in did come the Kynge of Spayne,
With kempes many a one:

But in did come the Kyng of Spayne,
With manye a grimme barone,
Tone day to marrye Kyng Adlands daughter,
Tother daye to carrye her home.

Then shee sent after Kyng Estmere,
In all the spede might bee,
That he must either returne and fighte,
Or goe home and lose his ladye.

One whyle then the page he went,
Another whyle he ranne;
Till he had oretaken Kyng Estmere,
I wis, he never blame.

'Tydinges, tydinges, Kyng Estmere!'
'What tydinges nowe, my boye?'
'O tydinges I can tell you,
That will you sore annoye.

'You had not ridden scant a myle,
A myle out of the towne,
But in did come the Kyng of Spayne
With kempes many a one:

'But in did come the Kyng of Spayne
With manye a grimme barone,
Tone day to marrye Kyng Adlands daughter,
Tother daye to carrye her home.

'That ladye fayre she greetes you well,
And ever-more well by mee:
You must either turne againe and fighte,
Or goe home and lose your ladye.'

Sayes, 'Reade me, reade me, deare brother,
My reade shall ryde at thee,
Whiche way we best may turne and fighte,
To save this fayre ladye.'

'Now hearken to me,' sayes Adler yonge,
'And your reade must rise at me:
I quicklye will devise a waye
To sette thy ladye free.

'My mother was a westerne woman,
And learned in gramarye,
And when I learned at the schole,
Something shee taught itt me.

'There groweth an hearbe within this fielde,
And iff it were but knowne,
His color which is whyte and redd,
It will make blacke and browne:

'His color which is browe and blacke,
Itt will make redd and whyte;
That sword is not in all Englande,
Upon his coate will byte.

'And you shal be a harper, brother,
Out of the north countree;
And Ile be your boye, so faine of fighte,
To beare your harpe by your knee.

'And you shall be the best harper,
That ever tooke harpe in hande;
And I will be the best singer,
That ever sung in this land.

'Itt shal be written in your forheads,
All and in grammarye,
That we towe are the boldest men
That are in all Christentye.'

And thus they renisht them to ryde,
On towe good renish steedes;
And whan the came to Kyng Adlands hall,
Of redd gold shone their weedes.

And whan the came to Kyng Adlands hall,
Untill the fayre hall yate,
There they found a proud porter,
Rearing himselfe thereatt.

Sayes, 'Christ thee save, thou proud porter;'
Sayes, 'Christ thee save and see.'
'Nowe you be welcome,' sayd the porter,
'Of what land soever ye bee.'

'We been harpers,' sayd Alder yonge,
'Come out of the northe countree;
We been come hither untill this place,
This proud weddinge for to see.'

Sayd, 'And your color were white and redd,
As it is blacke and browne.
Ild saye Kyng Estmere and his brother
Were comen untill this towne.'

Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,
Layd itt on the porters arme:
'And ever we will thee, proud porter,
Thow wilt saye us no harme.'

Sore he looked on Kyng Estmere,
And sore he handled the ryng,
Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,
He lett for no kind of thyng.

Kyng Estmere he light off his steede,
Up att the fayre hall board;
The frothe that came from his brydle bitte
Light on Kyng Bremors beard.

Sayes, 'Stable thy steede, thou proud harper,
Go stable him in the stalle;
Itt doth not beseeme a proud harper
To stable him in a kyngs halle.'

'My ladd he is so lither,' he sayd,
'He will do nought that's meete;
And aye that I cold but find the man,
Were able him to beate.'

'Thou speakst proud words,' sayd the paynim kyng,
'Thou harper here to mee:
There is a man within this halle,
That will beate thy lad and thee.'

'O lett that man come downe,' he sayd,
'A sight of him wold I see;
And whan hee hath beaten well my ladd,
Then he shall beate of mee.'

Downe they came the kemperye man,
And looked him in the eare;
For all the gold, that was under heaven,
He durst not neigh him neare.

'And how nowe, kempe,' sayd the Kyng of Spayne,
'And how that aileth thee?'
He sayes, 'Itt is written in his forhead
All and in gramarye,
That for all the gold that is under heaven,
I dare not neigh him nye.'

Kying Estmere then pulled forth his harpe,
And played thereon so sweete:
Upstarte the ladye from the kynge,
As hee sate at the meate.

'Now stay thy harpe, thou proud harper,
Now stay thy harpe, I say;
For an thou playest as thou beginnest,
Thou'lt till my bride awaye.'

He strucke upon his harpe agayne,
And playd both fayre and free;
The ladye was so pleasde thereatt,
She laught loud laughters three.

'Nowe sell me thy harpe,' sayd the Kyng of Spayne,
'Thy harpe and stryngs eche one,
And as many gold nobles thou shalt have,
As there be stryngs thereon.'

'And what wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,
'Iff I did sell it yee?'
'To playe my wiffe and me a Fitt,
When abed together we bee.'

'Now sell me,' quoth hee, 'thy bryde soe gay,
As shee sitts laced in pall,
And as many gold nobles I will give,
As there be rings in the hall.'

'And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay,
Iff I did sell her yee?
More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye
To lye by mee than thee.'

Hee played agayne both loud and shrille,
And Adler he did syng,
'O ladye, this is thy owne true love;
Noe harper, but a kyng.

'O ladye, this is thy owne true love,
As playnlye thou mayest see;
And Ile rid thee of that foule paynim,
Who partes thy love and thee.'

The ladye looked, the ladye blushte,
And blushte and lookt agayne,
While Adler he hath drawne his brande,
And hath the Sowdan slayne.

Up then rose the kemperye men,
And loud they gan to crye:
'Ah! traytors, yee have slayne our kyng,
And therefore yee shall dye.'

Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde,
And swith he drew his brand;
And Estmere he, and Adler yonge,
Right stiffe in stour can stand.

And aye their swordes soe sore can byte,
Throughe help of Gramarye,
That soone they have slayne the kempery men,
Or forst them forth to flee.

Kyng Estmere tooke that fayre ladye,
And marryed her to his wiffe,
And brought her home to merrye England
With her to leade his life.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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An Elegie on Henry, fourth Erle of Northumberlande

Ad dominum properato meum mea pagina Percy,
Qui Northumbrorum jura paterna gerit.
Ad nutum celebris tu porna repone leonis,
Quaeque suo patri tristia justa cano.
Ast ubi perlegit, dubiam sub mente volutet
Fortunam, cunceta quae male fida rotat.
Qui leo sit felix, et Nestoris occupet annos;
Ad libitum cujus ipse paratus ero.

Skelton Laureat Upon the Dolourus Dethe and Muche Lamentable Chaunce of the Most Honorable Erle of Northumberlande.

I wayle, I wepe, I sobbe, I sigh ful sore
The dedely fate, the dolefulle desteny
Of hym that is gone, alas! without restore,
Of the bloud royall descending nobelly;
Whose lordshyp doutles was slayne lamentably
Thorow treson, ageyn him compassed and wrought,
Trew to his prince in word, in dede, and thought.

Of hevenly poems, O Clyo, calde by name
In the colege of Musis goddess hystoriall,
Adres the to me, whiche am both halt and lame
In elect uteraunce to make memoryall!
To the for souccour, to the for helpe I call,
Mine homely rudnes and dryghnes to expell
With the freshe waters of Elyconys well.

Of noble actes aunciently enrolde
Of famous pryncis and lordes of astate,
Be thy report ar wont to be extold,
Regestringe trewly every formare date;
Of thy bountie after the usuall rate
Kyndell in me suche plenty of thy nobles,
Thes sorrowfulle dites that I may shew expres.

In sesons past, who hathe h[ea]rde or sene
Of formar writyng by any presidente
That vilane hastarddis in their furious tene,
Fulfylled with malice of froward entente,
Confetered togeder of commonn concente
Falsly to slee theyr moste singuler good lord?
It may be regestrede of shamefull recorde.

So noble a man, so valiaunt lord and knyght,
Fulfilled with honor, as all the world doth ken;
At his commaundement which had both day and nyght
Knyghtes and squyers, at every season when
He calde upon them, as meniall household men;
Were not these commons uncurteis karlis of kind
To slo their owne lord? God was not in their mynd.

And were not they to blame, I say also,
That were aboute him, his owne servants of trust,
To suffre him slayn of his mortall fo?
Fled away from hym, let hym ly in the dust;
They bode not till the reckenyng were discust;
What shuld I flatter? what shuld I glose or paint?
Fy, fy for shame, their heartes were to faint.

In England and Fraunce which gretly was redouted,
Of whom both Flaunders and Scotland stode in drede,
To whome great estates obeyed and lowted,
And mayny of rude villayns made hym for to blede;
Unkyndly they slew him; that holp them oft at nede:
He was their bulwark, their paves, and their wall,
Yet shamefully they slew hym; that shame mot them befal!

I say, ye comoners, why we ye so stark mad?
What frantyk frensy fyll in your brayne?
Where was your wit and reson ye should have had?
What wilful foly made yow to ryse agayne
Your naturall lord? alas, I cannot fayne:
Ye armyd you with will, and left your wit behynd;
Well may you be called comones most unkynd.

He was your chefteyne, your shelde, your chef defence,
Redy to assyst you in every time of nede;
Your worshyp depended of his excellence;
Alas, ye mad men, to far ye did excede;
Your hap was unhappy, to ill was your spede:
What moved you againe him to war or to fyght?
What alyde you to sle your lord again all ryght?

The ground of his quarel was for his soverain lord,
The well concerning of all the hole lande,
Demandyng suche duties as nedes most acord
To the ryght of his prince, which shold not be withstand;
For whose cause ye slew him with your owne hand:
But had his noble men done wel that day,
Ye had not been able to have sayd him nay.

But ther was fals packing, or els I am begylde;
How-be-it the mater was evydent and playne,
For if they had occupied their spere and their shilde,
This noble man doutles had not bene slayne.
But men say they wer lynked with a double chaine,
And held with the comones under a cloke,
Which kindeled the wild fyr that made all this smoke.

The commons renyed ther taxes to pay,
Of them demaunded and asked by the kynge;
With one voice importune they playnly sayd nay;
They buskt them on a bushment themselfe in baile to bring,
Againe the kyngs plesure to wrestle or to wring;
Bluntly as bestis with boste and with crye
They sayd they forsed not, nor carede not to dy.

The noblenes of the north, this valiant lord and knight,
As man that was innocent of trechery or traine,
Pressed forth boldly to withstand the myght,
And, lyke marciall Hector, he faught them agayne,
Trustyng in noble men that were with him there;
Bot al they fled from hym for falshode or fere.

Barones, knyghtes, squiers, one and all,
Together with servauntes of his famuly,
Turned their baskis, and let their master fal,
Of whos [life] they counted not a flye;
Take up whose wold, for ther they let him ly.
Alas, his gold, his fee, his annual rent
Upon suche a sort was ille bestowd and spent!

He was environd aboute on every syde
With his enemyes, that we starke made and wode;
Yet while he stode he gave them woundes wyde;
Allas for ruth! what thoughe his mynd wer gode,
His corage manly, yet ther he shed his blode:
Al left alone, alas, he foughte in vayne!
For cruelly among them ther he was slayne.

Alas for pite! that Percy thus was spylt,
The famous Erle of Northumberland;
Of knyghtly prowes the sword, pomel, and hylt,
The myghty lyon doutted by se and lande;
O dolorous chaunce of Fortunes froward hande!
What man, remembryng howe shamefully he was slaine,
From bitter weping himself can restrain?

O cruell Mars, thou dedly god of war!
O dolorous tewisday, dedicate to thy name,
When thou shoke thy sworde so noble a man to mar!
O grounde ungracious, unhappy be thy fame,
Which wert endyed with rede bloud of the same
Most noble erle! O foule mysuryd ground,
Whereon he gat his finall dedely wounde!

O Atropos, of the fatall systers iii
Goddess most cruel unto the lyfe of man,
All merciles, in the is no pite!
O homicide, which sleest all that thou can,
So forcibly upon this erle thou ran,
That with thy sword, enharpit of mortall drede,
Thou kit asonder his perfight vitall threde!

My wordes unpullysht be, nakide and playne,
Of aureat poems they want ellumynynge;
But by them to knowlege ye may attayne
Of this lordes dethe and of his murdrynge;
Which whils he lyvyd had fuyson of every thing,
Of knights, of squyers, chyf lord of toure and towne,
Tyll fykkell Fortune began on hym to frowne:

Paregall to dukes, with kynges he might compare,
Surmounting in honor all eryls he did excede;
To all countreis aboute hym reporte me I dare;
Lyke to Eneas benigne in worde and dede,
Valiant as Hector in every marciall nede,
Provydent, discrete, circumspect, and wyse,
Tyll the chaunce ran agayne hym of Fortunes duble dyse.

What nedeth me for to extoll his fame
With my rude pen enkankered all with rust?
Whose noble actes show worshiply his name,
Transendyng far myne homly Muse, that muste
Yet somwhat wright supprised with herty lust,
Truly reportyng his right noble estate,
Immortally whiche is immaculate?

His noble blode never destaynyd was,
Trew to his prince for to defend his ryght
Doblenes hatyng fals maters to compas,
Treytory and treason he banysht out of syght,
With truth to medle was al his holl delyght,
As all his countrey can testyfy the same:
To sle suche a lorde, alas, it was great shame.

If the hole quere of the Musis nyne
In me all onely wer set and comprised,
Enbrethed with the blast of influence devyne,
As perfytly as could be thought or devisyd;
To me also allthough it were promised
Of laureat Phebus holy the eloquence,
All were to lytell for his magnificence.

O yonge lyon, but tender yet of age,
Grow and encrese, remembre thyne estate;
God the assyst unto thyn herytage,
And geve the grace to be more fortunate!
Agayn rebellyones arme the to make debate;
And, as the lyone, whiche is of bestes kynge,
Unto thy subjectes by curteis and benygne.

I pray God sende the prosperous lyfe and long,
Stable thy mynde constant to be and fast,
Ryght to mayntayn, and to resyst all wronge:
All flateryng faytors abhor and from the cast;
Of foule detraction God kepe the from the blast!
Let double delyng in the have no place,
And be not lyght of credence in no case.

With hevy chere, with dolorous hart and mynd,
Eche man may sorow in his inward thought
This lordes death, whose pere is hard to fynd,
Allgif Englond and Fraunce were thorow saught.
Al kynges, all princes, al dukes, well they ought,
Both temorall and spiritual, for to complayne
This noble man, that crewelly was slayne:

More specially barons, and those knyghtes bold,
And al other gentilmen with him entertenyed
In fee, as menyall men of his houseold,
Whom he as lord worshyply mainteyned;
To sorowful weping they ought to be constreined,
As oft as they call to theyr remembraunce,
Of ther good lord the fate and dedely chaunce.

O perlese Prince of heven emperyall!
That with one word formed al thing of noughte;
Heven, hell, and erthe obey unto thy call;
Which to thy resemblaunce wondersly hast wrought
All mankynd, whom thou full dere hast bought,
With thy bloud precious our finaunce thou did pay,
And us redemed from the fendys pray;

To the pray we, as Prince incomparable,
As thou art of mercy and pyte the well,
Thou bring unto thy joye eterminable
The soull of this lorde from all daunger of hell,
In endles blys with the to byde and dwell
In thy palace above the orient,
Where thou art Lord, and God omnipotent.

O quene of mercy, O lady full of grace,
Mayden most pure, and Goddess moder dere,
To sorowful hartes chef comfort and solace,
Of all women O flowre withouten pere!
Pray to thy Son above the sterris clere,
He to vouchesaf, by thy mediacion,
To pardon thy servaunt and brynge to salvacion.

In joy triumphant the hevenly yerarchy,
With all the hole sorte of that glorious place,
His soull mot receyve into theyr company
Thorow bounty of Hym that formed all solace:
Wel of pite, of mercy, and of grace,
The Father, the Sonn, and the Holy Ghost,
In Trinitate one God of myghtes moste!

poem by John Skelton
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
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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
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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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I would and I would not

I woulde it were not as it is
Or that I cared not yea or no;
I woulde I thoughte it not amiss,
Or that amiss mighte blamles goo;
I woulde I were, yet woulde I not,
I mighte be gladd yet coulde I not.

I coulde desire to know the meane
Or that the meane desyre soughte;
I woulde I coulde my fancye weane
From suche sweet joyes as Love hathe wroughte;
Onlye my wishe is leaste of all
A badge whereby to know a thrall.

O happy man whiche doste aspire
To that whiche semeleye thou dost crave!
Thrise happy man, if thy desyre
Maye winn with hope good happ to have;
But woe to me unhappy man
Whom hope nor happ acquiet cann.

The budds of hope are starvde with feare
And still his foe presents his face;
My state, if hope the palme shoulde beare
Unto my happ woulde be disgrace.
As diamond in woode were set
Or Irus raggs in goulde I frett.

For loe my tyrèd shoulders beare
Desyre's weery beatinge winges;
And at my feet a clogg I weare
Tyde one wth selfe disdayning stringes.
My wings to mounte aloft make hast.
My clog doth sinke me downe as faste.

This is our state, loe thus we stande
They ryse to fall that climbe to hye;
The boye that fled kynge Minos lande
Maye learne the wise more love to flye.
What gaynde his poynte agaynste the sonne
He drownde in seas himself, that wonne.

Yet Icarus more happy was,
By present deathe his cares to ende
Than I, pore mann, on whom alas
Tenn thousande deathes theire paynes do sende.
Now greife, now hope, now loue, now spyghte
Longe sorrows mixte withe shorte delyghte.

The pheere and fellowe of thy smarte
Prometheus I am indeede;
Upon whose ever livinge harte
The greedy gryphes do daylye feede;
But he that lyfts his harte so hye
Muste be contente to pine and dye.

Finis.

poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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The Example of Vertu : Cantos I.-VII.

Here begynneth the boke called the example of vertu.

The prologe.

Whan I aduert in my remembraunce
The famous draughtes of poetes eloquent
Whiche theyr myndes dyd well enhaunce
Bokes to contryue that were expedyent
To be remembred without Impedyment
For the profyte of humanyte
This was the custume of antyquyte.
I now symple and moost rude
And naked in depured eloquence
For dulnes rethoryke doth exclude
Wherfore in makynge I lake intellygence
Also consyderynge my grete neglygence
It fereth me sore for to endyte
But at auenture I wyll now wryte.
As very blynde in the poetys art
For I therof can no thynge skyll
Wherfore I lay it all a part
But somwhat accordynge to my wyll
I wyll now wryte for to fulfyll
Saynt Powles wordes and true sentement
All that is wryten is to oure document
O prudent Gower in langage pure
Without corrupcyon moost facundyous
O noble Chauser euer moost sure
Of frutfull sentence ryght delycyous
O vertuous Lydgat moche sentencyous
Unto you all I do me excuse
Though I your connynge do now vse
Explicit prologus.

Capitulum Primsi.
In Septembre in fallynge of the lefe
Whan phebus made his declynacyon
And all the whete gadred was in the shefe
By radyaunt hete and operacyon
Whan the vyrgyn had full domynacyon
And Dyane entred was one degre
Into the sygne of Gemyne
Whan the golden sterres clere were splendent
In the firmament puryfyed clere as crystall
By imperyall course without incombrement
As Iuppyter and Mars that be celestyall
With Saturne and Mercury that wer supernall
Myxt with venus that was not retrograte
That caused me to be well fortunate
In a slombrynge slepe with slouth opprest
As I in my naked bedde was leyd
Thynkynge all nyght to take my rest
Morpleus to me than made abreyd
And in my dreme me thought he sayd
Come walke with me in a medowe amerous
Depeynted with floures that be delycyous
I walked with hym into a place
Where that there grue many a fayre floure
With Ioye replete and full of solace
And the trees dystyllynge redolent lycoure
More sweter fer than the Aprell shour
And tary I dyd there by longe space
Tyll that I saw before my face
A ryght fayre lady of myddell stature
And also enduyd with grete vertue
Her apparell was set with perlys pure
Whose beaute alway dyd renue
To me she sayd and ye wyll extue
All wyldnes I wyll be your guyde
That ye to fraylte shall not slyde.
Unto her I answerde o lady gloryous
I pray you tell me what is your name
For ye seeme to be ryght precyous
And I am yonge and sore to blame
Of vyces full and in vertue lame
But I wyll be ruled now by your pleasure
So that your order be made by mesure
Eclepyd I am she sayd dyscrecyon
And yf ye wyll be ruled by me
Ye shall haue Ioye without reprehencyon
And neuer fall in to fragylyte
Youth lackynge me it is grete pyte
For in what place I am exyled
They be with synne ryght oft defyled
It longeth euer vnto my properte
Youth to gyue courage for to lerne
I wyll not medle with no duplycyte
But faythfulnes I wyll dyscerne
And brynge thy soule to blesse eterne
By wyse example and morall doctryne
For youth hauynge to me is a good syne
Forsake also all euyll company
And be founde true in worde and dede
Remembre that this worlde is transytory
After thy desert shall be thy mede
Loue god alway and eke hym drede
And for no mannes pleasure be thyn owne foo
Gyue theym fayre wordes and lete theym goo.
Be to thy kynge euer true subgete
As thou sholdest be by ryght and reason
Lete thy herte lowely on hym be sete
Without ony spot of euyll treason
And be obedyent at euery season
Unto his grace without rebellyon
That thou with trouth may be companyon
Loue neuer vnloued for that is payne
Whyle that thou lyuest of that beware
Loue as thou seest the loued agayne
Or elles it wyll torne the to care
Be neuer taken in that fast snare
Proue or thou loue that is moost sure
And than thou in doubte shalt not endure.
Beware byleue no flaterynge tonge
For flaterers be moost disseyuable
Though that they company with the longe
Yet at the ende they wyll be varyable
For they by reason are not fauorable
But euermore fals and double
And with theyr tonges cause of grete trouble
This brytell worlde ay full of bytternes
Alway turnynge lyke to a ball
No man in it can haue no sykernes
For whan he clymmeth he hath a fall
O wauerynge shadowe bytter as gall
O fatall welth full soone at ende
Though thou ryght hy do oft assende
Whan she to me had made relacyon
Of all these prouerbes by good conclusyon
She gaue to me an Informacyon
For to depryue all yll abusyon
And to consydre the grete derysyon
Whiche is in youth that may not se
No thynge appropred to his prosperyte
Forth than we went to an hauen syde
Wher was a shyp lyenge at rode
Taryenge after the wynde and tyde
And with moche spyces ryght well lode
Upon it lokynge we longe abode
Tyll colus with blastes began to rore
Than we her aborded with payne ryght sore
This water eclyped was vayneglory
Euer with yeopardy and tempestyous
And the shyp called was ryght truly
The vessell of the passage daungerous
The wawys were hyghe and gretly troublous
The captayn called was good comfort
And the sterysman fayre pasport.

Capitulum II.

Longe were we dryuen with wynde & weder
Tyll we arryued in a fayre Ilonde
Wher was a boote tyed with a teeder
Of merueylous wood as I vnderstonde
Precyous stones ley vpon the sond
And poynted dyamondes grewe on the rockes
And corall also by ryght hyghe stockes
Amased I was for to beholde
The precyous stones vnder my fete
And the erth glysterynge of golde
With floures fayre of odour swete
Dame dyscrecyon I dyd than grete
Praynge her to me to make relacyon
Who of this Ilonde hath domynacyon
She sayd foure ladyes in vertue excellent
Of whiche the eldest is dame nature
That dayly fourmeth after her entent
Euery beest and lyuynge creature
Both foule and fayre and also pure
All that dependynge in her ordynaunce
Where that she fauoureth there is grete pleasaunce
The seconde is called dame fortune
Ayenst whome can be no resystence
For she doth sette the strynges in tune
Of euery persone by her magnyfycence
Whan they sound best by good experyence
She wyll theym loose and let theym slyp
Causynge theym fall by her turnynge tryp
The thyrde called is dame hardynes
That often rulyth by her cheualry
She is ryght stowt and of grete prowes
And the captayn of a lusty company
And ruleth theym euer full hardely
And to gete honour and worldely tresure
She putteth her oft in auenture
The fourth is wysedome a lady bryght
Whiche is my syster as ye shall se
Whom I do loue with all my myght
For she enclyneth euer to benygnyte
And medeleth not with fraude nor subtylyte
But maketh many noble clerkes
And ruleth theym in all theyr werkes
They dwell all in a fayre castell
Besyde a ryuer moche depe and clere
And be expert in feytys manuell
That vnto theym can be no peere
Of erthely persone that lyueth here
For they be so fayre and wounderous
That theym to se it is solacyous.
Longe haue they trauerst gretly in the lawe
Whiche of theym sholde haue the preemynence
And none of them theyr case wyll withdrawe
Tyll of dame Iustyce they knowe the sentence
They argue often and make defence
Eche vnto other withouten remedy
I wyll no lenger of them specefy.

Capitulum Tercium.

Come on fayre youth and go with me
Unto that place that is delectable
Bylded with towres of curyosyte
And yet though that ye be lamentable
Whan thou art there you wylt be confortable
To se the merueyles that there be wrought
No man can prynt it in his thought
A path we founde ryght gretely vsed
Where in we went tyll at the last
A castell I sawe wherof I mused
Not fully from me a stones cast
To se the towres I was agast
Set in a valey so strongely fortefyed
So gentyll compassed and well edefyed
The towres were hyghe of adamond stones
With fanes wauerynge in the wynde
Of ryght fyne golde made for the noonys
And roobuckes ran vnder the lynde
And hunters came theym fer behynde
A Ioye it was suche sawe I neuer
Abyde quod she ye shall se a better.
Forth she me ledde to the castell warde
Where we were let in by humylyte
And so after she lede me forwarde
Tyll that I sawe a royall tre
With buddys blossomed of grete beaute
And than we wente in to the hall
That glased was truely with crystall
And hanged was with clothes of Aras
Made of fyne golde with a noble story
How that there some tyme reynynge was
In the regyon of hyghe Italy
A valyaunt emperour and a myghty
That had to name forsothe Tyberius
Whiche dyde enquere of prudent Iosethus
Why he his offycers so longe kepte
Unto hym he answered a good cause why
Somtyme I sawe a man that slepte
That wounded was full pyteously
And on his woundes suckynge many a fly
I than for pyte moued theym away
By whiche he woke and to me dyde say
Wher that thou trowed to me comfort
Thou now hast done me double greuaunce
Puttynge away the flyes that dyde resorte
To me beynge full of blody sustynaunce
By this thou mayst haue good perseueraunce
That now wyll come the flyes moost hungry
That wyll me byte .x. tymes more greuously
The roof was wrought by merueylous gemetry
Colered with asure gold and gowlys
With knottes coruen full ryght craftely
And set also with wanton fowlys
As popyn iays/pyes/Iays/and owlys
And as I loked on my ryght syde
A lady I sawe of meruellous pryde
Syttynge in a chayer at the vpper ende
Of all the hall as a lady and prynces
Amonge many kynges that dyde entende
To be obedyent to her hyghe noblenes
Her apparell was made of moche fayre ryches
Set with rubyes moost pure and rubicound
Embrawded with perles and many a dyamound

Besydes her sate the worthyes nyne
And she amonge theym a whele turnynge
Full lowe to her they dyd than enclyne
She somtyme laughynge and somtyme lowrynge
Her condycyon was to be dyssymelynge
And many exalten vpon her whele
Gyuynge theym grete falles that they dyd fele
Than sayd dyscrecyon beholde and see
That in dame fortune is no stablenes
This worlde also is but a vanyte
A dreme a pompe nothynge in stedfastnes
For fortune is fals and full of doblenes
Whan she moost flatereth she is not sure
As thou mayst se dayly in vre.

Capitulum IIII.

Forth than we went vnto the habytacle
Of dame hardynes moost pure and fayre
Aboue all places a ryght fayre spectacle
Strowyd with floures that gaue good eyer
Of vertuous turkeys there was a cheyr
Wherin she sate in her cote armure
Berynge a shelde the felde of asure
Wherin was sette a rampynge lyon
Of fyne golde ryght large and grete
A swerd she had of merueylous fassyon
As though a thousand she sholde bete
No man the vyctory of her myght gete
A noble vyrgyn there dyde her serue
That fyrst made harnes called Mynerue
The chaumbre where she held her consystory
The dewe aromatyke dyde oft degoute
Of fragraunt floures full of delycasy
That all yll heyres dyde ensence oute
A carbuncle there was that all aboute
Enlumyned the chaumbre both day and nyght
My thought it was an heuenly syght
Nyne quenes I sawe that satte her by
Beynge all armed of grete fortytude
In many a stower they wanne the vyctory
And were endued with facounde pulcrytude
For to haunte armes was theyr consuetude
Many a regyon they often wanne
And also vaynquysshed many a noble man
Nexte vnto her sate the hyghe quene Azia
That was a conqueres so puyssaunt
And besyde her the quene of Saba
Whiche in grete ryches was tryumphaunt
And also Ipolyte in armes valyaunt
Sate with her besyde quene Hecuba
And yet also the quene Europa
Present ther was the wiche quene Iuno
And quene Pantasyll wyth fayre quene Elyn
And yet I sawe by her than also
The noble vyrgyn yonge Polyxyn
That was destroyed at the last ruyn
Of Troye the grete by cruelll Pyrrus
The sone of Achylles that was so cheualrus
As I dyd loke I had commaundement
Of dame dyscrecyon for to remembre
These noble ladyes so pure and excellent
Hardy in corage of age ryght tendre
Yet not withstandynge deth dyde surrendre
And all theyr strength and lusty corage
For he spareth nother youth ne age.

Capitulum V.

Forth we walked to the dwellynge place
Of dame sapyence so full of blys
Replete with Ioye vertu and grace
No thynge there lacked that possyble is
Man for to comfort withouten mys
Though he were derke in wordely foly
He sholde there b enlumyned shortely
Her towre was made of werkes curyous
I can no thynge extende the goodlynes
Of her palays so good and gloryous
Bylded in the place soth of fastnes
With owten tast of wordely bytternes
No persone can extoll the souerente
Of her worthy and royall dygnyte
She eche estate sholde haue in gouernaunce
As theym to rule or that they repent
For better it is to haue good puruyaunce
At the begynnynge as is expedyent
Than for to wyssh for thynges myspent
That myght be saued longe afore
And with a for wytte kepte in store
Her chaumbre was glased with byrall clarefyed
Depeynted with colours of delectacyon
A place of pleasure so heuenly gloryfyed
In vertue heale lyfe and saluacyon
Without ony stormy trybulacyon
That myght anoy the heuenly helth
But alway comfort to the sowlys welth
There sate dame prudence in vertue magnyfyed
Impossyble it is to shewe her goodelyhed
She was so fayre and clerely puryfyed
And so dyscrete and full of womanhede
That and I trowe vertue were deed
It sholde reuyue yet in her agayne
She was so gentyll and without dysdeyn
It was grete comfort vnto my hert
For to beholde that heuenly syght
Dyscrecyon sayd I sholde not depert
Tyll I had spoken with her syster bryght
Forth she me ledde with all her myght
Unto that prynces and royall souerayn
Ergo my labour was not in vayn
Than spake dame prudence with meke contenaūce
Welcome dyscrecyon my syster dere
Where haue ye ben by longe contynuaunce
Wyth youth she sayd that ye se here
And for my sake I you requere
Hym to receyue in to your seruyse
And he shall serue you in goodely wyse
Welcome she sayd for my systers sake
And yet also now for your owne
In to my seruyce I wyll you take
Sythens that your wyldnes is ouerblowen
The sede of vertu on you shall be sowen
Uyce to depryue by his good auctoryte
As for to subdue all yll iniquyte
Of other mennes wordes be thou not bolde
And of theyr promys make no behest
And yf thou here an yll tale tolde
Gyue no iugement but say the best
So shall thou lyue euermore in rest
Who lytell medeleth is best at ease
For well were he that all myght please
Beware kepe the from grete offence
That thou condempned be not by ryghtwysnes
Whan she doth gyue her mortall sentence
Without pease or mercy cause her reles
Her iugement of mortall heuynes
That the best frende to the wyll be
The for to socour in grete necessyte
But yet in theym haue none affyaunce
As fyrst to synne thynkynge that they
At the ende to the wyll be delyueraunce
Nay ryghtwysnes wyll dryue theym away
For of all synnes without delay
Suche synne in hope it is the moost
For it is the synne of the holy ghoost
Now I amytte you into your rome
In the whiche ye shall your selfe apply
Of myn owne chaumbre ye shall be grome
Loke ye be dylygent and do not vary
From my cōmaundementes neuer specyally
For and ye wyll theym well obserue
A moche better rome ye do deserue
The fyrst cōmaundement that I gyue the
Thynke on the ende or thou begynne
For thou by ryght may knowe the certente
That deth is fyne of euery synne
Be neuer taken in dyabolycall engyne
But that repentaunce may loose the sone
Of that grete synne that thou hast done
Trust not to moche in fortunes grace
Though that she laugh on the a whyle
For she can sodenly turne her face
Whan that she lyst the to begyle
She welth and Ioye can sone defyle
And plonge the in the pyte of pouerte
Wherfore in her haue thou no suertye
Presume no ferther than the behoueth
For it wyll turne the to grete shame
For who that from his rome remoueth
He is often full gretely to blame
And medeleth with other in theym lame
As no thynge connynge nor expert
They may hym say syr malapert
Or that thou speke call to remembraunce
Unto what mater thy worde shall sygnyfye
Loke that it torne no man to greuaunce
Though that it be spoken merely
Yet many a one wyll take it greuously
Whiche that myght cause wroth and debate
Whyle that thou lyues beware of that
For a thynge lost without recouer
Loke that thou neuer be to pensyfe
Thanke god of it thynke to haue an other
Lete wysedome than be to the comfortyfe
That to thy brayn is best preseruatyfe
For euermore ryght wyse is he
That can be pacyent in aduersyte
Proue thy frende in a mater fayned
Or thou haue nede than shalt thou se
Whyther he be iustly with the reteyned
The for to socour in thy necessyte
By profe thou mayst knowe the veryte
For profe afore that nede requere
Defeteth dowte euer in fere
Be thou neuer so blynde in wylle
Yet loke thou be refourmed by reason
Than shalt thou my mynde fulfyll
And thou therto thy selfe abandon
Stryue not with reason for none encheson
For wher she lacketh ther is grete outrage
And without her may not aswage
Eschew also the synne of pryde
The moder and the feruent rote
Of all the synnes at euery tyde
Wherfore trede thou her vnder fote
With helpe of vertue so swete and sote
Whiche is best salue to hele thy sore
And to thy helth the to restore
Wo worth synne without repentaunce
Wo worth bondage without reles
Wo worth man without good gouernaunce
Wo worth infynall payne and dystresse
Wo worth vyce put fer in presse
Wo worth soueraynte hauynge dysdeyn
And wo worth pyte that doth refrayn
Wo worth ryght that may not be herd
Wo worth frendshyp without stabylyte
Wo worth true sentence that is deferd
Wo worth the man full of duplycyte
Wo worth hym without benygnyte
Wo worth lybertye withouten pease
And wo worth crueltye that may not cease
Wo worth connynge that is abused
Wo worth promys withouten payment
Wo worth vertue that is refused
Wo worth trouble without extynguysment
Wo worth foly on message sent
Wo worth reason that is exyled
And wo worth trouth that is defyled
Wo worth the trust without assuraunce
Wo worth grace not sette by
Wo worth Iustyce kepte in dystaunce
Wo worth welth replete with enuy
Wo worth the batayll without vyctory
Wo worth begynnynge without good ende
And wo worth wronge that doth defende
These commaundementes I put in memory
Theym for to kepe doynge my dylygence
With dame Sapyence I dyd longe tary
Whiche dyd me teche with partynge influence
Of her delycate and doulcete complacence
Than spake dyscrecyon anone to me
In the presens of her systers mageste
Thou art beholdynge to my syster reuerent
That the reteyned hath vnto her seruaunt
Wherfore be thou to her obedyent
And at euery houre to her attendaunt
And ryotous company do thou not haunt
For that wyll payre and yll thy name
Wherfore of vertuous myrth let be thy game.

Capitulum VI.
Discrecyon ferther forth me lede
Unto the solempne and royall mancyon
Of dame nature in humayne stede
Ryght pleasaunt was her habytacyon
Of merueylous werke and sytuacyon
And she her selfe helde her estate
In a gloryous chaumbre without chekmate
Her towre was gylted full of sonne bemys
And within hanged with cloth of aras
The roof was paynted with golden stremys
And lyke crystall depured was
Euery wyndowe aboute of glas
Where that she sat as a fayre goddes
All thynges creatynge by her besynes
Me thought she was of merueylous beaute
Tyll that Dyscrecyon lede me behynde
Where that I sawe all the pryuyte
Of her werke and humayne kynde
And at her backe I dyd than fynde
Of cruell deth a dolfull ymage
That all her beaute dyd perswage
Full wonderous was her operacyon
In euery kynde eke and ryght degre
Withouten rest or recreacyon
I wyll not medle with her secrete
For it no thynge longeth to my faculte
But somwhat after I wyll expres
Of her grete power and worthynes
But in my boke well for to procede
Dame dyscrecyon ferther me brought
Into a fayre chambre as ye may rede
Of fyne gemetry ryght well wrought
To comfort man there lacked nought
But that me thought there was no company
Saue onely dame dyscrecyon and I
We had ben but a lytell whyle there
But that we sawe a lady clere
Ryght well appareled in sad gere
Mylde in her hauour dyscrete of chere
That came vs by and very nere
Ascendynge vp in to her hyghe sete
Garnysshed with perle and with gold bete
Than sayd dyscrecyon this is dame Iustyce
Clene of conscyence without corrupcyon
And neuer be spotted with the synne of couetyse
But true as stele in the entencyon
Of ryght euermore without destruccyon
Geuynge alway a ryghtfull iugement
Obey thou youth this lady reuerent
A iuge fulfylled with the synne of auaryce
Or with fauour of kynne made blynd
Must nedys do wronge by grete ⪯iudyce
For fauour shold not conscyence bynd
Ryght to dyssymyll as I now fynd
In problemys wryten of antiquyte
Made by phylosophers of auctoryte
As we stode talkynge thus to gydere
Up came dame fortune so gayly gloryfyed
Impossyble it is for me to dyscouere
How gorges she was & gretly magnyfyed
Full lyke a goddes that had ben deyfyd
Clothed with gold sette full of rubyes
And tynst w&supert; emeraudys & many a turkes
And next to her there dyd ensue
Dame Hardynes that noble lady
After whome anone dyd pursue
Dame Sapyence whiche dyd not tary
Than came dame nature appareled royally
And all the other cladde in gold
Set with dyamondes many a fold
They lowted all vnto the ground
Afore dame Iustyce for obeysaunce
That sate there both hole and sound
Withouten ony dyscontynuaunce
Gyuynge god ere vnto the vteraunce
Of these foure ladyes pledynge at barre
With all theyr cases dyd well avarre.
Capitulm VII.

Fyrst dame hardynes began to plede
Saynge she was to man moost profytable
For she the hertes hath often fede
Of conquerous as it was couenable
And by my corage haue made theym able
Regyons to wynne theyr ennemyes to subdue
And yf I were not they had it rue
And yf a man be neuer so wyse
Withouten me he getyth none vteraunce
Wherfore his wysedome may not suffyse
All onely without myn allegeaunce
For I by ryght must nedys enhauncce
A lowe born man to an hyghe degre
Yf that he wyll be ruled by me
Haue I not caused many a noble warreour
To wynne the batell by my grete myght
Without me was made neuer conquerour
Nor yet man coragious whan he dyd fyght
No man without me may defende his ryght
I may be worst from hym forborne
For and I were not he were forlorne
Dyd I not cause the noble hercules
By my power to wynne the vyctory
Of the sturdy and stronge Philotes
As is recorded in bokes of memory
For without me can be no cheualry
And vnder the wynge of my proteccyon
All rebels brought be to subieccyon
A realme is vpholden by thynges thre
The fyrst and the chyef it is the swerd
Whiche causeth it to be in good suerte
And other realmes of it to be aferd
By whiche the vsurpers be dyfferd
From theyr wyll with treason knyte
And by me slayn for theyr fals fyte
The seconde is lawe that euer serueth
But within the realme onely
For other nacyons our lawe ne dredeth
But our swerd they do in specyally
For and they roose ayenst vs proudly
As they haue done often in tymes past
Yet w---supert; our swerd they shold be ouercast
The thyrde be marchauntes that do multyply
In this realme welth and prosperyte
For of euery thynge they often occupy
Euery man lyke vnto his faculte
For without marchauntes can not be
No realme vpholden in welth & pleasure
For it to vs is a specyall tresure
Also yet hercules the puyssaunt geaunt
Dyd flee the monstre afore Troy the grete
And with his strokes he dyd hym daunt
They were so peysantly on hym sette
That he the vyctory on hym dyd gette
Had I not be comfort vnto his harte
Suche vyctory had ben leyd aparte
Dyd he not vaynquysshe in y&supere; forest of Nemee
The thre mortall lyons by his grete hardynes
And ryued theyr Iawes as was to se
By twene his handes by chyualrus prowes
And yet by armes and knyghtly exces
In egypt he slewe the tyraunt Busyre
And brent hym after in a grete fyre
Also he slewe the tyraunt Cacus
For his tyranny and grete myschefe
By cause his dedys were so odyous
For he dyd murdre and was a thefe
Wherfore his deth to many was leef
Who more of his actes wyll haue report
To the Troyans story lette hym resort
Also the worthy and the noble hectour
That eclyped was the troyans champyon
And of all cheualry called the flour
In his tyme reynynge and of renowne
Of whose noble dedes the brute and sowne
Was spred by euery straunge habytacyon
That they of his faytys dyde make relacyon
By his power and hardy corage
He put the grekes full often to flyght
And bete theym downe by a grete outrage
That well was he that hym saue myght
Full often he brought theym to the plyght
His dedes were pure without magycyon
And without nygromancy or suche corrupcyon
Dyd I not cause also kynge dauith
A lyon Iawbones to rent and tere
That dyd deuour his shepe in the fryth
As he sat kepynge of theym there
The lyons crueltye myght not hym fere
And he in his youth so hardy was
That he dyd sle the gyaunt Golias
Dyd I not cause the noble Iulius
Emperour of rome for to be electe
By cause he was so stronge and cheualrus
Whan in armes he knewe the affecte
He all his ennemyes dyd abiecte
And by the support of my chyef socour
He gouerned hymselfe lyke a noble emperour
And also Arthur kynge of Bretayne
With all the knyghtes of the rounde table
Neuer auentures had sought certayne
And I therto had not ben greable
They for to fyght had not ben able
Who that me lacketh is but a coward
And shame is euer his rewarde
Also kynge Charlemayne kynge of Fraunce
With his dyssypers Rowland and Olyuer
With all the resydue of his alyaunce
That in all armes so noble were
On goddys ennemyes brake many a spere
Causynge them to flee to theyr grete vylony
Hardynes was cause that they had vyctory
O worthy hardynes the shynynge sterre
Alway to mannys herte the comfort
Whan that it is the tyme of werre
Unto what partye that thou resort
They wynne the batall by thy support
And wher that thou lettest thy bemys dyssende
They often hye to honoure assende
Than sayd dame hardynes vnto the Iuge
I pray you that ryght I may haue
Sythens I to man am chyef refuge
Whan that he lysteth of me to craue
I make hym coragyous and his worshyp saue
Wherfore I owte to haue the preemynence
By ryght reason and good experyence
That I deny you sayd dame Sapyence
Of whom haue you your ordre of pledynge
For ye neuer can haue none intellygence
But by the meane of myn informynge
For I am alway your mynde techynge
And without me your tale were but a fable
For ye without wytte sholde alway bable
This wyll I proue by myn opynyon
That I am grounde of the artes seuen
And of all good werkes in cōmunyon
For no man without me can go to heuen
My dedys be merueylous for man to neuen
Whan they beu wrought in to theyr degre
Who that wyll lerne theym he hath the lyberte
Of my dedes bokes do make recorde
The whiche clerkes put into remembraunce
For an example without dyscorde
Of heuenly way by vertuous gouernaunce
Without me man can haue no pleasaunce
Nor yet hym rule in no maner wyse
A man without wytte is to dyspyse
Hardynes without prudence may not auayle
Though that a man be neuer so sturdy
For a wyseman feble may wynne the batayle
Of hym that is ryght stronge and myghty
For better it is for to be ryght wytty
In the defence of his good saue garde
Than often to stryke and to renne forwarde
That thynge that hardynes may not wynne
May be goten by my hyghe souerente
And with the helpe of subtyle engynne
It may be brought to the extremyte
Wher that it myght not by possybylyte
Of hardynes longe afore be wonne
Yet by grete wysedome it may be donne
Unto dyuers cases I take excepcyon
Of dame Hardynes whiche are no lawe
Unto the fyrst vndre your correccyon
She sayd and she her power dyd wythdrawe
No rebell than shold stand in awe
And she is the chyef as I knowe well
That causeth hym for to be rebell
By her foly and folysshe hardynes
She causeth men to ryse ayenst theyr lorde
She is the cause of mortall heuynes
Whan she doth breke the good concorde
Wherfore me thynke by one accorde
For to exyle her it is now the best
Than man sholde lyue in peas and rest
And where she sayd that she exalted
Iulius cesar by her grete exylence
In that case she ryght clerely varyed
For it was I by my grete dylygence
That neuer was out of his presence
But ruled hym and made hym worthy
To be chosen emperour of all Italy
Chosen he was by the comyn assent
For the grete wysedome that in hym shone
With a grete voyce and a hole entente
For lyke vnto hym was there none
That was so abell as he alone
For to occupye an Emperours dygnyte
Of his promocyon he myght thanke me
I Sapyence am endewed with grace
And the lode sterre of heuenly doctryne
The sprynge of comfort Ioye and solace
Who that lyst to me for to enclyne
He shall knowe thynges that be dyuyue
And at his ende beholde the deyte
That is one god and persones thre
It pleased the fader that is omnipotent
His sone to send to be incarnat
Of the vyrgyn Mary the sterre moost excellent
Mayden and moder yet not vyolate
Lyke a vessell chosen and made ornat
All onely for to be goddys moder
All he hym selfe vnto man broder
But a stryfe there was bytwene god and man
Whan man consented to synne dedely
By that the dyscorde fyrst began
Whan he the sone of god on hy
That is his brother agayn wyll crucefy
Yf he had power by whiche is offended
The fader of heuen as is entended
Therfore lete vs to our brother go
Named Ihesu Cryst and axe hym mercy
With a good entent and hert also
There is for vs none other remedy
That ony tonge truely can specyfy
And he wyll take it for a correccyon
And of all vengeaunce sease the affeccyon
That we may of hym haue forgyuenes
Of our grete synne with reformacyon
Of peas bytwene the faders hyghenes
Of heuen and vs in suspyracyon
Therfore yf thou drede the amocyon
Of his ryghtwysnes loke that thou flee
Ryght fast vnto his mercyfull pyte
For his mercy is more than all our mysery
And eke aboue his werkes all
As Dauyd sheweth in his prophecy
Saynge his mercy is ouer all
To whom I pray euer in especyall
To gyue me grace well my penne to lede
That quaketh aye for drede
Dame Sapyence sayd I do procede
Of the strength of the holy ghoost
That is and shall be mater in dede
God and lorde of myghtys moost
Whose infynall power was neuer lost
And yet neuer had no begynnynge
But alway lyke stronge without endynge
Where that dame hardynes in her pledynge
Made her selfe to knyghtes moost necessary
By the meanes of her power shewynge
That I by ryght do now well deny
For in that case she dyd moche vary
For syxe there are that more profyte be
Of whiche the lest is better than she
The fyrst is prudence that is the chefe
That hym doth rule and is his gyde
And kepeth hym from grete reprefe
And causeth his worshyp for to abyde
So euery crysten man shold prouyde
By his wit to withstand the deuyll
That he consent not to do euyll
The seconde is that he sholde be true
To his souerayn lorde that on hym reyneth
And all treason for euer to eschewe
In whiche grete shame often remayneth
And by whiche he his kyne dysteyneth
So a crysten man sholde be true euer
To Ihesu Cryst that was his redemer
The thyrde is that he sholde be lyberall
Amonge his cōmons withouten lette
That is the cause euer in generall
That he the loue of theym doth gette
For it causeth theyr hertes on hym be sette
So euery true crysten man sholde be
To god intended with lyberalyte
The fourth is that he sholde be stronge
His ryght euer for to defende
And neuer to no man for to do wronge
But wronges for to dyrecte and amende
As ferre as his power wyll extende
So a true crysten man sholde exclude
All maner of vyces by his fortytude
The fyfth is y&supert; he sholde be mercyable
In all his dedes withouten furoure
For that to hym is gretly conuenable
And eke to kepe hym out of erroure
For he of mercy sholde be a myrroure
So vnto them it is ryght necessary
Who that wyll be saued for to haue mercy
The syxte is a knyght ought for to kepe
The poore folke in theyr grete nede
That often for hungre and thyrst do wepe
He ought with almes theym for to fede
And the better he shall than spede
So euery true crysten man sholde do
As ferre as his power cometh vnto
I Sapyence am of the kynges counsayll
Whiche is clothed with purple that sygnyfyeth
The grace and the pulcrytude without fayll
Of grete vertues that in hym shyneth
For to no vyces he neuer enclyneth
Hauynge in his hede a fayre crowne royall
That sheweth his dygnyte to be regall
Whiche to his people is the chefe glory
Thrugh whome his subgectes be dyrecte
And made obedyent to hym certaynly
At euery houre by ryght true effecte
But forthermore by good aspecte
He bereth a ball in his lefte hande
The whiche betokeneth as I vnderstande
A kynge to be a good admynystratour
Unto his subgectes in euery place
And to be for theym a good prouysour
As reason requyreth in euery case
I Sapyence do rule his noble grace
In his ryght hand he hath a septure
That doth sygnyfye by ryght his rygoure
Yll men to punysshe for theyr offence
By his ryghtwysnes whome the loue
Of vertue shynynge in experyence
Doth not extoll nor yet now remoue
A lampe doth hange his heed aboue
Alway lyght and clerely brennynge
Whiche sygnyfyeth the mercy of a kynge
The olde philosophers by theyr prudence
Fonde the seuen scyences lyberall
And by theyr exercyse & grete dylygence
They made theyr dedes to be memoryall
And also poetes that were fatall
Craftely colored with clowdy fygures
The true sentence of all theyr scryptures
O Iustyce lady and souerayne goddesse
Gyue you true sentence now vpon me
As ye be surmountynge in vertue & noblesse
Lete me dame Sapyence haue the soueraynte
As is accordynge to my royall dygnyte
For I am moost profytable vnto man
And euer had ben syns the world began
Than sayd dame Fortune ye are imperfyte
Without that I therto be accordaunt
For all your hardynes & prudence perfyte
I vnto you must be well exuberaunt
And with your werkes euer concordaunt
Where that I fauer they haue good cōfort
In all theyr dedes by my swete resort
I Fortune am the rule and steere
Of euery persone lyke to my wyll
That in this worlde now lyueth here
Whan that I lyst for to fulfyll
My mynde ryght sone I can dystyll
The dewe of comfort welth and rychesse
To man exaltyuge hym to noblenesse
Though that a man were neuer so hardy
Without me he myght not attayne
And though that a man were neuer so wytty
And I dyd my power from hym refrayne
All his labour were lost in vayne
So hardynesse and prudence in no wyse
Without good fortune may well suffyse
Though that a man were but a fole
Yf I consent that he be fortunate
He nedyth not to make no grete dole
For I shall mayntene so his estate
That he in rychesse shall be so eleuate
Fulfylled with welth & worldely tresure
That he shall lacke no maner of pleasure
Where that dame hardynes wold afferme
By her cases that are so vnsure
That she by her power doth conferme
The knyghtes of vyctory for to be sure
Whan she doth take theyr hertes in cure
Yf fortune be awaye she may not auayle
For they by reason must lose the batayle
Yet forthermore as I do well consyder
How dame hardynes dyd expresse
Sythens the tyme that I came hyder
That she promoted had to worthynes
Hector dauid and the noble hercules
With many other wherof she fayleth
For it was fortune as she well knoweth
For in olde tyme the noble warryours
For to eschewe euer my grete daungere
In whiche tyme they were ydolestours
Than they to put hym oute of fere
To ydols went that theyr goddes were
For to haue answer yf they sholde wynne
The batayll or they dyd begynne
What nede I pleed by longe contynuaunce
As dame Sapyence dyd in maters hy
It were of tyme but dyscontynuaunce
But o dame Iustyce the gentyll lady
Loke that ye Iuge my mater ryght wysely
That I of hardynes may be the pryncypall
And of dame prudence & nature with all
Than sayd dame nature that may not be
As I can proue by ryght and reason
For I am moost confort to humanyte
As man well knoweth at euery encheason
And can not be forborne for none season
For where I lacke without ony delay
Man is but dede and turned to clay
That nature gyueth by her power
Wysedome nor hardynes may not defete
For I to man am the chefe doer
Durynge his lyfe without retrete
Also dame fortune may not well lete
Me of my course though she it thought
In sondery wyse my dedes are so wrought
Though that a man were infortunable
And though that he were neuer so folysshe
And a grete coward to fyght not able
Yet shulde he lyue and neuer perysshe
Tyll that my power of hym doth fynysshe
Whiche fayle must ones it is my proprete
And that was gyuen me by the deyte
I am the orygynall of mannes creacyon
And by me alway the world doth multyply
In welth pleasure and delectacyon
As I wyll shewe now in this party
My dedes be subtyll & wrought craftely
What were the worlde yf I were note
It were sone done as I well wote
The lawe of nature doth man bynde
Both beste foule and fysshe also
In theyr degre to do theyr kynde
Blame theym not yf they do so
For harde it is euer to ouer go
The kynde of nature in her degre
For euery thynge must shewe his proprete
Who of theyr propretes lyst to rede
Lete hym loke in the boke of barthelmewe
And to his scripture take good hede
That ryght nobly of theym do shewe
With all theyr actes beynge not a fewe
But wounderous many by alteracyon
For lyke hath lyke his operacyon
I nature norysshe by myn afflyccyon
Mannes humayne partyes superfyxcyall
And am the sprynge of his complexion
The fonteyne of his vaynes inferyall
To hym conserue moost dere and specyall
Though he were hardy & wyse he myzt not me forbere
Nor fortune without me auayleth not hym a pere
Wherfore dame Iustyce be you now indyfferent
Consydre that I am moost dere and lefe
Unto euery man that is eliquylent
And aboue all medycyns to hym moost chefe
And by my strongh vnto hym relefe
In his dysease wherfore as thynke me
I ought of reason to haue the soueraynte
Than spake dame Iustyce with meke contenaūce
I wyll all your contrauersy now redresse
For I of your reasons haue good perseueraunce
And after your cases both more and lesse
Wherfore I Iustyce by good ryghtwysnesse
Gyue now vpon you a fynall Iugement
That ye foure agree by a hole assent
Man for to please at euery houre
Without dysgrement or contradiccyon
And in his nede to do hym socoure
With louynge herte and true affeccyon
He shall be in your good iurysdyccyon
And you of hym shall be copertyners
Both of his lyfe and of his maners
Than sayd dame hardynes I agre therto
And so do I than sayd dame Sapyence
Than sayd dame Fortune I also do
Agre vnto dame Iustyce sentence
And I dame Nature wyll do my dylygence
Lyke as ye do man for to please
And hym to strength in his dysease
With that dame Iustyce vp arose
Unto the ladyes byddynge fare well
And went into her chaumbre close
I cleped conscyence wher she dyd dwell
As dame Dyscrecyon dyd me tell
Than hardynes & fortune went downe the stayre
And after theym Nature so clere and fayre.

poem by Stephen Hawes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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