Part 14

_Pla ce bo_, Who is there, who? _Di le xi_, Dame Margery; Fa, re, my, my, Wherfore and why, why? For the sowle of Philip Sparowe, That was late slayn at Carowe, Among the Nones Blake, For that swete soules sake, 10 And for all sparowes soules, Set in our bederolles, _Pater noster qui_, With an _Ave Mari_, And with the corner of a Crede, The more shalbe your mede. Whan I remembre agayn How mi Philyp was slayn, Neuer halfe the payne Was betwene you twayne, 20 Pyramus and Thesbe, As than befell to me: I wept and I wayled, The tearys downe hayled; But nothynge it auayled To call Phylyp agayne, Whom Gyb our cat hath slayne. Gib, I saye, our cat Worrowyd her on that Which I loued best: 30 It can not be exprest My sorowfull heuynesse, But all without redresse; For within that stounde, Halfe slumbrynge, in a sounde I fell downe to the grounde. Vnneth I kest myne eyes Towarde the cloudy skyes: But whan I dyd beholde My sparow dead and colde, 40 No creatuer but that wolde Haue rewed vpon me, To behold and se What heuynesse dyd me pange; Wherewith my handes I wrange, That my senaws cracked, As though I had ben racked, So payned and so strayned, That no lyfe wellnye remayned. I syghed and I sobbed, 50 For that I was robbed Of my sparowes lyfe. O mayden, wydow, and wyfe, Of what estate ye be, Of hye or lowe degre, Great sorowe than ye myght se, And lerne to wepe at me! Such paynes dyd me frete, That myne hert dyd bete, My vysage pale and dead, 60 Wanne, and blewe as lead; The panges of hatefull death Wellnye had[336] stopped my breath. _Heu, heu, me_, That I am wo for thé! _Ad Dominum, cum tribularer, clamavi_: Of God nothynge els craue I But Phyllypes soule to kepe From the marees deepe Of Acherontes well, 70 That is a flode of hell; And from the great Pluto, The prynce of endles wo; And from foule Alecto, With vysage blacke and blo; And from Medusa, that mare, That lyke a fende doth stare; And from Megeras edders, For[337] rufflynge of Phillips fethers, And from her fyry sparklynges, 80 For burnynge of his wynges; And from the smokes sowre Of Proserpinas bowre; And from the dennes darke, Wher Cerberus doth barke, Whom Theseus dyd afraye, Whom Hercules dyd outraye, As famous poetes say; From[338] that hell hounde, That lyeth in cheynes bounde, 90 With gastly hedes thre, To Jupyter pray we That Phyllyp preserued may be! Amen, say ye with me! _Do mi nus_, Helpe nowe, swete Jesus! _Levavi oculos meos in montes_:[339] Wolde God I had Zenophontes,[340] Or Socrates the wyse, To shew me their deuyse, 100 Moderatly to take This sorow that I make For Phyllip Sparowes sake! So feruently I shake, I fele my body quake; So vrgently I am brought Into carefull thought. Like Andromach,[341] Hectors wyfe, Was wery of her lyfe, Whan she had lost her ioye, 110 Noble Hector of Troye; In lyke maner also Encreaseth my dedly wo, For my sparowe is go. It was so prety a fole, It wold syt[342] on a stole, And lerned after my scole For to kepe his cut, With, Phyllyp, kepe your cut! It had a veluet cap, 120 And wold syt vpon my lap, And seke after small wormes, And somtyme white bred crommes; And many tymes and ofte Betwene my brestes softe It wolde lye and rest; It was propre and prest. Somtyme he wolde gaspe Whan he sawe a waspe; A fly or a gnat, 130 He wolde flye at that; And prytely he wold pant Whan he saw an ant; Lord, how he wolde pry After the butterfly! Lorde, how he wolde hop After the gressop! And whan I sayd, Phyp, Phyp, Than he wold lepe and skyp, And take me by the lyp. 140 Alas, it wyll me slo, That Phillyp is gone me fro! _Si in i qui ta tes_, Alas, I was euyll at ease! _De pro fun dis cla ma vi_, Whan I sawe my sparowe dye! Nowe, after my dome, Dame Sulpicia[343] at Rome, Whose name regystred was For euer in tables of bras, 150 Because that[344] she dyd pas In poesy to endyte, And eloquently[345] to wryte, Though she wolde pretende My sparowe to commende, I trowe she coude not amende Reportynge the vertues all Of my sparowe royall. For it wold come and go, And fly[346] so to and fro; 160 And on me it wolde lepe Whan I was aslepe, And his fethers[347] shake, Wherewith he wolde make Me often for to wake, And for to take him in Vpon my naked skyn; God wot, we thought no syn: What though[348] he crept so lowe? It was no hurt, I trowe, 170 He dyd nothynge perde But syt vpon my kne: Phyllyp, though he were nyse, In him it was no vyse; Phyllyp had leue to go To pyke my lytell too; Phillip myght be bolde And do what he wolde; Phillip wolde seke and take All the flees blake 180 That he coulde there espye With his wanton eye. _O pe ra_, La, soll, fa, fa, _Confitebor tibi, Domine, in[349] toto corde meo_. Alas, I wold ryde and go A thousand myle of grounde! If any such might be found, It were worth an hundreth pound Of kynge Cresus golde, 190 Or of Attalus[350] the olde, The ryche prynce of Pargame, Who so lyst the story to se. Cadmus, that his syster sought, And he shold be bought For golde and fee, He shuld ouer the see, To wete if he coulde brynge Any of the ofsprynge,[351] Or any of the blode. 200 But whoso vnderstode Of Medeas arte, I wolde I had a parte Of her crafty magyke! My sparowe than shuld be quycke With a charme or twayne, And playe with me agayne. But all this is in vayne Thus for to complayne. I toke my sampler ones, 210 Of purpose, for the nones, To sowe with stytchis of sylke My sparow whyte as mylke, That by representacyon Of his image and facyon, To me it myght importe Some pleasure and comforte For my solas and sporte: But whan I was sowing his beke, Methought, my sparow did speke, 220 And opened[352] his prety byll, Saynge, Mayd, ye are in wyll Agayne me for to kyll, Ye prycke me in the head! With that my nedle waxed[353] red, Methought, of Phyllyps blode; Myne hear ryght vpstode, And was in suche a fray, My speche was taken away. I kest downe that there was, 230 And sayd, Alas, alas, How commeth this to pas? My fyngers, dead and colde, Coude not my sampler holde; My nedle and threde I threwe away for drede. The best now that I maye, Is for his soule to pray: _A porta inferi_, Good Lorde, haue mercy 240 Vpon my sparowes soule, Wryten in my bederoule! _Au di vi vo cem_, Japhet, Cam, and Sem, _Ma gni fi cat_, Shewe me the ryght path To the hylles of Armony, Wherfore the birdes[354] yet cry Of your fathers bote, That was sometyme aflote, 250 And nowe they lye and rote; Let some poetes wryte Deucalyons flode it hyght: But as verely as ye be The naturall sonnes thre Of Noe the patryarke, That made that great arke, Wherin he had apes and owles, Beestes, byrdes, and foules, That if ye can fynde 260 Any of my sparowes kynde, God sende the soule good rest! I wolde haue yet[355] a nest As prety and as prest As my sparowe was. But my sparowe dyd pas All sparowes of the wode That were syns Noes flode, Was neuer none so good; Kynge Phylyp of Macedony 270 Had no such Phylyp as I, No, no, syr, hardely. That vengeaunce I aske and crye, By way of exclamacyon, On all the hole nacyon Of cattes wylde and tame; God send them sorowe and shame! That cat specyally That slew so cruelly My lytell prety sparowe 280 That I brought vp at Carowe. O cat of carlyshe[356] kynde, The fynde was in thy mynde Whan thou my byrde vntwynde! I wold thou haddest ben blynde! The leopardes sauage, The lyons in theyr rage, Myght catche thé in theyr pawes, And gnawe thé in theyr iawes! The[357] serpentes[358] of Lybany 290 Myght stynge thé venymously! The dragones with their tonges Might poyson thy lyuer and longes! The mantycors of the montaynes Myght fede them on thy braynes! Melanchates, that hounde That plucked Acteon to the grounde, Gaue hym his mortall wounde, Chaunged to a dere, The story doth appere, 300 Was chaunged to an harte: So thou, foule cat that thou arte, The selfe same hounde Myght thé confounde, That his owne lord bote, Myght byte asondre thy throte! Of Inde the gredy grypes Myght tere out all thy trypes! Of Arcady the beares Might plucke awaye thyne eares! 310 The wylde wolfe Lycaon Byte asondre thy backe bone! Of Ethna the brennynge hyll, That day and night brenneth styl, Set in thy tayle a blase, That all the world may gase And wonder vpon thé, From Occyan the greate se Vnto the Iles of Orchady, From Tyllbery fery 320 To the playne of Salysbery! So trayterously my byrde to kyll That neuer ought thé euyll wyll! Was neuer byrde in cage More gentle of corage In doynge his homage Vnto his souerayne. Alas, I say agayne, Deth hath departed vs twayne! The false cat hath thé slayne: 330 Farewell, Phyllyp, adew! Our Lorde thy soule reskew! Farewell without restore, Farewell for euermore! And it were[359] a Jewe, It wolde make one rew, To se my sorow new. These vylanous false cattes Were made for myse and rattes, And not for byrdes smale. 340 Alas, my face waxeth pale, Tellynge this pyteyus tale, How my byrde so fayre, That was wont to repayre, And go in at my spayre, And crepe in at my gore[360] Of my gowne before, Flyckerynge with his wynges! Alas, my hert it stynges, Remembrynge prety thynges! 350 Alas, myne hert it sleth My Phyllyppes dolefull deth, Whan I remembre it, How pretely it wolde syt, Many tymes and ofte, Vpon my fynger aloft! I played with him tyttell tattyll, And fed him with my spattyl, With his byll betwene my lippes; It was my prety Phyppes! 360 Many a prety kusse Had I of his[361] swete musse; And now the cause is thus, That he is slayne me fro, To my great payne and wo. Of fortune this the chaunce Standeth on[362] varyaunce: Oft tyme after pleasaunce Trouble and greuaunce; No man can be sure 370 Allway to haue pleasure: As well perceyue ye maye How my dysport and play From me was taken away By Gyb, our cat sauage, That in a[363] furyous rage Caught Phyllyp by the head, And slew him there starke dead. _Kyrie, eleison,_ _Christe, eleison,_ 380 _Kyrie, eleison!_ For Phylyp Sparowes soule, Set in our bederolle, Let vs now whysper A _Pater noster_. _Lauda, anima mea, Dominum!_ To wepe with me loke that ye come, All maner of byrdes in your kynd; Se none be left behynde. To mornynge loke that ye fall 390 With dolorous songes funerall, Some to synge, and some to say, Some to wepe, and some to pray, Euery byrde in his laye. The goldfynche, the wagtayle; The ianglynge iay to rayle, The fleckyd pye to chatter Of this dolorous mater; And robyn redbrest, He shall be the preest 400 The requiem masse to synge, Softly[364] warbelynge, With helpe of the red sparow, And the chattrynge swallow, This herse for to halow; The larke with his longe to; The spynke, and the martynet also; The shouelar with his brode bek; The doterell, that folyshe pek, And also the mad coote, 410 With a balde face to toote; The feldefare, and the snyte; The crowe, and the kyte; The rauyn, called Rolfe, His playne songe to solfe; The partryche, the quayle; The plouer with vs to wayle; The woodhacke, that syngeth chur Horsly, as he had the mur; The lusty chauntyng nyghtyngale; 420 The popyngay to tell her tale, That toteth oft in a glasse, Shal rede the Gospell at masse; The mauys with her whystell Shal rede there the pystell. But with a large and a longe To kepe iust playne songe, Our chaunters shalbe the cuckoue, The culuer, the stockedowue, With puwyt the lapwyng, 430 The versycles shall syng. The bitter[365] with his bumpe, The crane with his trumpe, The swan of Menander,[366] The gose and the gander, The ducke and the[367] drake, Shall watche at this wake; The pecocke so prowde, Bycause his voyce is lowde, And hath a glorious tayle, 440 He shall syng the grayle; The owle, that is[368] so foule, Must helpe vs to houle; The heron so gaunce,[369] And the cormoraunce,[370] With the fesaunte, And the gaglynge gaunte, And the churlysshe chowgh; The route and the kowgh;[371] The barnacle, the bussarde, 450 With the wilde[372] mallarde; The dyuendop to slepe; The water hen[373] to wepe; The puffin[374] and the tele Money they shall dele To poore folke at large, That shall be theyr charge; The semewe and the tytmose; The wodcocke with the longe nose; The threstyl with her warblyng; 460 The starlyng with her brablyng; The roke, with the ospraye That putteth fysshes to a fraye; And the denty curlewe, With the turtyll most trew. At this _Placebo_ We may not well forgo The countrynge of the coe: The storke also, That maketh his nest 470 In chymneyes to rest; Within those walles No[375] broken galles May there abyde Of cokoldry syde, Or els phylosophy Maketh a great lye. The estryge, that wyll eate An horshowe so great, In the stede of meate, 480 Such feruent heat His stomake doth freat;[376] He can not well fly, Nor synge tunably, Yet at a brayde He hath well assayde To solfe aboue ela, Ga,[377] lorell, fa, fa; _Ne quando_ _Male cantando_, 490 The best that we can, To make hym our belman, And let hym ryng the bellys; He can do nothyng ellys. Chaunteclere, our coke, Must tell what is of the clocke By the astrology That he hath naturally Conceyued and cought,[378] And was neuer tought[379] 500 By Albumazer The astronomer, Nor by Ptholomy Prince of astronomy, Nor yet by Haly; And yet he croweth dayly And nightly[380] the tydes That no man abydes, With Partlot his hen, Whom now and then 510 Hee plucketh by the hede Whan he doth her trede. The byrde of Araby, That potencyally May neuer dye, And yet there is none But one alone; A phenex it is This herse that must blys With armatycke gummes 520 That cost great summes,[381] The way of thurifycation To make a[382] fumigation, Swete of reflary,[383] And redolent of eyre,[384] This corse for to[385] sence With greate reuerence, As patryarke or pope In a blacke cope; Whyles[386] he senseth [the herse], 530 He shall synge the verse, _Libera me_, In de, la, soll, re, Softly bemole For my sparowes soule. Plinni sheweth all In his story naturall What he doth fynde Of the phenyx kynde; Of whose incyneracyon 540 There ryseth a new creacyon Of the same facyon Without alteracyon, Sauyng that olde age Is turned into corage Of fresshe youth agayne; This matter trew and playne, Playne matter indede, Who so lyst to rede. But for the egle doth flye 550 Hyest in the skye, He shall be the[387] sedeane, The quere to demeane, As prouost pryncypall, To teach them theyr ordynall; Also the noble fawcon, With the gerfawcon,[388] The tarsell gentyll, They shall morne soft and styll In theyr amysse of gray; 560 The sacre with them shall say _Dirige_ for Phyllyppes soule; The goshauke shall haue a role The queresters to controll; The lanners and the[389] marlyons Shall stand in their morning gounes; The hobby and the muskette The sensers and the crosse shall fet; The kestrell in all this warke Shall be holy water[390] clarke. 570 And now the darke cloudy nyght Chaseth away Phebus bryght, Taking his course toward the west, God sende my sparoes sole good rest! _Requiem æternam dona eis,[391] Domine_! Fa, fa, fa, my, re, re,[392] _A por ta in fe ri_, Fa, fa, fa, my, my. _Credo videre bona Domini_, I pray God, Phillip to heuen may fly! 580 _Domine, exaudi orationem meam!_ To heuen he shall, from heuen he cam! _Do mi nus vo bis cum!_ Of al good praiers God send him sum! _Oremus._ _Deus, cui proprium est misereri et parcere_, On Phillips soule haue pyte! For he was a prety cocke, And came of a gentyll stocke, And wrapt in a maidenes smocke, 590 And cherysshed full dayntely, Tyll[393] cruell fate made him to dy: Alas, for dolefull desteny![394] But whereto shuld I Lenger morne or crye? To Jupyter I call, Of heuen emperyall, That Phyllyp may fly Aboue the starry sky, To treade the prety wren, 600 That is our Ladyes hen: Amen, amen, amen! Yet one thynge is behynde, That now commeth to mynde;[395] An epytaphe I wold haue For Phyllyppes graue: But for I am a mayde, Tymerous, halfe afrayde, That neuer yet asayde Of Elyconys well, 610 Where the Muses dwell; Though I can rede and spell, Recounte, reporte, and tell Of the Tales of Caunterbury, Some sad storyes, some mery; As Palamon and Arcet, Duke Theseus, and Partelet; And of the Wyfe of Bath, That[396] worketh moch scath Whan her tale is tolde 620 Amonge huswyues bolde, How she controlde Her husbandes as she wolde, And them to despyse In the homylyest wyse, Brynge other wyues in thought Their husbandes to set at nought: And though that rede haue I Of Gawen and syr Guy, And tell can a great pece 630 Of the Golden Flece, How Jason it wan, Lyke a valyaunt man; Of Arturs rounde table, With his knightes commendable, And dame Gaynour, his quene, Was somwhat wanton, I wene; How syr Launcelote de Lake Many a spere brake For his ladyes sake; 640 Of Trystram, and kynge Marke, And al the hole warke Of Bele Isold his wyfe, For whom was moch stryfe; Some say she was lyght, And made her husband knyght Of the comyne[397] hall, That cuckoldes men call; And of syr Lybius, Named Dysconius; 650 Of Quater Fylz Amund,[398] And how they were sommonde To Rome, to Charlemayne, Vpon a great payne, And how they rode eche one On Bayarde Mountalbon; Men se hym now and then[399] In the forest of[400] Arden: What though[401] I can frame The storyes by name 660 Of Judas Machabeus, And of Cesar Julious; And of the loue betwene Paris and Vyene; And of the duke Hannyball,[402] That[403] made the Romaynes all Fordrede and to quake; How Scipion dyd wake The cytye of Cartage, Which by his vnmerciful[404] rage 670 He bete downe to the grounde: And though I can expounde Of Hector of Troye, That was all theyr ioye, Whom Achylles slew, Wherfore all Troy dyd rew; And of the loue so hote That made Troylus to dote Vpon fayre Cressyde, And what they wrote and sayd, 680 And of theyr wanton wylles Pandaer bare the bylles From one to the other; His maisters loue to further, Somtyme a presyous thyng, An ouche, or els a ryng; From her to hym agayn Somtyme a prety chayn, Or a bracelet of her here, Prayd Troylus for to were 690 That token for her sake; How hartely he dyd it take, And moche therof dyd make; And all that was in vayne, For she dyd but fayne; The story telleth playne, He coulde not optayne, Though his father were a kyng, Yet there was a thyng That made the[405] male to wryng; 700 She made hym to syng The song of louers lay; Musyng nyght and day, Mournyng all alone, Comfort had he none, For she was quyte gone; Thus in conclusyon, She brought him in abusyon; In ernest and in game She was moch to blame; 710 Disparaged is her fame, And blemysshed is her name, In maner half with shame; Troylus also hath lost On her moch loue and cost, And now must kys the post; Pandara, that went betwene, Hath won nothing, I wene, But lyght for somer grene; Yet for a speciall laud 720 He is named Troylus baud, Of that name he is sure Whyles the world shall dure: Though I remembre the fable Of Penelope most stable, To her husband most trew, Yet long tyme she ne knew Whether he were on lyue or ded; Her wyt stood her in sted, That she was true and iust 730 For any bodely lust To Ulixes her make, And neuer wold him forsake: Of Marcus Marcellus A proces I could tell vs; And of Anteocus; And of Josephus _De Antiquitatibus_; And of Mardocheus, And of great Assuerus, 740 And of Vesca his queene, Whom he forsoke with teene, And of Hester his other wyfe, With whom he ledd a plesaunt life; Of kyng Alexander; And of kyng Euander; And of Porcena the great, That made the Romayns to sweat:[406] Though I haue enrold A thousand new and old 750 Of these historious tales, To fyll bougets and males With bokes that I haue red, Yet I am nothyng sped, And can but lytell skyll Of Ouyd or Virgyll, Or of Plutharke, Or[407] Frauncys Petrarke, Alcheus or Sapho, Or such other poetes mo, 760 As Linus and Homerus, Euphorion and Theocritus, Anacreon and Arion, Sophocles and Philemon, Pyndarus and Symonides,[408] Philistion[409] and Phorocides; These poetes of auncyente, They ar to diffuse for me: For, as I tofore haue sayd, I am but a yong mayd, 770 And cannot in effect My style as yet direct With Englysh wordes elect:[410] Our naturall tong is rude, And hard to be enneude With pullysshed termes lusty; Our language is so rusty, So cankered, and so full Of frowardes, and so dull, That if I wolde apply 780 To wryte ornatly,[411] I wot not where to fynd Termes to serue my mynde. Gowers Englysh is olde, And of no value told;[412] His mater is worth gold, And worthy to be enrold. In Chauser I am sped, His tales I haue red: His mater is delectable, 790 Solacious, and commendable; His Englysh well alowed, So as it is enprowed, For as it is enployd, There is no Englysh voyd, At those dayes moch commended, And now men wold haue amended His Englysh, whereat they barke, And mar all they warke: Chaucer, that famus clerke, 800 His termes were not darke, But plesaunt, easy, and playne; No[413] worde he wrote in vayne. Also Johnn Lydgate Wryteth after an hyer rate; It is dyffuse to fynde The sentence of his mynde, Yet wryteth he in his kynd, No man that can amend Those maters that he hath pende; 810 Yet some men fynde a faute, And say he wryteth to haute. Wherfore hold me excused If I haue not well perused Myne Englyssh halfe abused; Though it be refused, In worth I shall it take, And fewer wordes make. But, for my sparowes sake, Yet as a woman may, 820 My wyt I shall assay An epytaphe to wryght In Latyne playne and lyght, Wherof the elegy Foloweth by and by: _Flos volucrum[414] formose, vale!_ _Philippe, sub isto_ _Marmore jam recubas,_ _Qui mihi carus eras._ _Semper erunt nitido_ 830 _Radiantia sidera cœlo;_ _Impressusque meo_ _Pectore semper eris._ _Per me laurigerum_ _Britonum Skeltonida vatem_ _Hæc cecinisse licet_ _Ficta sub imagine texta._ _Cujus eras[415] volucris,_ _Præstanti corpore virgo:_ _Candida Nais erat,_ 840 _Formosior ista Joanna est;_ _Docta Corinna fuit,_ _Sed magis ista sapit._ _Bien men souient._