The Auncient Acquaintance, Madam, Betwen Vs Twayn
The auncient acquaintance, madam, betwen vs twayn,
The famylyaryte, the formal dalyaunce,
Causyth me that I can not myself refrayne
But that I must wryte for my plesaunt pastaunce:
Remembryng your passying goodly countenaunce,
Your goodly port, your bewteous visage,
Ye may be countyd comfort of all corage.
Of all your feturs fauorable to make tru discripcion,
I am insuffycyent to make such enterpryse;
For thus dare I say, without [con]tradiccyon,
That dame Menolope was neuer half so wyse:
Yet so it is that a rumer begynneth for to ryse,
How in good horsmen ye set your hole delyght,
And haue forgoten your old trew louyng knyght.
Wyth bound and rebound, bounsyngly take vp
Hys jentyll curtoyl, and set nowght by small naggys!
Spur vp at the hynder gyrth, with Gup, morell, gup!
With, Jayst ye, jenet of Spayne, for your tayll waggys!
Ye cast all your corage vppon such courtly haggys.
Haue in sergeaunt ferrour, myne horse behynd is bare;
He rydeth well the horse, but he rydeth better the mare.
Ware, ware, the mare wynsyth wyth her wanton hele!
She kykyth with her kalkyns and keylyth with a clench;
She goyth wyde behynde, and hewyth neuer a dele:
Ware gallyng in the widders, ware of that wrenche!
It is perlous for a horseman to dyg in the trenche.
Thus greuyth your husband, that ryght jentyll knyght,
And so with youre seruantys he fersly doth fyght.
So fersly he fytyth, his mynde is so fell,
That he dryuyth them doune with dyntes on ther day wach;
He bresyth theyr braynpannys and makyth them to swell,
Theyre browys all to-brokyn, such clappys they cach;
Whose jalawsy malycyous makyth them to lepe the hach;
By theyr conusaunce knowing how they serue a wily py:
Ask all your neybours whether that I ly.
It can be no counsell that is cryed at the cros:
For youre jentyll husband sorowfull am I;
How be it, he is not furst hath had a los:
Aduertysyng you, madame, to warke more secretly,
Let not all the world make an owtcry;
Play fayre play, madame, and loke ye play clene,
Or ells with gret shame your game wylbe sene.
Qd Skelton, laureat.
poem by John Skelton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Knoledge, Acquayntance, Resort, Fauour With Grace
Knoledge, acquayntance, resort, fauour with grace;
Delyte, desyre, respyte wyth lyberte;
Corage wyth lust, conuenient tyme and space;
Dysdayns, dystres, exylyd cruelte;
Wordys well set with good habylyte;
Demure demenaunce, womanly of porte;
Transendyng plesure, surmountyng all dysporte;
Allectuary arrectyd to redres
These feuerous axys, the dedely wo and payne
Of thoughtfull hertys plungyd in dystres;
Refresshyng myndys the Aprell shoure of rayne;
Condute of comforte, and well most souerayne;
Herber enverduryd, contynuall fressh and grene;
Of lusty somer the passyng goodly quene;
The topas rych and precyouse in vertew;
Your ruddys wyth ruddy rubys may compare;
Saphyre of sadnes, enuayned wyth indy blew;
The pullyshed perle youre whytenes doth declare;
Dyamand poyntyd to rase oute hartly care;
Geyne surfetous suspecte the emeraud commendable;
Relucent smaragd, obiecte imcomperable;
Encleryd myrroure and perspectyue most bryght,
Illumynyd wyth feturys far passyng my reporte;
Radyent Esperus, star of the clowdy nyght,
Lode star to lyght these louers to theyr porte,
Gayne dangerous stormys theyr anker of supporte,
Theyr sayll of solace most comfortably clad,
Whych to behold makyth heuy hartys glad:
Remorse haue I of youre most goodlyhod,
Of youre behauoure curtes and benynge,
Of your bownte and of youre womanhod,
Which makyth my hart oft to lepe and sprynge,
And to remember many a praty thynge;
But absens, alas, wyth tremelyng fere and drede
Abashyth me, albeit I haue no nede.
You I assure, absens is my fo,
My dedely wo, my paynfull heuynes;
And if ye lyst to know the cause why so,
Open myne hart, beholde my mynde expres:
I wold ye coud ! then shuld ye se, mastres,
How there nys thynge that I couet so fayne
As to enbrace you in myne armys twayne.
Nothynge yerthly to me more desyrous
Than to beholde youre bewteouse countenaunce:
But, hatefull absens, to me so enuyous,
Though thou withdraw me from her by long dystaunce,
Yet shall she neuer oute of remembraunce;
For I haue grauyd her wythin the secret wall
Of my trew hart, to loue her best of all!
Qd Skelton, laureat.
poem by John Skelton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Vppon a Deedmans Hed
[Skelton Laureat vppon a deedmans hed that was sent to hym from an honorable Ientyll-woman for a token Deuysyd this gostly medytacyon in Englysh Couenable in sentence Comendable, Lamentable, Lacrymable, Profytable for the soule.]
Youre vgly tokyn.
My mynd hath brokyn.
From worldly lust.
For I haue dyscust.
We ar but dust.
And dy we must.
It is generall.
To be mortall.
I haue well espyde.
No man may hym hyde.
From deth holow-eyed.
With synnews wyderyd.
With bonys shyderyd.
With hys worme-etyn maw.
And hys gastly Iaw.
Gaspyng asyde.
Nakyd of hyde.
Neyther flesh nor fell.
Then by my councell.
Loke that ye spell.
Well thys gospell.
For wher-so we dwell.
Deth wyll vs quell.
And with vs mell.
For all oure pamperde paunchys.
Ther may no fraunchys.
Nor worldly blys.
Redeme vs from this.
Oure days be datyd.
To be chek-matyd.
With drawttys of deth.
Stoppyng oure breth.
Oure eyen synkyng.
Oure bodys stynkyng.
Oure gummys grynnyng.
Oure soulys brynnyng.
To whom then shall we sew.
For to haue rescew.
But to swete Iesu.
On vs then for to rew.
O goodly chyld.
Of Mary mylde.
Then be oure shylde.
That we be not exylyd.
To the dyne dale.
Of boteles bale. Nor to the lake.
Of fendys blake.
But graunt vs grace.
To se thy face.
And to purchace.
Thyne heuenly place.
And thy palace.
Full of solace.
Aboue the sky.
That is so hy.
Eternally.
To beholde and se.
The Trynyte.
Amen.
poem by John Skelton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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People at Night
A night that cuts between you and you
and you and you and you
and me : jostles us apart, a man elbowing
through a crowd. & nbsp; We won't
&nbs p; ; look for each other, either-
wander off, each alone, not looking
in the slow crowd. Among sideshows
& nbsp; under movie signs,
&nb sp; &nbs p; pictures made of a million lights,
&n bsp; &nb sp; giants that move and again move
; again, above a cloud of thick smells,
&n bsp; &nb sp; franks, roasted nutmeats-
Or going up to some apartment, yours
&nbs p; ; or yours, finding
someone sitting in the dark:
who is it really? So you switch the
light on to see: you know the name but
who is it ?
&n bsp; But you won't see.
The fluorescent light flickers sullenly, a
pause. But you command. It grabs
each face and holds it up
by the hair for you, mask after mask.
&nbs p; ; You &nb sp;and you and I repeat
&n bsp; &nb sp; &nbs p;gestures that make do when speech
&nb sp; &nbs p; has failed & nbsp; and talk
; and talk, laughing, saying
&nb sp; &nbs p; 'I', and 'I',
meaning 'Anybody'.
; & nbsp; No one.
poem by Denise Levertov
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wright's Chaste Wife
Allemyghty god, maker of alle,
Saue you my souereyns in towre & halle,
And send you good grace!
If ye wylle a stounde blynne,
Of a story I wylle begynne,
And telle you alle the cas,
Meny farleyes ?aue herde,
Ye would haue wondyr how yt ferde;
Lystyn, and ye schalle here;
Of a wryght I wylle you telle
That some tyme in thys land gan dwelle,
And lyued by hys myster.
Whether that he were yn or oute,
Of erthely man hadde he no dowte,
To werke hows, harowe, nor plowgh,
Or other werkes, what so they were,
Thous wrought he hem farre and nere,
And dyd tham wele I-nough.
Thys wryght would wedde no wyfe,
Butt yn yougeth to lede hys lyfe
In myrthe and o?ody;
Ouer alle where he gan wende,
Alle they seyd 'welcome, frende,
Sytt downe, and do gla[d]ly.'
Tylle on a tyme he was wyllyng,
As tyme comyth of alle thyng,
(So seyth the profesye,)
A wyfe for to wedde & haue
That myght hys goodes kepe & saue,
And for to leue alle foly.
Ther dwellyd a wydowe in ?tre
That hadde a doughter feyre & fre;
Of her, word sprang wyde,
For sche was bothe stabylle & trewe,
Meke of maners, and feyre of hewe;
So seyd men in that tyde.
The wryght seyde, 'so god me saue,
Such a wyfe would I haue
To lye nyghtly by my syde.'
He ?to speke wyth ?,
And rose erly on a daye
And ?an he to ryde.
The wryght was welcome to ?,
And her saluyd alle so blyve,
And so he dyd her doughter fre:
For the erand that he for came
Tho he spake, ?d yemane;
Than to hym seyd sche:
The wydow seyd, 'by heuen kyng,
I may geue wyth her no ?r> (And ?thynketh me
Saue a garlond I wylle the geue,
Ye schalle neuer see, whyle ye lyve,
None such in thys contre:
Haue here thys garlond of roses ryche,
In alle thys lond ys none yt lyche,
For ytt wylle euer be newe,
Wete ?e withowtyn fable,
Alle the whyle thy wyfe ys stable
The chaplett wolle hold hewe;
And yf thy wyfe vse putry,
Or tolle eny man to lye her by,
Than wolle yt change hewe,
And by the garlond ? see,
Fekylle or fals yf ?e be,
Or ellys yf sche be trewe.'
Of thys chaplett hym was fulle fayne,
And of hys wyfe, was nott to layne;
He weddyd her fulle sone,
And ladde her home wyth solempnite,
And hyld her brydalle dayes thre.
Whan they home come,
Thys wryght in hys hart cast,
If that he walkyd est or west
As he was wonte to done,
'My wyfe ?so bryght of ble
Men wolle desyre here fro me,
And ?tly and sone;'
Butt sone he hym by?br> That a chambyr schuld be wrought
Bothe of lyme and stone,
Wyth wallys strong as eny stele,
And dorres sotylly made and wele,
He owte framyd yt sone;
The chambyr he lett make fast,
Wyth plaster of parys ?le last,
Such ous know I neuer none;
Ther ys kyng ne emperoure,
And he were lockyn in ?re,
That cowde gete owte of ?ne.
Nowe hath he done as he ?
And in the myddes of the flore wrought
A wondyr strange gyle,
A trapdoure rounde abowte
That no man myght come yn nor owte;
It was made wyth a wyle,
That who-so touchyd yt eny thyng,
In to ? he schuld flyng
Wythyn a lytylle whyle.
For hys wyfe he made that place,
That no man schuld beseke her of grace,
Nor her to begyle.
By ?e ? of the towne
Hadde ordeynyd tymbyr redy bowne,
An halle to make of tre.
After the wryght the lord lett sende
For ?schuld wyth hym lende
Monythys two or thre.
The lord seyd, 'woult ?e ??
I wylle send after her blyve
That sche may com to the.'
The wryght hys garlond hadde take wyth hym,
That was bryght and no ?mme,
Yt wes feyre on to see.
The lord axyd hym as he satt,
'Felowe, where hadyst ? hatte
That ys so feyre and newe?'
The wryght answerd alle so blyue,
And seyd, 'syr, I hadde yt wyth my wyfe,
And ?e me neuere rewe;
Syr, by my garlond I may see
Fekylle or fals yf ?e be,
Or yf ?e be trewe;
And yf my wyfe loue a paramoure,
Than wylle my garlond vade coloure,
And change wylle yt the hewe.'
The lord ?'by godys myght,
That wylle I wete thys same nyght
Whether thys tale be trewe.'
To the wryghtys howse anon he went,
He fonde the wyfe ther-in presente
That was so bryght and schene;
Sone he hayled her trewly,
And so dyd sche the lord curtesly:
Sche seyd, 'welcome ye be;'
Thus seyd the wyfe of the hows,
'Syr, howe faryth my swete spowse
That hewyth vppon youre tre?'
'Sertes, dame,' he seyd, 'wele,
And I am come, so haue I hele,
To wete the wylle of the;
My loue ys so vppon the cast
That me thynketh my hert wolle brest,
It wolle none otherwyse be;
Good dame, graunt me thy grace
To pley with the in some preuy place
For gold and eke for fee.'
'Good syr, lett be youre fare,
And of such wordes speke no mare
For hys loue ?d on tre;
Hadde we onys begonne ?,
My husbond by his garlond myght see;
For sorowe he would wexe woode.'
'Certes, dame,' he seyd, 'naye;
Loue me, I pray you, in ?maye:
For godys loue change thy mode,
Forty marke schalle be youre mede
Of syluer and of gold [so] rede,
And that schalle do the good.'
'Syr, that deede schalle be done;
Take me that mony here anone.'
'I swere by the holy rode
I thought when I cam hyddere
For to bryng yt alle to-gyddere,
As I mott breke my heele.'
Ther sche toke xl marke
Of syluer and gold styff and sterke:
Sche toke yt feyre and welle;
Sche seyd, 'in to the chambyr wylle we,
Ther no man schalle vs see;
No lenger wylle we spare.'
Vp the steyer they gan hye:
The stepes were made so queyntly
That farther myght he nott fare.
The lord stumbyllyd as he went in hast,
He felle doune in to ?ste
Forty fote and somedele more.
The lord began to crye;
The wyfe seyd to hym in hye,
'Syr, what do ye there?'
'Dame, I can nott seye howe
That I am come hydder nowe
To thys hows ?so newe;
I am so depe in thys sure flore
That I ne can come owte att no dore;
Good dame, on me ?e!'
'Nay,' sche seyd, 'so mut y the,
Tylle myne husbond come and se,
I schrewe hym ??'
The lord arose and lokyd abowte
If he myght eny where gete owte,
But yt holpe hym ryght noght,
The wallys were so thycke wythyn,
That he no where myght owte wynne
But helpe to hym were brought;
And euer the lord made euylle chere,
And seyd, 'dame, ?alt by thys dere.'
Sche seyd that sche ne rought;
Sche seyd 'I recke nere
Whyle I am here and ? there,
I schrewe herre ?doth drede.'
The lord was sone owte of her ?
The wyfe went in to her lofte,
Sche satte and dyd here dede.
Than yt felle on ?r daye
Of mete and drynke he gan her pray,
There of he hadde gret nede.
He seyd, 'dame, for seynt charyte,
Wyth some mete ?fort me.'
Sche seyd, 'nay, so god me spede,
For I swere by swete seynt Iohne,
Mete ne drynke ne getyst ?e
Butt ?t swete or swynke;
For I haue both hempe and lyne,
And a betyngstocke fulle fyne,
And a swyngylle good and grete;
If ?t worke, tell me sone.'
'Dame, bryng yt forthe, yt schalle be done,
Fulle gladly would I ete.'
Sche toke the stocke in her honde,
And in to the pytt sche yt sclang
Wyth a grete hete:
Sche brought the lyne and hempe on her backe,
'Syr lord,' sche seyd, 'haue ?,
And lerne for to swete.'
Ther sche toke hym a bonde
For to occupy hys honde,
And bade hym fast on to bete.
He leyd yt downe on the stone,
And leyd on strockes welle good wone,
And sparyd nott on to leyne.
Whan ?hadde wrought a thraue,
Mete and drynke he gan to craue,
And would haue hadde yt fayne;
'That I hadde somewhat for to ete
Now after my gret swete;
Me thynketh yt were ryght,
For I haue labouryd nyght and daye
The for to plese, dame, I saye,
And therto putt my myght.'
The wyfe seyd 'so mutt I haue hele,
And yf ?e be wrought wele
Thou schalt haue to dyne.'
Mete and drynke sche hym bare,
Wyth a thrafe of flex mare
Of fulle long boundyn lyne.
So feyre the wyfe the lord gan praye
That he schuld be werkyng aye,
And nought ?schuld blynne;
The lord was fayne to werke tho,
Butt hys men knewe nott of hys woo
Nor of ?des pyne.
The stuard to ?ht gan saye,
'Sawe ?e of my lord to-daye,
Whether that he ys wende?'
The wryght answerde and seyd 'naye;
I sawe hym nott syth yesterdaye;
I trowe ?be schent.'
The stuard stode ?ht by,
And of hys garlond hadde ferly
What ?be-mente.
The stuard seyd, 'so god me saue,
Of thy garlond wondyr I haue,
And who yt hath the sent.'
'Syr,' he seyd, 'be the same hatte
I can knowe yf my wyfe be badde
To me by eny other man;
If my floures ou?e or falle,
Then doth my wyfe me wrong wyth-alle,
As many a woman can.'
The stuard ?'by godes myght,
That schalle I preue thys same nyght
Whether ?s or banne,'
And in to hys chambyr he gan gone,
And toke tresure fulle good wone,
And forth he spedde hem than.
Butt he ne stynt att no stone
Tylle he vn-to ?htes hows come
That ylke same nyght.
He mett the wyfe amydde the gate,
Abowte ?e he gan her take,
And seyd 'my dere wyght,
Alle the good ?myne
I wylle the geue to be thyne
To lye by the alle nyght.'
Sche seyd, 'syr, lett be thy fare,
My husbond wolle wete wyth-owtyn mare
And I hym dyd that vnryght;
I would nott he myght yt wete
For alle the good that I myght gete,
So Ihesus mutt me spede;
For, and eny man lay me by,
My husbond would yt wete truly,
It ys wythowtyn eny drede.'
The stuard seyd 'for hym ?wrought,
There-of, dame, drede the noght
Wyth me to do that dede;
Haue here of me xx marke
Of gold and syluer styf and starke,
Thys tresoure schalle be thy mede.'
'Syr, and I graunt ?you,
Lett no man wete butt we two nowe.'
He seyd, 'nay, wythowtyn drede.'
The stuard ? 'sykerly
Women beth both queynte & slye.'
The mony he gan her bede;
He ?wele to haue be spedde,
And of his erand he was onredde
Or he were fro hem I-gone.
Vp the sterys sche hym leyde
Tylle he saw the wryghtes bedde:
Of tresoure rought he none;
He went and stumblyd att a stone,
In to ?ere he fylle sone
Downe to the bare flore.
The lord seyd 'what deuylle art ?> And ?est falle on me nowe,
Thowe hadest hurt me fulle sore.'
The stuard stert and staryd abowte
If he myght ower gete owte
Att hole lesse or mare.
The lord seyd, 'welcome, and sytt be tyme,
For ?alt helpe to dyght thys lyne
For alle thy fers fare.'
The stuard lokyd on the knyght,
He seyd, 'syr, for godes myght,
My lord, what do you here?'
He seyd 'felowe, wyth-owtyn oth,
For o erand we come bothe,
The sothe wolle I nott lete.'
Tho cam the wyfe them vn-to,
And seyd, 'syres, what do you to,
Wylle ye nott lerne to swete?'
Than seyd ? her vn-to,
'Dame, youre lyne ys I-doo,
Nowe would I fayne ete:
And I haue made yt alle I-lyke,
Fulle clere, and no ?ycke,
Me thynketh yt gret payne.'
The stuard seyd 'wyth-owtyn dowte,
And euer I may wynne owte,
I wyll breke her brayne.'
'Felowe, lett be, and sey nott so,
For ?alt worke or euer ?,
Thy wordes ?ne agayne,
Fayne ?alt be so to doo,
And thy good wylle put ?br> As a man buxome and bayne
Thowe schalt rubbe, rele, and spynne,
And ?t eny mete wynne,
That I geue to god a gyfte.'
The stuard seyd, 'then haue I wondyr;
Rather would I dy for hungyr
Wyth-owte hosylle or shryfte.'
The lord seyd, 'so haue I hele,
Thowe wylt worke, yf ?gyr welle,
What worke ? be brought.'
The lord satt and dyd hys werke,
The stuard drewe in to the derke,
Gret sorowe was in hys ?
The lord seyd, 'dame, here ys youre lyne,
Haue yt in godes blessyng and myne,
I hold yt welle I-wrought.'
Mete and drynke sche gaue hym yn,
'The stuard,' sche seyd, 'wolle he nott spynne,
Wylle he do ryght noght?'
The lord seyd, 'by swete sen Ione,
Of thys mete schalle he haue none
That ye haue me hydder brought.'
The lord ete and dranke fast,
The stuard hungeryd att ?,
For he gaue hym nought.
The stuard satt alle in a stody,
Hys lord hadde forgote curtesy:
Tho seyd ?rd, 'geue me some.'
The lord seyd, 'sorow haue ?elle or sope
That schalle come in thy throte;
Nott so much as a crome!
Butt ?t helpe to dyght ?e,
Much hungyr yt schalle be thyne
Though ?e much mone.'
Vp he rose, and went therto,
'Better ys me ?doo
Whyle yt must nedys be do.'
The stuard began fast to knocke,
The wyfe ?m a swyngelyng stocke,
Hys mete ? to wyn;
Sche brought a swyngylle at ?,
'Good syres,' sche seyd, 'swyngylle on fast;
For no ?at ye blynne.'
Sche gaue hym a stocke to sytt vppon,
And seyd 'syres, ?ke must nedys be done,
Alle that that ys here yn.'
The stuard toke vp a stycke to saye,
'Sey, seye, swyngylle better yf ye may,
Hytt wylle be the better to spynne.'
Were ? neuer so gret,
Yet was he fayne to werke for hys mete
Though he were neuer so sadde;
Butt ?rd ? so stowde,
Was fayne to swyngelle ?es owte,
Ther-of he was nott glad.
The lordys meyne ?e att home
Wyst nott where he was bycome,
They were fulle sore adrad.
The proctoure of ?sche chyrche ryght
Came and lokyd on ?ht,
He lokyd as he were madde;
Fast ?toure gan hym frayne,
'Where hadest ? garlond gayne?
It ys euer lyke newe.'
The wryght gan say 'felowe,
Wyth my wyfe, yf ?t knowe;
That dare me nott rewe;
For alle the whyle my wyfe trew ys,
My garlond wolle hold hewe I-wys,
And neuer falle nor fade;
And yf my wyfe take a paramoure,
Than wolle my garlond vade ?re,
That dare I ley myne hede.'
The proctoure ? 'in good faye
That schalle I wete thys same daye
Whether yt may so be.'
To the wryghtes hows he went,
He grete ? wyth feyre entente,
Sche seyd 'syr, welcome be ye.'
'A! dame, my loue ys on you fast
Syth the tyme I sawe you last;
I pray you yt may so be
That ye would graunt me of youre grace
To play wyth you in some priuy place,
Or ellys to deth mutt me.'
Fast ?toure gan to pray,
And euer to hym sche seyd 'naye,
That wolle I nott doo.
Hadest ?e ?e wyth me,
My spouse by hys garlond myght see,
That schuld torne me to woe.'
The proctoure seyd, 'by heuen kyng,
If he sey to the any ?> He schalle haue sorowe vnsowte;
Twenty marke I wolle ?,
It wolle ?e welle to lyue,
The mony here haue I brought.'
Nowe hath sche the tresure tane,
And vp ?re be they gane,
(What helpyth yt to lye?)
The wyfe went the steyre be-syde,
The proctoure went a lytylle to wyde
He felle downe by and by.
Whan he in to ?er felle,
He wente to haue sonke in to helle,
He was in hart fulle sory.
The stuard lokyd on the knyght,
And seyd 'proctoure, for godes myght,
Come and sytt vs by.'
The proctoure began to stare,
For he was he wyst neuer whare,
Butt wele he knewe ?ht
And the stuard ?ngelyd ?.
He seyd 'syres, for godes pyne,
What do ye here thys nyght?'
The stuard seyd, 'god geue the care,
Thowe camyst to loke howe we fare,
Nowe helpe ?e were dyght.'
He stode stylle in a gret ?
What to answer he wyst noght:
'By mary fulle of myght,'
The proctoure seyd, 'what do ye in ?br> For to bete thys wyfes lyne?
For Jhesus loue, fulle of myght,'
The proctoure seyd ryght as he ?
'For me yt schalle be euylle wrought
And I may see aryght,
For I lernyd neuer in londe
For to haue a swyngelle in hond
By day nor be nyght.'
The stuard seyd, 'as good as ? We hold vs that be here now,
And lett preue yt be syght;
Yet must vs worke for owre mete,
Or ellys schalle we none gete,
Mete nor drynke to owre honde.'
The lord seyd, 'why flyte ye two?
I trowe ye wylle werke or ye goo
Yf yt be as I vndyrstond.'
Abowte he goys twyes or thryes;
They ete & drynke in such wyse
That ?e hym ryght noght.
The proctoure seyd, 'thynke ye no schame,
Yheue me some mete, (ye be to blame,)
Of that the wyfe ye brought.'
The stuard seyd 'euylle spede the soppe
If eny morcelle come in thy throte
Butt ?h vs hadest wrought.'
The proctoure stode in a stody
Whether he myght worke hem by;
And so to torne hys ?
To the lord he drewe nere,
And to hym seyd wyth myld chere,
'That mary mott the spede.'
The proctoure began to knocke,
The good wyfe rawte hym a rocke,
For therto hadde sche nede;
Sche seyd 'whan I was mayde att home,
Other werke cowde I do none
My lyfe ther-wyth to lede.'
Sche gaue hym in hande a rocke hynde,
And bade hem fast for to wynde
Or ellys to lett be hys dede.
'Yes, dame,' he seyd, 'so haue I hele,
I schalle yt worke both feyre & welle
As ye haue taute me.'
He wauyd vp a strycke of lyne,
And he span wele and fyne
By-fore the swyngelle tre.
The lord seyd '?nnest to grete,
Therfor ?alt haue no mete,
That ?alt welle see.'
Thus ?t and wrought fast
Tylle ? dayes were past;
Then the wryght, home came he,
And as he cam by hys hows syde
He herd noyse that was not ryde
Of persons two or thre;
One of hem knockyd lyne,
A-nothyr swyngelyd good and fyne
By-fore the swyngylle tre,
The thyrde did rele and spynne,
Mete and drynke ther-wyth to wynne,
Gret nede ther-of hadde he.
Thus ?ht stode herkenyng;
Hys wyfe was ware of hys comyng,
And ageynst hym went sche.
'Dame,' he seyd, 'what ys ?ne?
I here gret noyse here wythynne;
Telle me, so god the spede.'
'Syr,' sche seyd, 'workemen thre
Be come to helpe you and me,
Ther-of we haue gret nede;
Fayne would I wete what they were.'
But when he sawe hys lord there,
Hys hert bygan to drede
To see hys lord in ?ce,
He ?yt was a strange cas,
And seyd, 'so god hym spede,
What do ye here, my lord and knyght?
Telle me nowe for godes myght
Howe cam thys vn-to?'
The knyght seyd 'What ys best rede?
Mercy I aske for my mysdede,
My hert ys wondyr wo.'
'So ys myne, verament,
To se you among thys flex and hempe,
Fulle sore yt ruyth me;
To se you in such hevynes,
Fulle sore myne hert yt doth oppresse,
By god in trinite.'
The wryght bade hys wyfe lett hym owte,
'Nay, ?owe come on my snowte
If they passe hens to-daye
Tylle that my lady come and see
Howe ?ld haue done wyth me,
Butt nowe late me saye.'
Anon sche sent after the lady bryght
For to fett home her lord and knyght,
Therto sche seyd noght;
Sche told her what they hadde ment,
And of ther purpos & ther intente
That they would haue wrought.
Glad was ?y of that tydyng;
When sche wyst her lord was lyuyng,
Ther-of sche was fulle fayne:
Whan sche came vn-to ?re abouen,
Sche lokyd vn-to ?er downe,
And seyd,-?nott to leyne,-
'Good syres, what doo you here?'
'Dame, we by owre mete fulle dere,
Wyth gret trauayle and peyne;
I pray you helpe ?were owte,
And I wylle swere wythowtyn dowte
Neuer to come here agayne.'
The lady spake the wyfe vn-tylle,
And seyd 'dame, yf yt be youre wylle,
What doo thes meyny here?'
The carpentarys wyfe her answerd sykerly,
'Alle they would haue leyne me by,
Euerych in ther manere,
Gold and syluer they me brought,
And forsoke yt, and would yt noght,
The ryche gyftes so clere.
Wyllyng ?e to do me schame,
I toke ther gyftes wyth-owtyn blame,
And ther they be alle thre.'
The lady answerd her anon,
'I haue thynges to do att home
Mo than two or thre;
I wyst my lord neuer do ryght noght
Of no ?t schuld be wrought,
Such as fallyth to me.'
The lady lawghed and made good game
Whan they came owte alle in-same
From the swyngylle tre.
The knyght seyd 'felowys in fere,
I am glad ?be here,
By godes dere pyte;
Dame, and ye hadde bene wyth vs,
Ye would haue wrought, by swete Ihesus,
As welle as dyd we.'
And when they cam vp abouen
They turnyd abowte and lokyd downe,
The lord seyd, 'so god saue me,
Yet hadde I neuer such a fytte
As I haue hadde in ?e pytte;
So mary so mutt me spede.'
The knyght and thys lady bryght,
Howe they would home that nyght,
For no thyng they would abyde;
And so they went home;
Thys seyd Adam of Cobsam.
By the weye as they rode
Throwe a wode in ther playeng,
For to here the fowlys syng
They hovyd stylle and bode.
The stuard sware by godes ore,
And so dyd the proctoure much more,
That neuer in ther lyfe
Would they no more come in ?ne
Whan they were onys thens come,
Thys forty yere and fyve.
Of the tresure that they brought
The lady would geue hem ryght noght,
Butt gaue yt to the wryghtes wyfe.
Thus the wryghtes garlond was feyre of hewe,
And hys wyfe bothe good and trewe:
There-of was he fulle blythe;
I take wytnes att gret and smalle,
Thus trewe bene good women alle
That nowe bene on lyve,
So come thryste on ther hedys
Whan they mombylle on ther bedys
Ther pater noster ryue.
Here ys wretyn a geste of the wryght
That hadde a garlond welle I-dyght,
The coloure wylle neuer fade.
Now god ?heuyn kyng
Graunt vs alle hys dere blessyng
Owre hertes for to glade;
And alle tho that doo her husbondys ryght,
Pray we to Ihesu fulle of myght,
That feyre mott hem byfalle,
And that they may come to heuen blys,
For thy dere moderys loue ther-of nott to mys,
Alle good wyues alle.
Now alle tho that thys tretys hath hard,
Ihesu graunt hem for her reward
As trew louers to be
As was the wryght vn-to hys wyfe
And sche to hym duryng her lyfe.
Amen, for charyte.
Here endyth the wryghtes processe trewe
Wyth hys garlond feyre of hewe
That neuer dyd fade the coloure.
It was made by the avyse
Of hys wywes moder wytty and wyse
Of flourys most of honoure,
Of roses whyte ?le nott fade,
Whych floure alle ynglond doth glade
Wyth trewloues medelyd in syght;
Vn-to the whych floure I-wys
The loue of god and of the comenys
Subdued bene of ryght.
EXPLICIT
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Tunning of Elenor Rumming
Tell you I chyll,
If that ye wyll
A whyle be styll,
Of a comely gyll
That dwelt on a hyll:
But she is not gryll,
For she is somwhat sage
And well worne in age;
For her vysage
It would aswage
A mannes courage.
Her lothely lere
Is nothynge clere,
But ugly of chere,
Droupy and drowsy,
Scurvy and lowsy;
Her face all bowsy,
Comely crynkled,
Woundersly wrynkled,
Lyke a rost pygges eare,
Brystled wyth here.
Her lewde lyppes twayne,
They slaver, men sayne,
Lyke a ropy rayne,
A gummy glayre:
She is ugly fayre;
Her nose somdele hoked,
And camously croked,
Never stoppynge,
But ever droppynge;
Her skynne lose and slacke,
Grained lyke a sacke;
With a croked backe.
Her eyen gowndy
Are full unsowndy,
For they are blered;
And she gray hered;
Jawed lyke a jetty;
A man would have pytty
To se how she is gumbed,
Fyngered and thumbed,
Gently joynted,
Gresed and annoynted
Up to the knockles;
The bones of her huckels
Lyke as they were with buckels
Togyther made fast:
Her youth is farre past:
Foted lyke a plane,
Legged lyke a crane;
And yet she wyll jet,
Lyke a jollyvet,
In her furred flocket,
And gray russet rocket,
With symper the cocket.
Her huke of Lyncole grene,
It had ben hers, I wene,
More then fourty yere;
And so doth it apere,
For the grene bare thredes
Loke lyke sere wedes,
Wyddered lyke hay,
The woll worne away;
And yet I dare saye
She thynketh herselfe gaye
Upon the holy daye,
Whan she doth her aray,
And gyrdeth in her gytes
Stytched and pranked with pletes;
Her kyrtel Brystow red,
With clothes upon her hed
That wey a sowe of led,
Wrythen in wonder wyse,
After the Sarasyns gyse
With a whym wham,
Knyt with a trym tram,
Upon her brayne pan,
Lyke an Egyptian,
Capped about:
When she goeth out
Herselfe for to shewe,
She dryveth downe the dewe
Wyth a payre of heles
As brode as two wheles;
She hobles as a gose
With her blanket hose
Over the falowe;
Her shone smered wyth talowe,
Gresed upon dyrt
That baudeth her skyrt.
Primus passus
And this comely dame,
I understande, her name
Is Elynour Rummynge,
At home in her wonnynge;
And as men say
She dwelt in Sothray,
In a certayne stede
Bysyde Lederhede.
She is a tonnysh gyb;
The devyll and she be syb.
But to make up my tale,
She breweth noppy ale,
And maketh therof port sale
To travellars, to tynkers,
To sweters, to swynkers,
And all good ale drynkers,
That wyll nothynge spare,
But drynke tyll they stare
And brynge themselfe bare,
With, "Now away the mare,
And let us sley care,
As wyse as an hare!"
Come who so wyll
To Elynour on the hyll,
Wyth, "Fyll the cup, fyll,"
And syt there by styll,
Erly and late:
Thyther cometh Kate,
Cysly, and Sare,
With theyr legges bare,
And also theyr fete,
Hardely, full unswete;
Wyth theyr heles dagged,
Theyr kyrtelles all to-jagged,
Theyr smockes all to-ragged,
Wyth titters and tatters,
Brynge dysshes and platters,
Wyth all theyr myght runnynge
To Elynour Rummynge,
To have of her tunnynge:
She leneth them on the same.
And thus begynneth the game.
Instede of coyne and monny,
Some brynge her a conny,
And some a pot with honny,
Some a salt, and some a spone,
Some theyr hose, some theyr shone;
Some ran a good trot
With a skellet or a pot;
Some fyll theyr pot full
Of good Lemster woll:
An huswyfe of trust,
Whan she is athrust,
Suche a webbe can spyn,
Her thryft is full thyn.
Some go streyght thyder,
Be it slaty or slyder;
They holde the hye waye,
They care not what men say,
Be that as be maye;
Some, lothe to be espyde,
Start in at the backe syde,
Over the hedge and pale,
And all for the good ale.
Some renne tyll they swete,
Brynge wyth them malte or whete,
And dame Elynour entrete
To byrle them of the best.
Than cometh an other gest;
She swered by the rode of rest,
Her lyppes are so drye,
Without drynke she must dye;
Therefore fyll it by and by,
And have here a pecke of ry.
Anone cometh another,
As drye as the other,
And wyth her doth brynge
Mele, salte, or other thynge,
Her harvest gyrdle, her weddyng rynge,
To pay for her scot
As cometh to her lot.
Som bryngeth her husbandes hood,
Because the ale is good;
Another brought her his cap
To offer to the ale-tap,
Wyth flaxe and wyth towe;
And some brought sowre dowe;
Wyth, "Hey, and wyth, Howe,
Syt we downe a-rowe,
And drynke tyll we blowe,
And pype tyrly tyrlowe!"
Some layde to pledge
Theyr hatchet and theyr wedge,
Theyr hekell and theyr rele,
Theyr rocke, theyr spynnyng whele;
And some went so narrowe,
They layde to pledge theyr wharrowe,
Theyr rybskyn and theyr spyndell,
Theyr nedell and theyr thymbell:
Here was scant thryft
Whan they made suche shyft
Theyr thrust was so great,
They asked never for mete,
But drynke, styll drynke,
"And let the cat wynke,
Let us washe our gommes
From the drye crommes!"
But some than sat ryght sad
That nothynge had
There of theyre awne,
Neyther gelt nor pawne;
Suche were there menny
That had not a penny,
But, whan they should walke,
Were fayne wyth a chalke
To score on the balke,
Or score on the tayle:
God gyve it yll hayle!
For my fyngers ytche;
I have wrytten to mytche
Of this mad mummynge
Of Elynour Rummynge:
Thus endeth the gest
Of this worthy fest!
Quod Skelton, Laureat.
poem by John Skelton
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Sonnet XXXI
Ah why hath nature to so hard a hart,
giuen so goodly giftes of beauties grace?
whose pryde depraues each other better part,
and all those pretious ornaments deface.
Sith to all other beastes of bloody race,
a dreadfull countenaunce she giuen hath:
that with theyr terrour al the rest may chace,
and warne to shun the daunger of theyr wrath.
But my proud one doth worke the greater scath,
through sweet allurement of her louely hew:
that she the better may in bloody bath,
of such poore thralls her cruell hands embrew.
But did she know how ill these two accord,
such cruelty she would haue soone abhord.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet LIII
THe Panther knowing that his spotted hyde,
Doth please all beasts but that his looks the[m] fray:
within a bush his dreadfull head doth hide,
to let them gaze whylest he on them may pray.
Right so my cruell fayre with me doth play,
for with the goodly semblant of her hew:
she doth allure me to mine owne decay,
and then no mercy will vnto me shew.
Great shame it is, thing so diuine in view,
made for to be the worlds most ornament:
to make the bayte her gazers to embrew,
good shames to be so ill an instrument.
But mercy doth with beautie best agree,
as in theyr maker ye them best may see.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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The Words
Clouds scattered across the sky &nbs p;all so far away
and then the space between this strange 'distance'
What does 'normal' mean, after all? &nb sp;you move
toward the window & nbsp;lights marking the headland
and the night becomes a milestone &nbs p; though
I the fog rolls up the hill from the sea
in waves the town &nb sp;desperate?
Whichever way we look &nb sp;though so much at hand
only held back by obsessions
but 'home' is so long ago &nbs p;don't cry
the light's a very pale blue &nb sp;then maybe &n bsp;the next time too
a faint glimmer across the bay &nbs p;neither moon
nor stars
and your letter making signs &n bsp;concerning 'understanding'
and 'the magic tortoise' &nbs p; what then? &n bsp;or just tiredness
At each alternative &n bsp; the colours in the sky
gradually changing ; until you're lulled into believing
you've seen this before & nbsp;but not quite
The wood-cut of a lone horseman
riding through a deathly countryside &n bsp; raped
'You're very brave' & nbsp;I clean the table-top
and you sat in that chair &n bsp;two red poppies
in the garden below &n bsp;at dawn
This apparent clumsiness is far from true
poem by Lee Harwood
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Sonnets from the Portuguese i
I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wish'd-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw in gradual vision through my tears
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years--
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,
'Guess now who holds thee?'--'Death,' I said. But there
The silver answer rang--'Not Death, but Love.'
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Her Late Husband (King's-Hintock, 182-.)
"No--not where I shall make my own;
But dig his grave just by
The woman's with the initialed stone -
As near as he can lie -
After whose death he seemed to ail,
Though none considered why.
"And when I also claim a nook,
And your feet tread me in,
Bestow me, under my old name,
Among my kith and kin,
That strangers gazing may not dream
I did a husband win."
"Widow, your wish shall be obeyed;
Though, thought I, certainly
You'd lay him where your folk are laid,
And your grave, too, will be,
As custom hath it; you to right,
And on the left hand he."
"Aye, sexton; such the Hintock rule,
And none has said it nay;
But now it haps a native here
Eschews that ancient way . . .
And it may be, some Christmas night,
When angels walk, they'll say:
"'O strange interment! Civilized lands
Afford few types thereof;
Here is a man who takes his rest
Beside his very Love,
Beside the one who was his wife
In our sight up above!'"
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Winter Nights
NOW winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours,
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o'erflow with wine;
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love,
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep's leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers' long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
poem by Thomas Campion
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To Mistress Margery Wentworth
WITH margerain gentle,
The flower of goodlihead,
Embroidered the mantle
Is of your maidenhead.
Plainly I cannot glose;
Ye be, as I divine,
The pretty primrose,
The goodly columbine.
Benign, courteous, and meek,
With wordes well devised;
In you, who list to seek,
Be virtues well comprised.
With margerain gentle,
The flower of goodlihead,
Embroidered the mantle
Is of your maidenhead.
poem by John Skelton
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As ye came from the Holy Land
AS ye came from the holy land
Of Walsinghame,
Met you not with my true love
By the way as you came?
How should I know your true love,
That have met many a one
As I came from the holy land,
That have come, that have gone?
She is neither white nor brown,
But as the heavens fair;
There is none hath her form divine
In the earth or the air.
Such a one did I meet, good sir,
Such an angelic face,
Who like a nymph, like a queen, did appear
In her gait, in her grace.
She hath left me here alone
All alone, as unknown,
Who sometime did me lead with herself,
And me loved as her own.
What 's the cause that she leaves you alone
And a new way doth take,
That sometime did love you as her own,
And her joy did you make?
I have loved her all my youth,
But now am old, as you see:
Love likes not the falling fruit,
Nor the withered tree.
Know that Love is a careless child,
And forgets promise past:
He is blind, he is deaf when he list,
And in faith never fast.
His desire is a dureless content,
And a trustless joy;
He is won with a world of despair,
And is lost with a toy.
Of womenkind such indeed is the love,
Or the word love abused,
Under which many childish desires
And conceits are excused.
But true love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never dead, never cold,
From itself never turning.
Womanhod Wanton Ye Want
Womanhod wanton ye want.
Youre medelyng mastres is manerles.
Plente of yll of goodnes skant.
Ye rayll at ryot recheles.
To prayse youre porte it is nedeles.
For all your draffe yet and your dreggys.
As well borne as ye full oft-tyme beggys.
Why so koy and full of skorne.
Myne horse is sold I wene you say.
My new furryd gowne when it is worne.
Put vp youre purs ye shall non pay.
By Crede I trust to se the day.
As proud a pohen as ye sprede.
Of me and other ye may haue nede.
Though angelyk be youre smylyng.
Yet is youre tong an adders tayle.
Full lyke a Scorpyon styngyng.
All those by whom ye haue auayle.
Good mastres Anne there ye do shayle.
What prate ye praty pyggys-ny.
I truste to quyte you or I dy.
Youre key is mete for euery lok.
Youre key is commen & hangyth owte.
Youre key is redy we nede not knok.
Nor stand long wrestyng there-aboute.
Of youre doregate ye haue no doute.
But one thyng is that ye be lewde.
Holde youre tong now all be shrewde.
To mastres Anne that farly swete.
That wonnes at the key in temmys strete.
poem by John Skelton
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A Lover's Lullaby
SING lullaby, as women do,
Wherewith they bring their babes to rest;
And lullaby can I sing too,
As womanly as can the best.
With lullaby they still the child;
And if I be not much beguiled,
Full many a wanton babe have I,
Which must be still'd with lullaby.
First lullaby my youthful years,
It is now time to go to bed:
For crooked age and hoary hairs
Have won the haven within my head.
With lullaby, then, youth be still;
With lullaby content thy will;
Since courage quails and comes behind,
Go sleep, and so beguile thy mind!
Next lullaby my gazing eyes,
Which wonted were to glance apace;
For every glass may now suffice
To show the furrows in thy face.
With lullaby then wink awhile;
With lullaby your looks beguile;
Let no fair face, nor beauty bright,
Entice you eft with vain delight.
And lullaby my wanton will;
Let reason's rule now reign thy thought;
Since all too late I find by skill
How dear I have thy fancies bought;
With lullaby now take thine ease,
With lullaby thy doubts appease;
For trust to this, if thou be still,
My body shall obey thy will.
Thus lullaby my youth, mine eyes,
My will, my ware, and all that was:
I can no more delays devise;
But welcome pain, let pleasure pass.
With lullaby now take your leave;
With lullaby your dreams deceive;
And when you rise with waking eye,
Remember then this lullaby.
poem by George Gascoigne
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Phillis 2
LOVE guards the roses of thy lips
And flies about them like a bee;
If I approach he forward skips,
And if I kiss he stingeth me.
Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,
And sleeps within their pretty shine;
And if I look the boy will lower,
And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.
Love works thy heart within his fire,
And in my tears doth firm the same;
And if I tempt it will retire,
And of my plaints doth make a game.
Love, let me cull her choicest flowers;
And pity me, and calm her eye;
Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers
Then will I praise thy deity.
But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve her
In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
poem by Thomas Lodge
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That Time and Absence proves Rather helps than hurts to loves
ABSENCE, hear thou my protestation
Against thy strength,
Distance and length:
Do what thou canst for alteration,
For hearts of truest mettle
Absence doth join and Time doth settle.
Who loves a mistress of such quality,
His mind hath found
Affection's ground
Beyond time, place, and all mortality.
To hearts that cannot vary
Absence is present, Time doth tarry.
My senses want their outward motion
Which now within
Reason doth win,
Redoubled by her secret notion:
Like rich men that take pleasure
In hiding more than handling treasure.
By Absence this good means I gain,
That I can catch her
Where none can watch her,
In some close corner of my brain:
There I embrace and kiss her,
And so enjoy her and none miss her.
poem by John Donne
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To Chloris
AH, Chloris! that I now could sit
As unconcern'd as when
Your infant beauty could beget
No pleasure, nor no pain!
When I the dawn used to admire,
And praised the coming day,
I little thought the growing fire
Must take my rest away.
Your charms in harmless childhood lay
Like metals in the mine;
Age from no face took more away
Than youth conceal'd in thine.
But as your charms insensibly
To their perfection prest,
Fond love as unperceived did fly,
And in my bosom rest.
My passion with your beauty grew,
And Cupid at my heart,
Still as his mother favour'd you,
Threw a new flaming dart:
Each gloried in their wanton part;
To make a lover, he
Employ'd the utmost of his art--
To make a beauty, she.
poem by Sir Charles Sedley
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To Mistress Margaret Hussey
MERRY Margaret
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower:
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly
Her demeaning
In every thing,
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write
Of Merry Margaret
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.
As patient and still
And as full of good will
As fair Isaphill,
Coliander,
Sweet pomander,
Good Cassander;
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought,
Far may be sought,
Ere that ye can find
So courteous, so kind
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.
poem by John Skelton
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The Seasons of Her Year
I
Winter is white on turf and tree,
And birds are fled;
But summer songsters pipe to me,
And petals spread,
For what I dreamt of secretly
His lips have said!
II
O 'tis a fine May morn, they say,
And blooms have blown;
But wild and wintry is my day,
My birds make moan;
For he who vowed leaves me to pay
Alone--alone!
poem by Thomas Hardy
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