Part 10

“_Homo natus_ Came to heauen gatus. Sir, you doe come to latus, With your shorne patus: _Frequentia falsa Euangelii_, For the loue of your bealie, _Cum auro & argento_, You loued the rules of Lento, Whiche the Pope did inuento: You are _spurius de muliere_. Not legittimate nor lawful here: _O quam[153] venenosa pestis,_ _Fur, periurus, latro, mechus,_ _Homicidis[154] tantum decus!_ _De salute animarum_, Of Christes flocke thou hadest small carum: Thou art _filius populi_: Go, go to _Constantinopoli_, To your maister the Turke; There shall you lurke Emong the heathen soules. Somtyme your shorne brethren of Poules Were as blacke as moules, With their cappes fower forked, Their shoes warme corked; Nosed like redde grapes, Constant as she apes, In nature like blacke monkes, And shoote in sparowes trunkes, And boule when thei haue dinde, And kepe them from the winde; And thei whiche are not able Doe sitte still at the table, With colour scarlet pale, So small is their good ale: Thus from God thei did tourne, Long before their church did burne. Then when riche men wer sicke, Either dedde or quicke, _Valde diligenter notant_ _Vbi diuites egrotant;_ _Ibi currunt, nec cessabunt_ _Donec ipsos tumilabunt;_ _Oues alienas tondunt,_ _Et perochias confundunt._ These felowes pilde as ganders, Muche like the friers of Flanders, Whiche serue Sathan about the cloisters, Thei loue red wine and oisters. _Qui vult Satanæ seruire,_ _Claustrum debet introire_, And euer haue suche an hedde As bastarde Boner that is dedde. He would for the Pope take pain; Therfore help, you friers of Spain, You enquisiters, take paine: It is a greate maine Vnto the Pope, your hedde, That Boner is thus dedde, And buried in a misers graue, Like a common k[naue]. Lo, lo, now is he dedde, That was so well fedde, And had a softe bedde! _Estote fortis in bello_, Good Hardyng and thy fellowe; If you be papistes right, Come steale hym awaie by night, And put hym in a shrine; He was the Popes deuine; Why, shall he be forgotten, And lye still and rotten? Come on, and doe not fainte; Translate with spede your sainct, And put hym in a tombe: His harte is now at Rome. Come forth, you loughtes of Louen, And steale awaie this slouen: You are so full of ire, And popishe desire, And Romishe derision, And hellishe deuision, Therefore I am sure Your kyngdome will not dure.”

Sig. B iii.

...

“_Responde._ _Ne recorderis peccata_, But open heauen gata, Sainct Peter, with your kaies; Shewe my lorde the right waies: He dwelt ones at Poules, And had cure of our soules: I wisse, he was not a baste, But holie, meke, and chaste; It is a greate pitie That he is gone from our citie; A man of greate honor; O holy sainct Boner! You blessed friers That neuer wer liers, And you holy nunnes That neuer had sonnes, Set this child of grace In some angelles place.”

Sig. B vii.

[153] _O quam, &c._] A line which ought to have rhymed with this one is wanting.

[154] _Homicidis_] Old ed. “Homicidus.”

* * * * *

From

_A Skeltonicall Salutation,_ _Or condigne gratulation,_ _And iust vexation_ _Of the Spanish Nation,_ _That in a bravado,_ _Spent many a Crusado,_ _In setting forth an Armado_ _England to invado._

_Imprinted at London for Toby Cooke._ 1589, 4to.

“O king of Spaine, Is it not a paine To thy heart and braine And euery vaine, To see thy traine For to sustaine, Withouten gaine, The worlds disdaine, Which doth dispise As toies and lies, With shoutes and cries, Thy enterprise, As fitter for pies And butter-flies, Then men so wise? O waspish king, Wheres now thy sting, Thy dart or sling, Or strong bow-string, That should vs wring, And vnderbring, Who euery way Thee vexe and pay, And beare the sway By night and day, To thy dismay, In battle aray, And every fray? O pufte with pride, What foolish guide Made thee provide To over-ride This land so wide From side to side, And then, vntride, Away to slide, And not to abide, But all in a ring Away to fling? O conquering, O vanquishing, With fast flying, And no replying, For feare of frying! ... But who but Philippus, That seeketh to nip vs, To rob vs, and strip vs, And then for to whip vs, Would ever haue ment, Or had intent, Or hither sent Such ships of charge, So strong and so large, Nay, the worst barge, Trusting to treason, And not to reason, Which at that season To him was geson, As doth appeare Both plaine and cleare To far and neere, To his confusion, By this conclusion, Which thus is framed, And must be named _Argumentum a minore,_ _Cum horrore et timore?_ If one Drake o, One poore snake o, Make vs shake o, Tremble and quake o, Were it not, trow yee, A madnes for me To vndertake A warre to make With such a lande, That is so mande, Wherein there be Of certaintie As hungrie as he Many a thousand more, That long full sore For Indian golde, Which makes men bolde?” &c.

See also—_Jacke of the Northe_, &c. printed (most incorrectly) from C.C.C. MS. in Hartshorne’s _Anc. Met. Tales_, p. 288.—_A recantation of famous Pasquin of Rome. An. 1570. Imprinted at London by John Daye_, 8vo, which (known to me only from _Brit. Bibliog._ ii. 289) contains Skeltonical passages.—_The Riddles of Heraclitus and Democritus. Printed at London by Ann Hatfield for John Norton_, 1598, 4to, which (known to me only from _Restituta_, i. 175) has Skeltonical rhymes on the back of the title-page.—_The Wisdome of Doctor Dodypoll. As it hath bene sundrie times Acted by the Children of Powles_, 1600, 4to, which has some Skeltonical lines at sig. C 4.—_The Downfall of Robert Earle of Huntington_, &c. (by Anthony Munday), 1601, 4to, and _The Death of Robert, Earle of Hvntington_, &c. (by Anthony Munday and Henry Chettle), 1601, 4to, (two plays already noticed, p. lxxxvi.), in which are various Skeltonical passages.—_Hobson’s Horse-load of Letters, or a President for Epistles. The First Part_, 1617, 4to, which concludes with three epistles in verse, the last entitled “_A merry-mad Letter in Skeltons rime_,” &c.—_Poems: By Michael Drayton Esqvire_, &c., n. d., folio, which contains at p. 301 a copy of verses entitled “A Skeltoniad.”—_The Fortunate Isles_, &c. 1626, a masque by Ben Jonson (already noticed, p. lxxxvii.), in which are imitations of Skelton’s style.—_All The Workes of John Taylor The Water-poet_, &c. 1630, folio, which contains, at p. 245, “_A Skeltonicall salutation to those that know how to reade, and not marre the sense with hacking or mis-construction_” (printed as prose).—_Hesperides: or, The Works Both Humane & Divine of Robert Herrick Esq._, 1648, 8vo, among which, at pp. 10, 97, 268, are verses in Skelton’s favourite metre.—_The Works of Mr. John Cleveland, Containing his Poems, Orations, Epistles, Collected into One Volume_, 1687, 8vo, in which may be found, at p. 306, a piece of disgusting grossness (suggested by Skelton’s _Elynour Rummynge_), entitled “_The Old Gill_.”

A poem called _Philargyrie of greate Britayne_, 1551, printed (and no doubt written) by Robert Crowly, has been frequently mentioned as a “Skeltonic” composition, but improperly, as the following lines will shew;

“Geue eare awhyle, And marke my style, You that hath wyt in store; For wyth wordes bare I wyll declare Thyngs done long tyme before. Sometyme certayne Into Britayne, A lande full of plentie, A gyaunte greate Came to seke meate, Whose name was Philargyrie,” &c.

“See also,” says Warton (_Hist. of E. P._ ii. 358, note, ed. 4to), “a doggrel piece of this kind, _in imitation of Skelton_, introduced into Browne’s _Sheperd’s Pipe_,”—a mistake; for the poem of Hoccleve (inserted in _Eglogue_ i.), to which Warton evidently alludes, is neither doggrel nor in Skelton’s manner.

POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN SKELTON.

OF THE DEATH[155] OF THE NOBLE PRINCE, KYNGE EDWARDE THE FORTH, PER SKELTONIDEM LAUREATUM.

_Miseremini mei_, ye that be my frendis! This world[156] hath formed me downe to fall: How may[157] I endure, when that eueri thyng endis? What creature is borne to be eternall? Now there[158] is no more but pray for me all: Thus say I Edward, that late was youre kynge, And twenty two[159] yeres ruled this imperyall, Some vnto pleasure, and some to no lykynge: Mercy I aske of my mysdoynge; What auayleth it,[160] frendes, to be my foo, 10 Sith I can not resyst, nor amend your complaining? _Quia, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!_

I slepe now in molde, as it is naturall That[161] erth vnto erth hath his reuerture: What ordeyned God to be terestryall, Without recours to the erth[162] of nature? Who to lyue euer may himselfe assure?[163] What is it[164] to trust on mutabilyte, Sith that in this world nothing may indure? For now am I gone, that late was in prosperyte: 20 To presume thervppon, it is but a vanyte, Not certayne, but as a cheryfayre[165] full of wo: Reygned not I of late in greate felycite? _Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!_

Where was in my lyfe such one as I, Whyle lady Fortune with me had continuaunce? Graunted not she me to haue victory, In England to rayne, and to contribute Fraunce? She toke me by the hand and led me a daunce, And with her sugred lyppes on me she smyled; 30 But, what for her dissembled countenaunce, I coud not beware tyl I was begyled: Now from this world she hath me excyled, When I was lothyst hens for to go, And I am in age but, as who sayth, a chylde, _Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!_ I se wyll,[166] they leve that doble my ȝeris: This[167] dealid this world with me as it lyst,[168] And hathe me made, to ȝow that be my perys, Example to thynke on Had I wyst: 40 I storyd my cofers and allso my chest[169] With taskys takynge of the comenalte; I toke ther tresure, but of ther prayȝeris mist; Whom I beseche with pure humylyte For to forgeve and have on me pety; I was ȝour kynge, and kept ȝow from ȝowr foo: I wold now amend, but that wull not be, _[Quia,] ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!_

I had ynough, I held me not content, Without remembraunce that I should dye; 50 And more euer to incroche[170] redy was I bent, I knew not how longe I should it occupy: I made the Tower stronge, I wyst not why; I knew not to whom I purchased Tetersall; I amendid Douer on the mountayne hye, And London I prouoked to fortify the wall; I made Notingam a place full[171] royall, Wyndsore, Eltam,[172] and many other mo: Yet at the last I went from them all, _Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!_ 60

Where is now my conquest and victory? Where is my riches and my royal aray? Wher be my coursers and my horses hye? Where is my myrth, my solas, and my[173] play? As vanyte, to nought al is wandred[174] away. O lady Bes, longe for me may ye call! For I[175] am departed tyl domis day; But loue ye that Lorde that is soueraygne of all. Where be my castels and buyldynges royall? But Windsore alone, now I haue no mo, 70 And of Eton the prayers perpetuall, _Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!_

Why should a man be proude or presume hye? Sainct Bernard therof nobly doth trete, Seyth a man is but[176] a sacke of stercorry, And shall returne vnto wormis mete. Why, what cam of Alexander the greate? Or els of stronge Sampson, who can tell? Were not[177] wormes ordeyned theyr flesh to frete? And of Salomon, that was of wyt the well? 80 Absolon profferyd his heare for to sell, Yet for al his bewte wormys ete him also; And I but late in honour dyd excel, _Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!_

I haue played my pageyond, now am I past; Ye wot well all I was of no great yeld: This[178] al thing concluded shalbe at the last, When death approchyth, then lost is the felde: Then sythen this world me no longer vphelde, Nor nought[179] would conserue me here in my place, 90 _In manus tuas, Domine_, my spirite vp I yelde, Humbly[180] beseching thé, God, of thy[181] grace! O ye curtes commyns, your hertis vnbrace Benyngly now to pray for me also; For ryght wel you know your kyng I was, _Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio_!

[155] _Of the death_, &c.] From the ed. by Kynge and Marche of _Certaine bokes compyled by Mayster Skelton_, n. d.—collated with the same work, ed. Day, n. d., and ed. Lant, n. d.; with Marshe’s ed. of Skelton’s _Workes_, 1568; occasionally with the _Mirrour for Magistrates_, 1587 (in the earlier eds. of which the poem was incorporated), and with a contemporary MS. in the possession of Miss Richardson Currer, which last has furnished a stanza hitherto unprinted.

[156] _This world_, &c.] MS.:

“For the _world hathe_ conformid _me to fall_.”

[157] _may_] MS. “myzt.”

[158] _Now there_, &c.] MS.:

“_Now is ther no_ helpe _but pray for_ my sovle.”

[159] _twenty-two_] So MS. and _Mir. for Mag._ Eds. “xxiii.;” see notes.

[160] _it_] So other eds. Ed. of Kynge and Marche, “hit.”

[161] _That_] So MS. Eds. “As.”

[162] _the erth_] MS. “dethe.”

[163] _himselfe assure_] So _Mir. for Mag._ Eds. and MS., “be sure.”

[164] _What is it_, &c.] MS.:

“_What ys it to trust_ the _mutabylyte_ Of _this world_ whan _no thyng may endure_.”

[165] _cheryfayre_] MS. “cheyfeyre.”

[166] _I se wyll_, &c.] This stanza only found in MS.

[167] _This_] See notes.

[168] _lyst_] MS. “lust”—against the rhyme.

[169] _chest_] MS. “chestys”—against the rhyme.

[170] _euer to incroche_] Eds. of Day, and Marshe, “ouer _to_,” &c. MS. gives this line and the next thus:

“_And more to_ encrese _was_ myne entent And _not_ beynge ware who _shuld it ocupye_.”

[171] _full_] So _Mir. for Mag._ Not in eds. or MS.

[172] _Wyndsore_, _Eltam,_ &c.] This line and the next given thus in MS.:

“_Wynsore_ and eton _and many oder mo_ As Westmynster _Eltham_ and sone _went I from all_.”

And so, with slight variation, in Nash’s _Quaternio_: see notes.

[173] _my_] So _Mir. for Mag._ Not in eds. or MS.

[174] _wandred_] _Mir. for Mag._ “wythered.”

[175] _For I_, &c.] MS.:

“Now are we _departid_ [i. e. parted] onto _domys day_.”

[176] _Seyth a man is but_, &c.] Day’s ed. “Seeth _a man is_ nothing _but_,” &c. Marshe’s ed. “Sythe _a man is_ nothing _but_,” &c. _Mir. for Mag._ “Saying _a man is but_,” &c. MS. “Seinge _a man ys a sak of_ sterqueryte.”

[177] _Were not_] So Lant’s ed. and _Mir. for Mag._ Ed. of Kynge and Marche, “Where no.” Eds. of Day, and Marshe, “Wher no.” MS. “Was _not_.”

[178] _This_] _Mir. for Mag._ “Thus;” but see note.

[179] _Nor nought_, &c.] _Mir. for Mag._:

“For _nought would conserue mee here in_ this _place_.”

MS.:

“Ne _nougt wold concerue me my place_.”

[180] _Humbly_] So other eds. Kynge and Marche’s ed. “Humble.”

[181] _thy_] Other eds. “his.”

POETA SKELTON[182] LAUREATUS LIBELLUM SUUM METRICE ALLOQUITUR.

_Ad dominum properato meum, mea pagina, Percy,_ _Qui Northumbrorum jura paterna gerit;_ _Ad nutum celebris tu prona repone leonis_ _Quæque suo patri tristia justa cano.[183]_ _Ast ubi perlegit, dubiam sub mente volutet_ _Fortunam, cuncta quæ malefida rotat._ _Qui leo sit felix, et Nestoris occupet annos;_ _Ad libitum, cujus ipse paratus ero._

[182] _Poeta Skelton_, &c.] From Marshe’s ed. of Skelton’s _Workes_, 1568, collated with a copy of the poem in a MS. vol now in the British Museum (_MS. Reg._ 18. D ii. fol. 165), which formerly belonged to the fifth Earl of Northumberland, son of the nobleman whose fate is here lamented: vide _Account of Skelton_, &c. This elegy was printed by Percy in his _Reliques of An. Engl. Poet._ (i. 95, ed. 1794), from the MS. just mentioned.

[183] _cano_] So MS. Not in Marshe’s ed.

SKELTON LAUREAT VPON THE DOULOUR[U]S 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, again him compassed and wrought, Trew to his prince in word, in dede, and thought.

Of heuenly poems, O Clyo, calde by name In the colege of Musis goddes hystoriall, Adres thé to me, whiche am both halt and lame 10 In elect vteraunce to make memoryall! To thé for souccour, to thé 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, By thy report ar wont to be extold, Regestringe trewly euery formare date; Of thy bountie after the vsuall rate Kyndell in me suche plenty of thy nobles, 20 These sorowfulle dites that I may shew expres.

In sesons past, who hath herde 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[184] concente Falsly to slee[185] 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[186] doth ken; 30 At his commaundement which had both day and nyght Knyghtes and squyers, at euery season when He calde vpon them, as meniall houshold men: Were not[187] these commons vncurteis 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 o[w]ne[188] seruants 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: 40 What shuld I flatter? what shuld I glose or paint? Fy, fy for shame, their hartes were to faint.

In England and Fraunce which gretly was redouted, Of whom both Flaunders and Scotland stode in drede, To whom great estates obeyed and lowted, A mayny of rude villayns made hym for to blede; Unkyndly they slew him, that holp[189] them oft at nede: He was their bulwark, their paues, and their wall, Yet shamfully they slew hym; that shame mot them befal!

I say, ye comoners, why wer ye so stark mad? 50 What frantyk frensy fyll in your brayne? Where was your wit and reson ye should haue had? What wilful foly made yow to ryse agayne Your naturall lord? alas, I can not fayne: Ye armyd you with will, and left your wit behynd; Well may you[190] be called comones most vnkynd.

He was your chefteyne, your shelde, your chef defence, Redy to assyst you in euery time of nede; Your worshyp depended of his excellence: Alas, ye mad men, to far ye did excede; 60 Your hap was vnhappy, to ill was your spede: What moued you againe him to war or to fyght? What alyde you to sle[191] your lord again all ryght?

The ground of his quarel was for his souerain 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 bene able to haue sayd hym nay. 70

But ther was fals packing, or els I am begylde; How be it the mater was euydent and playne, For if they had occupied their spere and their shilde, This noble man doutles had not bene[192] slayne. But men say they wer lynked with a double chaine, And held with the comones vnder a cloke, Which kindeled the wild fyr that made al this smoke.

The commons renyed ther taxes to pay, Of them demaunded and asked by the kynge; With one voice importune they plainly sayd nay; 80 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 nobelnes of the north, this valiant lord and knight, As man that was innocent of trechery or traine, Presed forth boldly to withstand the myght, And, lyke marciall Hector, he faught them agayne, Vygorously vpon them with might and with maine, Trustyng in noble men that were with him there; 90 But al they fled from hym for falshode or fere.

Barones, knyghtes, squiers, one[193] and all, Together with seruauntes of his famuly, Turned their backis,[194] and let their master fal, Of whos [life] they[195] counted not a flye; Take vp whose wold, for ther[196] they let him ly. Alas, his gold, his fee, his annual rent Upon suche a sort was ille bestowd and spent!

He was enuirond aboute on euery syde With his enemyes, that wer starke mad and wode; 100 Yet[197] while[198] he stode he gaue 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[199] 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;[200] O dolorus chaunce of Fortunes froward hande! 110 What man, remembryng howe shamfully 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 ground vngracious, vnhappy 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 120 Goddes most cruel vnto the lyfe of man, All merciles, in thé is no pite! O homicide, which sleest all that thou can, So forcibly vpon this erle thou ran, That with thy sword, enharpit of mortall drede, Thou kit asonder his perfight vitall threde!

My wordes vnpullysht 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; 130 Which whils he lyued had fuyson of euery thing, Of knights, of squyers, chyf lord of toure and towne, Tyl fykkell Fortune began on hym to frowne:

Paregall to dukes, with kynges he might compare, Surmountinge in honor al erlis he did excede; To all countreis aboute hym reporte me I dare; Lyke to Eneas benigne in worde and dede, Valiant as Hector in euery marciall nede, Prouydent,[201] discrete, circumspect, and wyse, Tyll the chaunce ran agayne hym of Fortunes duble dyse. 140

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[202] myne homly Muse, that muste Yet somwhat wright supprised with herty[203] lust, Truly reportyng his right noble estate, Immortally whiche is immaculate?