Chapter 3

All noble men,[118]of this take hede,And beleue it as your Crede.To hasty of sentence,To ferce for none offence,To scarce of your expence,To large in neglygence,To slacke in recompence,To haute in excellence,To lyght [in] intellegence,And to lyght in[119]credence;10Where these kepe resydence,Reson is banysshed thence,And also dame Prudence,With sober Sapyence.[120]All noble men, of this take hede,And beleue it as your Crede.Than without collusyon,Marke well this conclusyon,Thorow[121]suche abusyon,And by suche illusyon,20Vnto great confusyonA noble man may fall,And his honour appall;And[122]yf ye thynke this shallNot rubbe you on the gall,Than the deuyll take all!All noble men, of this take hede,And beleue it as your Crede.Hæc vates ille,De quo loquuntur mille.[123]30WHY COME YE NAT TO COURT?For age is a pageFor the courte full vnmete,For age cannat[124]rage,Nor basse her swete swete:But whan age seeth that rageDothe aswage and refrayne,Than wyll age haue a corageTo come to court agayne.ButHelas, sage ouerageSo[125]madly decayes,40That age for dottageIs reconed[126]now adayes:Thus age (a[127]graunt domage)Is nothynge set by,And rage in arerageDothe rynne lamentably.SoThat rage must make pyllage,To catche that catche may,And with suche forageHunte the boskage,50That hartes wyll ronne away;Bothe hartes and hyndes,With all good myndes:Fare well, than, haue good day!Than, haue good daye, adewe!For defaute of rescew,Some men may happely rew,And some[128]theyr hedes mew;The tyme dothe fast ensew,That bales begynne to brew:60I drede, by swete Iesu,This tale wyll be to trew;In faythe, dycken, thou krew,In fayth, dicken, thou krew, &c.Dicken, thou krew doutlesse;For, trewly to expresse,There hath ben[129]moche excesse,With banketynge braynlesse,With ryotynge rechelesse,With gambaudynge thryftlesse,70With spende and wast witlesse,Treatinge of trewse restlesse,Pratynge for peace peaslesse.The[130]countrynge at CalesWrang vs on the males:[131]Chefe counselour was carlesse,Gronynge, grouchyng, gracelesse;And to none ententeOur talwod is all brent,Our fagottes are all spent,80We may blowe at the cole:Our mare hath cast her fole,And Mocke hath lost her sho;What may she do therto?An ende of an olde song,Do ryght and do[132]no wronge,As ryght as a rammes horne;For thrifte is threde bare worne,Our shepe are shrewdly shorne,And trouthe is all to-torne;90Wysdom is laught to skorne,Fauell is false forsworne,Iauell is nobly borne,Hauell and Haruy Hafter,Iack Trauell and Cole Crafter,We shall here more herafter;With pollynge and shauynge,With borowynge and crauynge,[133]With reuynge and rauynge,With swerynge and starynge,100Ther vayleth no resonynge,For wyll dothe rule all thynge,Wyll, wyll, wyll, wyll, wyll,He ruleth alway styll.Good reason and good skyll,They may garlycke pyll,Cary sackes to the myll,Or pescoddes they may shyll,Or elles go rost a stone:There is no man but one110That hathe the strokes alone;Be it blacke or whight,All that he dothe is ryght,As right as a cammocke croked.This byll well ouer loked,Clerely perceuye we mayThere went the hare away,The hare, the fox, the gray,The harte, the hynde, the buck:God sende vs better luck!120God sende vs better lucke, &c.Twit, Andrewe, twit, Scot,[134]Ge heme, ge scour thy pot;For we haue spente our shot:We shall haue atot quotFrom the Pope of Rome,To weue all in one lomeA webbe of lylse wulse,Opus male dulce:The deuyll kysse his[135]cule!130For, whyles he doth rule,All is warse and warse;The deuyll kysse his arse!For whether he blesse or curse,It can not be moche worse.From Baumberow to Bothombar[136]We haue cast vp our war,And made[137]a worthy trewse,With, gup, leuell suse!Our mony madly lent,[138]140And mor madly spent:From Croydon to[139]Kent,Wote ye whyther they went?From Wynchelsey to Rye,And all nat[140]worth a flye;From Wentbridge to Hull;Our armye waxeth dull,With, tourne all home agayne,And neuer a Scot slayne.Yet the good Erle of Surray,150The Frenche men he doth fray,And vexeth them day by dayWith all the power he may;The French men he hath faynted,And made[141]theyr hertes attaynted:Of cheualry he is the floure;Our Lorde be his soccoure!The French men he hathe so mated,And theyr courage abated,That they are but halfe men;160Lyke foxes in theyr denne,Lyke cankerd cowardes all,Lyke vrcheons[142]in a stone wall,They kepe them in theyr holdes,Lyke henherted cokoldes.But yet they ouer shote vsWyth crownes and wyth scutus;With scutis and crownes of goldI drede we are bought and solde;It is a wonders warke:170They shote all at one marke,At the Cardynals hat,They[143]shote all at that;Oute of theyr stronge townesThey shote at him with crownes;With crownes of golde enblasedThey make him so amased,And his eyen so dased,That he ne se canTo know God nor man.180He is set so hyeIn his ierarchyOf frantycke frenesyAnd folysshe fantasy,That in the Chambre of Starres[144]All maters there he marres;Clappyng his rod on the borde,No man dare speke a worde,For he hathe all the sayenge,Without any renayenge;190He rolleth in his recordes,He sayth, How saye ye, my lordes?Is nat[145]my reason good?Good euyn, good Robyn Hood![146]Some say yes, and someSyt styll as they were dom:Thus thwartyng ouer thom,He ruleth all the rosteWith braggynge and with bost;Borne vp on euery syde200With pompe and with pryde,With, trompe vp, alleluya!For dame Philargerya[147]Hathe so his herte in holde,He loueth nothyng but golde;And Asmodeus of hellMaketh his membres swellWith Dalyda to mell,That wanton damosell.[148]Adew, Philosophia,210Adew, Theologia!Welcome, dame Simonia,With dame Castrimergia,To drynke and for to eateSwete ypocras[149]and swete meate!To kepe his flesshe chast,In Lent for a repastHe eateth capons[150]stewed,Fesaunt and partriche mewed,Hennes, checkynges, and pygges;220He foynes and he frygges,Spareth neither mayde ne wyfe:This is a postels lyfe!Helas! my herte is soryTo tell of vayne glory:But now vpon this storyI wyll no further rymeTyll another tyme,Tyll another tyme, &c.[151]What newes, what newes?[152]230Small newes the[153]true is,That be worth ii. kues;But at the naked stewes,I vnderstande how thatThe sygne of the Cardynall Hat,That inne is now shyt vp,With, gup, hore, gup, now gup,Gup, Guilliam[154]Trauillian,With, iast you, I say, Jullian!Wyll ye bere no coles?240A mayny of marefoles,That occupy theyr holys,Full of pocky molys.What here ye of Lancashyre?They were nat[155]payde their hyre;They are fel as any fyre.What here ye of Chesshyre?They haue layde all in the myre;They grugyd,[156]and saydeTheyr wages were nat[157]payde;250Some sayde they were afraydeOf the Scottysshe hoste,[158]For all theyr crack[159]and bost,Wylde fyre and thonder;For all this worldly wonder,A hundred myle asonderThey were whan they[160]were next;That is a trew text.What here ye of the Scottes?They make vs all sottes,260Poppynge folysshe dawes;They make vs to pyll strawes;They play their olde pranckes,After Huntley bankes:At the streme of Banockes burneThey dyd vs a shrewde turne,Whan Edwarde of KarnaruanLost all that[161]his father wan.What here ye of the Lorde Dakers?He maketh vs Jacke Rakers;270He sayes we ar but crakers;He calleth vs England menStronge herted lyke an hen;For the Scottes and heTo well they do agre,With, do thou for me,And I shall do for thé.Whyles the red hat doth endure,He maketh himselfe cock sure;The red hat with his lure280Bryngeth all thynges vnder cure.But, as the worlde now gose,What here ye of the Lorde Rose?Nothynge to purpose,Nat[162]worth a cockly fose:Their hertes be in thyr hose.The Erle of NorthumberlandeDare take nothynge on hande:Our barons be so bolde,Into a mouse hole they wolde290Rynne[163]away and crepe,Lyke a mayny of shepe;Dare nat[164]loke out at dur[165]For drede of the mastyue cur,For drede of the bochers doggeWold wyrry them lyke an hogge.For and this curre do gnar,They must stande all a far,To holde vp their hande at the bar.For all their noble blode300He pluckes them by the hode,And shakes them by the eare,And brynge[s] them in suche feare;He bayteth them lyke a bere,Lyke an oxe or a bull:Theyr wyttes, he saith, are dull;He sayth they haue no brayneTheyr astate to mayntayne;And maketh them to[166]bow theyr kneBefore his maieste.310Juges of the kynges lawes,He countys them foles and dawes;Sergyantes of the coyfe eke,He sayth they are to sekeIn pletynge of theyr caseAt the Commune Place,Or at the Kynges Benche;He wryngeth them suche a wrenche,That all our lerned menDare nat[167]set theyr penne320To plete a trew tryallWithin Westmynster hall;In the Chauncery where he syttes,But suche as he admyttesNone so hardy to speke;He sayth, thou huddypeke,Thy lernynge is to lewde,Thy tonge is nat[168]well thewde,To seke before our grace;And openly in that place330He rages and he raues,And cals them cankerd knaues:Thus royally he dothe dealeVnder the kynges brode seale;And in the Checker he them cheks;In the Ster Chambre he noddis and beks,And bereth him there so stowte,That no man dare rowte,Duke, erle, baron, nor lorde,But to his sentence must accorde;340Whether he be knyght or squyre,All men must[169]folow his desyre.What say ye of the Scottysh kynge?That is another thyng.He is but an yonglyng,A stalworthy[170]stryplyng:There[171]is a whyspring and a whipling,He shulde be hyder[172]brought;But, and it were well sought,I trow all wyll be nought,350Nat[173]worth a shyttel cocke,Nor worth a sowre calstocke.There goth many a lyeOf the Duke of Albany,That of shulde go his hede,And brought in quycke or dede,And all Scotlande owersThe mountenaunce of two houres.But, as some men sayne,I drede of some false trayne360Subtelly wrought shall beVnder a fayned treatee;But within monethes threMen may happely seThe trechery and the prankesOf the Scottysshe bankes.What here ye of Burgonyons,And the Spainyardes onyons?They haue slain our EnglisshmenAboue threscore and ten:370For all your amyte,No better they agre.God saue my lorde admyrell!What here ye of Mutrell?There with I dare nat[174]mell.Yet what here ye tellOf our graunde counsell?I coulde say some what,But speke ye no more of that,For drede of the red hat380Take peper in the nose;For than thyne heed of gose,Of by the harde arse.But there is some trauarseBytwene some and some,That makys our syre to glum;It is some what wronge,That his berde is so longe;He morneth in blacke clothynge.I pray God saue the kynge!390Where euer he go or ryde,I pray God be his gyde!Thus wyll I conclude my style,And fall to rest a whyle,And so to rest a whyle, &c.Ones[175]yet agayneOf you I wolde frayne,Why come ye nat[176]to court?—To whyche court?To the kynges courte,400Or to Hampton Court?—Nay, to the kynges court:The kynges courteShulde haue the excellence;But Hampton CourtHath the preemynence,And Yorkes Place,With my lordes grace,To whose magnifycenceIs all the conflewence,410Sutys and supplycacyons,Embassades of all nacyons.Strawe for lawe canon,[177]Or for the lawe common,Or for lawe cyuyll!It shall be as he wyll:Stop at law tancrete,An obstract or a concrete;Be it soure, be it swete,His wysdome is so dyscrete,420That in a fume or an hete,Wardeyn of the Flete,Set hym fast by the fete!And of his royall powreWhan him lyst to lowre,Than, haue him to the Towre,Saunz aulterremedy,Haue hym forthe by and byTo the Marshalsy,Or to the Kynges Benche!430He dyggeth so in the trencheOf the court royall,That he ruleth them all.So he dothe vndermynde,And suche sleyghtes dothe fynde,That the kynges myndeBy hym is subuerted,And so streatly coartedIn credensynge his tales,That all is but nutshales440That any other sayth;He hath in him suche fayth.Now, yet all this myght beSuffred and taken in gre,If that that he wroughtTo any good ende were brought;But all he bringeth to nought,By[178]God, that me dere bought!He bereth the kyng[179]on hand,That he must pyll his lande,450To make his cofers ryche;But he laythe all in the dyche,And vseth suche abusyoun,That in the conclusyounAll commeth to confusyon.Perceyue the cause why,To tell the trouth playnly,He is so ambicyous,So shamles, and[180]so vicyous,And so supersticyous,460And so moche obliuyousFrom whens that he came,That he falleth into[181]acæciam,[182]Whiche, truly to expresse,Is a forgetfulnesse,Or wylfull blyndnesse,Wherwith the SodomitesLost theyr inward syghtes,The Gommoryans alsoWere brought to deedly wo,470As Scrypture recordis:A cæcitate cordis,In the Latyne synge we,Libera nos, Domine!But this madde Amalecke,Lyke to a Mamelek,[183]He regardeth lordesNo more than potshordes;He is in suche elacyonOf his exaltacyon,480And the supportacyonOf our souerayne lorde,That, God to recorde,He ruleth all at wyll,Without reason or skyll:How be it the[184]primordyallOf his wretched originall,And his base progeny,And his gresy genealogy,He came of the sank royall,490That was cast out of a bochers stall.But how euer he was borne,Men wolde haue the lesse scorne,If he coulde consyderHis byrth and rowme togeder,[185]And call to his myndeHow noble and how kyndeTo him he hathe foundeOur souereyne lorde, chyfe groundeOf all this prelacy,500And set hym noblyIn great auctoryte,Out from a low degre,Whiche he can nat[186]se:For he was pardeNo doctor of deuinyte,Nor doctor of the law,Nor of none other saw;But a poore maister of arte,God wot, had lytell parte510Of the quatriuials,Nor yet of triuials,Nor of philosophy,Nor of philology,Nor of good pollycy,Nor of astronomy,Nor acquaynted worth a flyWith honorable Haly,Nor with royall Ptholomy,Nor with Albumasar,520To treate of any starFyxt or els mobyll;His Latyne tonge dothe hobbyll,He doth but cloute and cobbillIn Tullis faculte,Called humanyte;Yet proudly he dare pretendeHow no man can him amende:But haue ye nat[187]harde this,How an one eyed man is530Well syghted whenHe is amonge blynde men?Than, our processe for to stable,This man was full vnableTo reche to suche degre,Had nat[188]our prynce beRoyall Henry the eyght,Take him in suche conceyght,That he set him on heyght,In exemplyfyenge540Great Alexander the kynge,In writynge as we fynde;Whiche of his royall mynde,And of his noble pleasure,Transcendynge out of mesure,Thought to do a thyngeThat perteyneth to a kynge,To make vp one of nought,And made to him be broughtA wretched poore man,550Whiche his lyuenge wanWith plantyng of lekesBy the dayes and by the wekes,And of this poore vassallHe made a kynge royall,And gaue him a realme to rule,That occupyed a showell,A mattoke, and a spade,Before that he was madeA kynge, as I haue tolde,560And ruled as he wolde.Suche is a kynges power,To make within an hower,And worke suche a myracle,That shall be a spectacleOf renowme and worldly fame:In lykewyse now the sameCardynall is promoted,Yet with lewde condicyons cotyd,[189]As herafter ben notyd,570Presumcyon and vayne glory,Enuy, wrath, and lechery,Couetys and glotony,Slouthfull to do good,Now frantick, now starke wode.Shulde this man of suche modeRule the swerde of myght,How can he do ryght?For he wyll as sone smyghtHis frende as his fo;580A prouerbe longe ago.Set vp a wretche on hyeIn a trone triumphantlye,Make him a great astate,And he wyll play checke mateWith ryall[190]maieste,Counte him selfe as good as he;A prelate potencyall,To rule vnder Bellyall,As ferce and as cruell590As the fynd of hell.His seruauntes menyallHe dothe reuyle, and brall,Lyke Mahounde in a play;No man dare him withsay:He hath dispyght and scorneAt them that be well borne;He rebukes them and rayles,Ye horsons, ye vassayles,Ye knaues, ye churles sonnys,600Ye rebads, nat[191]worth two plummis,Ye raynbetyn beggers reiagged,Ye recrayed ruffyns all ragged!With, stowpe, thou hauell,Rynne, thou iauell!Thou peuysshe pye pecked,Thou losell longe necked!Thus dayly they be decked,Taunted and checked,That they ar so wo,610They wot not whether to go.No man dare come to the specheOf this gentell Iacke breche,Of what estate he be,Of spirituall dygnyte,Nor duke of hye degre,Nor marques, erle, nor lorde;Whiche shrewdly doth accorde,Thus he borne so baseAll noble men shulde out face,620His countynaunce lyke a kayser.My lorde is nat[192]at layser;Syr, ye must tary a stounde,Tyll better layser be founde;And, syr, ye must daunce attendaunce,And take pacient sufferaunce,For my lordes graceHath nowe no tyme nor spaceTo speke with you as yet.And thus they shall syt,630Chuse them syt or flyt,Stande, walke, or ryde,And his layser abydeParchaunce halfe a yere,And yet neuer the nere.This daungerous dowsypere,Lyke a kynges pere;And within this xvi. yereHe wolde haue ben ryght fayneTo haue ben a chapleyne,640And haue taken ryght gret payneWith a poore knyght,What soeuer he hyght.The chefe of his owne counsell,They can nat[193]well tellWhan they with hym shulde mell,He is so fyers and fell;He rayles and he ratis,He calleth them doddypatis;He grynnes and he gapis,650As it were iack napis.Suche a madde bedlemeFor to rewle this reame,[194]It is a wonders[195]case:That the kynges graceIs toward him so mynded,And so farre blynded,That he can nat[196]parceyueHow he doth hym disceyue,I dought, lest by sorsery,660Or suche other loselry,As wychecraft, or charmyng;For he is the kynges derlyng,And his swete hart rote,And is gouerned by this mad kote:For what is a man the betterFor the kynges letter?For he wyll tere it asonder;Wherat moche I wonder,How suche a hoddypoule670So boldely dare controule,And so malapertly withstandeThe kynges owne hande,And settys nat[197]by it a myte;He sayth the kynge doth wryteAnd writeth he wottith nat[198]what;And yet for all that,The kynge his clemencyDespensyth with his demensy.But what his grace doth thinke,680I haue no pen nor inkeThat therwith can mell;But wele I can tellHow Frauncis Petrarke,That moche noble clerke,Wryteth how CharlemaynCoude nat[199]him selfe refrayne,But was rauysht with a rageOf a lyke dotage:But how that came aboute,690Rede ye the story oute,And ye shall fynde surelyIt was by nycromansy,By carectes and coniuracyon,Vnder a certeyne constellacion,And a certayne fumygacion,Vnder a stone on a golde ryng,Wrought to Charlemayn the king,Whiche constrayned him forceblyFor to loue a certayne body700Aboue all other inordinatly.This is no fable nor no lye;At Acon it was brought to pas,As by myne auctor tried it was.But let mi masters mathematicalTell you the rest, for me they shal;They haue the full intellygence,And dare vse the experyens,In there obsolute consciensTo practyue[200]suche abolete sciens;710For I abhore to smatterOf one so deuyllysshe a matter.But I wyll make further relacionOf this isagogicall colation,How maister Gaguine, the crownyclerOf the feytis of warThat were done in Fraunce,Maketh remembraunce,How Kynge Lewes of lateMade vp a great astate720Of a poore wretchid man,Wherof moche care began.Iohannes Balua was his name,Myne auctor writeth the same;Promoted was heTo a cardynalles dygnyteBy Lewes the kyng aforesayd,With hym so wele apayd,That he made him his chauncelarTo make all or to mar,730And to rule as him lyst,Tyll he cheked at the fyst,And agayne all reasonCommyted open traysonAnd[201]against his lorde souerayn;Wherfore he suffred payn,Was hedyd, drawen, and quarterd,And dyed stynkingly marterd.Lo, yet for all thatHe ware a cardynals hat,740In hym was small fayth,As myne auctor sayth:Nat[202]for that I meneSuche a casuelte shulde be sene,Or suche chaunce shulde fallVnto our cardynall.Allmyghty God, I trust,Hath for him dyscustThat of force he mustBe faythfull, trew, and iust750To our most royall kynge,Chefe rote of his makynge;Yet it is a wyly mouseThat can bylde his dwellinge houseWithin the cattes eare[203]Withouten drede or feare.It is a nyce reconynge,To put all the gouernynge,All the rule of this landeInto one mannys hande:760One wyse mannys hedeMay stande somwhat in stede;But the wyttys of many wyseMoche better can deuyse,By theyr cyrcumspection,And theyr sad dyrrection,To cause the commune wealeLonge to endure in heale.Christ kepe King Henry the eyghtFrom trechery and dysceyght,770And graunt him grace to knowThe faucon from the crow,The wolfe from the lam,From whens that mastyfe cam!Let him neuer confoundeThe gentyll greyhownde:Of this matter the growndeIs easy to expounde,And soone may be perceyued,[204]How the worlde is conueyed.780But harke, my frende, one wordeIn ernest or in borde:Tell me nowe in this stedeIs maister Mewtas dede,The kynges Frenshe secretary,And his vntrew aduersary?For he sent in writyngeTo Fraunces the French kyngOf our maisters counsel in eueri thing:That was a peryllous rekenyng!—790Nay, nay, he is nat[205]dede;But he was so payned in the hede,That he shall neuer ete more bred.Now he is gone to another stede,With a bull vnder lead,By way of commissyon,To a straunge iurisdictyon,Called Dymingis Dale,Farre byyonde Portyngale,And bathe his pasport to pas800Ultra Sauromatas,To the deuyll, syr Sathanas,To Pluto, and syr Bellyall,The deuyls vycare generall,And to his college conuentuall,As well calodemonyallAs to cacodemonyall,[206]To puruey for our cardynallA palace pontifycall,To kepe his court prouyncyall,810Vpon artycles iudicyall,To contende and to stryueFor his prerogatyue,Within that consystoryTo make sommons peremtoryBefore some prothonotory[207]Imperyall or papall.Vpon this matter mistycallI haue tolde you part, but nat[208]all:Herafter perchaunce I shall820Make a larger[209]memoryall,And a further rehersall,And more paper I thinke to blot,To the court why I cam not;Desyring you aboue all thyngeTo kepe you from laughyngeWhan ye fall to redyngeOf this wanton scrowle,And pray for Mewtas sowle,For he is well past and gone;830That wolde God euerychoneOf his affynyteWere gone as well as he!Amen, amen, say ye,Of your inward charyte;Amen,Of your inward charyte.It were great rewth,For wrytynge of trewthAny man shulde be840In perplexyteOf dyspleasure;For I make you sure,Where trouth is abhorde,It is a playne recordeThat there wantys grace;In whose placeDothe occupy,Full vngracyously,Fals flatery,850Fals trechery,[210]Fals brybery,Subtyle Sym Sly,With madde foly;For who can best lye,He is best set by.Than farewell to thé,Welthfull felycite!For prosperyteAway than wyll fle.860Than must we agreWith pouerte;For mysery,With penury,MyserablyAnd wretchydlyHath made askryeAnd outcry,Folowynge the chaseTo dryue away grace.870Yet sayst thou percase,We can lacke no grace,For my lordes grace,And my ladies grace,With trey duse ase,And ase in the face,Some haute and some base,Some daunce the traceEuer in one case:Marke me that chase880In the tennys play,For synke quater treyIs a tall man:He rod, but we ran,Hay, the gye and the gan!The gray gose is no swan;The waters wax wan,And beggers they ban,And they cursed Datan,De tribu Dan,890That this warke[211]began,Palam et clam,With Balak and Balam,The golden ramOf Flemmyng dam,Sem, Iapheth, or Cam.But howe comme to pas,Your cupbord that wasIs tourned to glasse,From syluer to brasse,900From golde to pewter,Or els to a newter,To copper, to tyn,To lede, or alcumyn?A goldsmyth your mayre;But the chefe of your fayreMyght stande nowe by potters,And suche as sell trotters:Pytchars,[212]potshordis,This shrewdly accordis910To be a cupborde[213]for lordys.My lorde now and syr knyght,Good euyn and good nyght!For now, syr Trestram,Ye must weare bukram,Or canues of Cane,For sylkes are wane.Our royals that shone,Our nobles are goneAmonge the Burgonyons,920And Spanyardes onyons,And the Flanderkyns.Gyll swetis, and Cate spynnys,They are happy that wynnys;But Englande may well say,Fye on this wynnyng all way!Now nothynge but pay, pay,With, laughe and lay downe,Borowgh, cyte, and towne.Good Sprynge of Lanam930Must counte what becameOf his clothe makynge:He is at suche takynge,Though his purse wax dull,He must tax for his wullBy nature of a newe writ;My lordys grace nameth itAquia non satisfacit:In the spyght of his tetheHe must pay agayne940A thousande or twayneOf his golde in store;And yet he payde beforeAn[214]hunderd pounde and more,Whiche pyncheth him sore.My lordis grace wyll bryugeDowne this hye sprynge,And brynge it so lowe,It shall nat[215]euer flowe.Suche a prelate, I trowe,950Were worthy to roweThorow the streytes of[216]MarockTo the gybbet of Baldock:He wolde dry vp the stremysOf ix. kinges realmys,[217]All ryuers and wellys,All waters that swellys;For with vs he so mellysThat within Englande dwellys,I wolde he were somwhere ellys;960For els by and byHe wyll drynke vs so drye,And suck vs so nye,That men shall scantlyHaue peny or halpeny.God saue his noble grace,And graunt him a placeEndlesse to dwellWith the deuyll of hell!For, and he were there,970We nede neuer feereOf the fendys blake:For I vndertakeHe wolde so brag and crake,That he wolde than makeThe deuyls to quake,To shudder and to shake,Lyke a fyer drake,And with a cole rakeBrose[218]them on a brake,980And bynde them to a stake,And set hell on fyer,At his owne desyer.He is suche a grym syer,And suche a potestolate,And suche a potestate,That he wolde breke the braynesOf Lucyfer[219]in his chaynes,And rule them echoneIn Lucyfers trone.990I wolde he were gone;For amonge vs is noneThat ruleth but he alone,Without all good reason,And all out of season:For Folam peasonWith him be nat[220]geson;They growwe very rankeVpon euery bankeOf his herbers grene,1000With my lady bryght and shene;On theyr game it is seneThey play nat[221]all clene,And it be as I wene.But as touchynge dyscrecyon,[222]With sober dyrectyon,He kepeth them in subiectyon:They can haue no protectyonTo rule nor to guyde,But all must be tryde,1010And abyde the correctyonOf his[223]wylfull affectyon.For as for wytte,The deuyll spede whitte!But braynsyk and braynlesse,Wytles and rechelesse,Careles and shamlesse,Thriftles and gracelesse,Together are bended,And so condyscended,1020That the commune welthShall neuer haue good helth,But tatterd and tuggyd,Raggyd and ruggyd,Shauyn and shorne,And all threde bare worne.Suche gredynesse,Suche nedynesse,Myserablenesse,With wretchydnesse,1030Hath brought in dystresseAnd moche heuynesseAnd great dolowreEnglande, the flowreOf relucent honowre,In olde commemoracionMost royall Englyssh nacion.Now all is out of facion,Almost in desolation;I speke by protestacion:1040God of his miseracyonSend better reformacyon!Lo, for to do shamfullyHe iugeth it no foly!But to wryte of his shame,He sayth we ar to blame.What a frensy is this,No shame to do amys,And yet he is ashamedTo be shamfully named![224]1050And ofte prechours be blamed,Bycause they haue proclamedHis madnesse by writynge,His symplenesse resytynge,Remordynge and bytynge,With chydyng and with flytynge,[225]Shewynge him Goddis lawis:He calleth the prechours dawis,And of holy scriptures sawisHe counteth them for gygawis,1060And putteth them to sylenceAnd[226]with wordis of vyolence,Lyke Pharao, voyde of grace,Dyd Moyses sore manase,And Aron sore he thret,The worde of God to let;This maumet in lyke wyseAgainst the churche doth ryse;The prechour he dothe dyspyse,With crakynge in suche wyse,1070So braggynge all with bost,That no prechour almostDare speke for his lyfeOf my lordis grace nor his wyfe,For he hath suche a bull,He may take whom he wull,And as many as him lykys;May ete pigges in Lent for pikys,After the sectes of heretykis,For in Lent he wyll ete1080All maner of flesshe meteThat he can ony[227]where gete;With other abusyons grete,Wherof for[228]to treteIt wolde make the deuyll to swete,For all priuileged placesHe brekes and defaces,All placis of relygionHe bathe them in derisyon,And makith suche prouisyon1090To dryue them at diuisyon,And fynally in conclusyonTo bringe them to confusyon;Saint Albons to recordeWherof this vngracyous lordeHathe made him selfe abbot,Against their wylles, God wot.All this he dothe dealeVnder strength of the great seale,And by his legacy,1100Whiche madly he dothe applyVnto an extrauagancyPyked out of[229]all good lawe,With reasons that ben rawe.Yet, whan he toke first his hat,He said he knew what was what;All iustyce he pretended,All thynges sholde be amended,All wronges he wolde redresse,All iniuris he wolde represse,1110All periuris he wolde oppresse;And yet this gracelesse elfe,He is periured himselfe,As playnly it dothe appere,Who lyst to enquereIn the regestryOf my Lorde of Cantorbury,To whom he was professedIn thre poyntes expressed;The fyrst to do him reuerence,1120The seconde to owe hym obedyence,[230]The thirde with hole affectyonTo be vnder his subiectyon:But now he maketh obiectyon,Vnder the protectyonOf the kynges great seale,That he setteth neuer a dealeBy his former othe,Whether God be pleased or wroth.He makith so proude pretens,1130That in his equipolensHe iugyth him equiualentWith God omnipotent:But yet beware the rod,And the stroke of God!The Apostyll PeterHad a pore myterAnd a poore copeWhan he was creat Pope,First in Antioche;1140He dyd neuer approcheOf Rome to the seeWeth suche dygnyte.Saynt Dunstane, what was he?Nothynge, he sayth, lyke to me:[231]There is a dyuersyteBytwene him and me;We passe hym in degre,Aslegatus a latere.Ecce, sacerdos magnus,1150That wyll hed vs and hange vs,And streitly strangle vsAnd[232]he may fange vs!Decre and decretall,Constytucyon prouincyall,Nor no lawe canonicall,Shall let the preest pontyficallTo sytin causa sanguinis.Nowe God amende that is amys!For I suppose that he is1160Of Ieremy the whyskynge rod,The flayle, the scourge of almighty God.This Naman Sirus,So fell and so irons,So full of malencoly,With a flap afore[233]his eye,Men wene that he is pocky,Or els his surgions they lye,For, as far as they[234]can spyBy the craft of surgery,1170It ismanus Domini.And yet this proude Antiochus,He is so ambicious,So elate, and so vicious,And so cruell hertyd,That he wyll nat[235]be conuertyd;For he setteth God apart,He is nowe so ouerthwart,And so payned with pangis,That all his trust hangis1180In Balthasor, whiche heledDomingos nose that was wheled;That Lumberdes nose meane I,That standeth yet awrye;It was nat[236]heled alderbest,It standeth somwhat on the west;I meane Domyngo Lomelyn,That was wont to wynMoche money of the kyngeAt the cardys and haserdynge:1190Balthasor, that helyd Domingos nose[237]From the puskylde pocky pose,[238]Now with his gummys of ArabyHath promised to hele our cardinals eye;Yet sum surgions put a dout,Lest he wyll put[239]it clene out,And make him lame of his neder limmes:God sende him sorowe for his sinnes!Some men myght aske a question,By whose suggestyon1200I toke on hand this warke,Thus boldly for to barke?And men lyst to harke,And my wordes marke,I wyll answere lyke a clerke;For trewly and vnfayned,I am forcebly constrayned,At Iuuynals request,To wryght of this glorious gest,Of this vayne gloryous best,1210His fame to be encrestAt euery solempne feest;Quia difficile estSatiram non scribere.Now, mayster doctor, howe say ye,What soeuer your name be?What though ye be namelesse,Ye shall nat[240]escape blamelesse,Nor yet shall scape shamlesse:Mayster doctor in your degre,1220Yourselfe madly ye ouerse;Blame Iuuinall, and blame nat[241]me:Maister doctor Diricum,Omne animi vitium, &c.As Iuuinall dothe recorde,A small defaute in a great lorde,A lytell cryme in a great astate,Is moche more inordinate,And more horyble to beholde,Than any other a thousand folde.1230Ye put to blame ye wot nere whom;Ye may weare a cockes come;Your fonde hed in your furred hood,[242]Holde ye your tong, ye can no goode:And at more conuenyent tymeI may fortune for to rymeSomwhat of your madnesse;For small is your sadnesseTo put any man in lack,And say yll behynde his back:1240And my wordes marke truly,That ye can nat[243]byde thereby,Forsmegma non est cinnamomum,Butde absentibus nil nisi bonum.Complayne, or do what ye wyll,Of your complaynt it shall nat[244]skyl:This is the tenor of my byl,A daucock ye be, and so shalbe styll.

All noble men,[118]of this take hede,And beleue it as your Crede.

All noble men,[118]of this take hede,

And beleue it as your Crede.

To hasty of sentence,To ferce for none offence,To scarce of your expence,To large in neglygence,To slacke in recompence,To haute in excellence,To lyght [in] intellegence,And to lyght in[119]credence;10Where these kepe resydence,Reson is banysshed thence,And also dame Prudence,With sober Sapyence.[120]All noble men, of this take hede,And beleue it as your Crede.

To hasty of sentence,

To ferce for none offence,

To scarce of your expence,

To large in neglygence,

To slacke in recompence,

To haute in excellence,

To lyght [in] intellegence,

And to lyght in[119]credence;10

Where these kepe resydence,

Reson is banysshed thence,

And also dame Prudence,

With sober Sapyence.[120]

All noble men, of this take hede,

And beleue it as your Crede.

Than without collusyon,Marke well this conclusyon,Thorow[121]suche abusyon,And by suche illusyon,20Vnto great confusyonA noble man may fall,And his honour appall;And[122]yf ye thynke this shallNot rubbe you on the gall,Than the deuyll take all!All noble men, of this take hede,And beleue it as your Crede.

Than without collusyon,

Marke well this conclusyon,

Thorow[121]suche abusyon,

And by suche illusyon,20

Vnto great confusyon

A noble man may fall,

And his honour appall;

And[122]yf ye thynke this shall

Not rubbe you on the gall,

Than the deuyll take all!

All noble men, of this take hede,

And beleue it as your Crede.

Hæc vates ille,De quo loquuntur mille.[123]30

Hæc vates ille,

De quo loquuntur mille.[123]30

WHY COME YE NAT TO COURT?

For age is a pageFor the courte full vnmete,For age cannat[124]rage,Nor basse her swete swete:But whan age seeth that rageDothe aswage and refrayne,Than wyll age haue a corageTo come to court agayne.ButHelas, sage ouerageSo[125]madly decayes,40That age for dottageIs reconed[126]now adayes:Thus age (a[127]graunt domage)Is nothynge set by,And rage in arerageDothe rynne lamentably.SoThat rage must make pyllage,To catche that catche may,And with suche forageHunte the boskage,50That hartes wyll ronne away;Bothe hartes and hyndes,With all good myndes:Fare well, than, haue good day!Than, haue good daye, adewe!For defaute of rescew,Some men may happely rew,And some[128]theyr hedes mew;The tyme dothe fast ensew,That bales begynne to brew:60I drede, by swete Iesu,This tale wyll be to trew;In faythe, dycken, thou krew,In fayth, dicken, thou krew, &c.Dicken, thou krew doutlesse;For, trewly to expresse,There hath ben[129]moche excesse,With banketynge braynlesse,With ryotynge rechelesse,With gambaudynge thryftlesse,70With spende and wast witlesse,Treatinge of trewse restlesse,Pratynge for peace peaslesse.The[130]countrynge at CalesWrang vs on the males:[131]Chefe counselour was carlesse,Gronynge, grouchyng, gracelesse;And to none ententeOur talwod is all brent,Our fagottes are all spent,80We may blowe at the cole:Our mare hath cast her fole,And Mocke hath lost her sho;What may she do therto?An ende of an olde song,Do ryght and do[132]no wronge,As ryght as a rammes horne;For thrifte is threde bare worne,Our shepe are shrewdly shorne,And trouthe is all to-torne;90Wysdom is laught to skorne,Fauell is false forsworne,Iauell is nobly borne,Hauell and Haruy Hafter,Iack Trauell and Cole Crafter,We shall here more herafter;With pollynge and shauynge,With borowynge and crauynge,[133]With reuynge and rauynge,With swerynge and starynge,100Ther vayleth no resonynge,For wyll dothe rule all thynge,Wyll, wyll, wyll, wyll, wyll,He ruleth alway styll.Good reason and good skyll,They may garlycke pyll,Cary sackes to the myll,Or pescoddes they may shyll,Or elles go rost a stone:There is no man but one110That hathe the strokes alone;Be it blacke or whight,All that he dothe is ryght,As right as a cammocke croked.This byll well ouer loked,Clerely perceuye we mayThere went the hare away,The hare, the fox, the gray,The harte, the hynde, the buck:God sende vs better luck!120God sende vs better lucke, &c.Twit, Andrewe, twit, Scot,[134]Ge heme, ge scour thy pot;For we haue spente our shot:We shall haue atot quotFrom the Pope of Rome,To weue all in one lomeA webbe of lylse wulse,Opus male dulce:The deuyll kysse his[135]cule!130For, whyles he doth rule,All is warse and warse;The deuyll kysse his arse!For whether he blesse or curse,It can not be moche worse.From Baumberow to Bothombar[136]We haue cast vp our war,And made[137]a worthy trewse,With, gup, leuell suse!Our mony madly lent,[138]140And mor madly spent:From Croydon to[139]Kent,Wote ye whyther they went?From Wynchelsey to Rye,And all nat[140]worth a flye;From Wentbridge to Hull;Our armye waxeth dull,With, tourne all home agayne,And neuer a Scot slayne.Yet the good Erle of Surray,150The Frenche men he doth fray,And vexeth them day by dayWith all the power he may;The French men he hath faynted,And made[141]theyr hertes attaynted:Of cheualry he is the floure;Our Lorde be his soccoure!The French men he hathe so mated,And theyr courage abated,That they are but halfe men;160Lyke foxes in theyr denne,Lyke cankerd cowardes all,Lyke vrcheons[142]in a stone wall,They kepe them in theyr holdes,Lyke henherted cokoldes.But yet they ouer shote vsWyth crownes and wyth scutus;With scutis and crownes of goldI drede we are bought and solde;It is a wonders warke:170They shote all at one marke,At the Cardynals hat,They[143]shote all at that;Oute of theyr stronge townesThey shote at him with crownes;With crownes of golde enblasedThey make him so amased,And his eyen so dased,That he ne se canTo know God nor man.180He is set so hyeIn his ierarchyOf frantycke frenesyAnd folysshe fantasy,That in the Chambre of Starres[144]All maters there he marres;Clappyng his rod on the borde,No man dare speke a worde,For he hathe all the sayenge,Without any renayenge;190He rolleth in his recordes,He sayth, How saye ye, my lordes?Is nat[145]my reason good?Good euyn, good Robyn Hood![146]Some say yes, and someSyt styll as they were dom:Thus thwartyng ouer thom,He ruleth all the rosteWith braggynge and with bost;Borne vp on euery syde200With pompe and with pryde,With, trompe vp, alleluya!For dame Philargerya[147]Hathe so his herte in holde,He loueth nothyng but golde;And Asmodeus of hellMaketh his membres swellWith Dalyda to mell,That wanton damosell.[148]Adew, Philosophia,210Adew, Theologia!Welcome, dame Simonia,With dame Castrimergia,To drynke and for to eateSwete ypocras[149]and swete meate!To kepe his flesshe chast,In Lent for a repastHe eateth capons[150]stewed,Fesaunt and partriche mewed,Hennes, checkynges, and pygges;220He foynes and he frygges,Spareth neither mayde ne wyfe:This is a postels lyfe!Helas! my herte is soryTo tell of vayne glory:But now vpon this storyI wyll no further rymeTyll another tyme,Tyll another tyme, &c.[151]What newes, what newes?[152]230Small newes the[153]true is,That be worth ii. kues;But at the naked stewes,I vnderstande how thatThe sygne of the Cardynall Hat,That inne is now shyt vp,With, gup, hore, gup, now gup,Gup, Guilliam[154]Trauillian,With, iast you, I say, Jullian!Wyll ye bere no coles?240A mayny of marefoles,That occupy theyr holys,Full of pocky molys.What here ye of Lancashyre?They were nat[155]payde their hyre;They are fel as any fyre.What here ye of Chesshyre?They haue layde all in the myre;They grugyd,[156]and saydeTheyr wages were nat[157]payde;250Some sayde they were afraydeOf the Scottysshe hoste,[158]For all theyr crack[159]and bost,Wylde fyre and thonder;For all this worldly wonder,A hundred myle asonderThey were whan they[160]were next;That is a trew text.What here ye of the Scottes?They make vs all sottes,260Poppynge folysshe dawes;They make vs to pyll strawes;They play their olde pranckes,After Huntley bankes:At the streme of Banockes burneThey dyd vs a shrewde turne,Whan Edwarde of KarnaruanLost all that[161]his father wan.What here ye of the Lorde Dakers?He maketh vs Jacke Rakers;270He sayes we ar but crakers;He calleth vs England menStronge herted lyke an hen;For the Scottes and heTo well they do agre,With, do thou for me,And I shall do for thé.Whyles the red hat doth endure,He maketh himselfe cock sure;The red hat with his lure280Bryngeth all thynges vnder cure.But, as the worlde now gose,What here ye of the Lorde Rose?Nothynge to purpose,Nat[162]worth a cockly fose:Their hertes be in thyr hose.The Erle of NorthumberlandeDare take nothynge on hande:Our barons be so bolde,Into a mouse hole they wolde290Rynne[163]away and crepe,Lyke a mayny of shepe;Dare nat[164]loke out at dur[165]For drede of the mastyue cur,For drede of the bochers doggeWold wyrry them lyke an hogge.For and this curre do gnar,They must stande all a far,To holde vp their hande at the bar.For all their noble blode300He pluckes them by the hode,And shakes them by the eare,And brynge[s] them in suche feare;He bayteth them lyke a bere,Lyke an oxe or a bull:Theyr wyttes, he saith, are dull;He sayth they haue no brayneTheyr astate to mayntayne;And maketh them to[166]bow theyr kneBefore his maieste.310Juges of the kynges lawes,He countys them foles and dawes;Sergyantes of the coyfe eke,He sayth they are to sekeIn pletynge of theyr caseAt the Commune Place,Or at the Kynges Benche;He wryngeth them suche a wrenche,That all our lerned menDare nat[167]set theyr penne320To plete a trew tryallWithin Westmynster hall;In the Chauncery where he syttes,But suche as he admyttesNone so hardy to speke;He sayth, thou huddypeke,Thy lernynge is to lewde,Thy tonge is nat[168]well thewde,To seke before our grace;And openly in that place330He rages and he raues,And cals them cankerd knaues:Thus royally he dothe dealeVnder the kynges brode seale;And in the Checker he them cheks;In the Ster Chambre he noddis and beks,And bereth him there so stowte,That no man dare rowte,Duke, erle, baron, nor lorde,But to his sentence must accorde;340Whether he be knyght or squyre,All men must[169]folow his desyre.What say ye of the Scottysh kynge?That is another thyng.He is but an yonglyng,A stalworthy[170]stryplyng:There[171]is a whyspring and a whipling,He shulde be hyder[172]brought;But, and it were well sought,I trow all wyll be nought,350Nat[173]worth a shyttel cocke,Nor worth a sowre calstocke.There goth many a lyeOf the Duke of Albany,That of shulde go his hede,And brought in quycke or dede,And all Scotlande owersThe mountenaunce of two houres.But, as some men sayne,I drede of some false trayne360Subtelly wrought shall beVnder a fayned treatee;But within monethes threMen may happely seThe trechery and the prankesOf the Scottysshe bankes.What here ye of Burgonyons,And the Spainyardes onyons?They haue slain our EnglisshmenAboue threscore and ten:370For all your amyte,No better they agre.God saue my lorde admyrell!What here ye of Mutrell?There with I dare nat[174]mell.Yet what here ye tellOf our graunde counsell?I coulde say some what,But speke ye no more of that,For drede of the red hat380Take peper in the nose;For than thyne heed of gose,Of by the harde arse.But there is some trauarseBytwene some and some,That makys our syre to glum;It is some what wronge,That his berde is so longe;He morneth in blacke clothynge.I pray God saue the kynge!390Where euer he go or ryde,I pray God be his gyde!Thus wyll I conclude my style,And fall to rest a whyle,And so to rest a whyle, &c.Ones[175]yet agayneOf you I wolde frayne,Why come ye nat[176]to court?—To whyche court?To the kynges courte,400Or to Hampton Court?—Nay, to the kynges court:The kynges courteShulde haue the excellence;But Hampton CourtHath the preemynence,And Yorkes Place,With my lordes grace,To whose magnifycenceIs all the conflewence,410Sutys and supplycacyons,Embassades of all nacyons.Strawe for lawe canon,[177]Or for the lawe common,Or for lawe cyuyll!It shall be as he wyll:Stop at law tancrete,An obstract or a concrete;Be it soure, be it swete,His wysdome is so dyscrete,420That in a fume or an hete,Wardeyn of the Flete,Set hym fast by the fete!And of his royall powreWhan him lyst to lowre,Than, haue him to the Towre,Saunz aulterremedy,Haue hym forthe by and byTo the Marshalsy,Or to the Kynges Benche!430He dyggeth so in the trencheOf the court royall,That he ruleth them all.So he dothe vndermynde,And suche sleyghtes dothe fynde,That the kynges myndeBy hym is subuerted,And so streatly coartedIn credensynge his tales,That all is but nutshales440That any other sayth;He hath in him suche fayth.Now, yet all this myght beSuffred and taken in gre,If that that he wroughtTo any good ende were brought;But all he bringeth to nought,By[178]God, that me dere bought!He bereth the kyng[179]on hand,That he must pyll his lande,450To make his cofers ryche;But he laythe all in the dyche,And vseth suche abusyoun,That in the conclusyounAll commeth to confusyon.Perceyue the cause why,To tell the trouth playnly,He is so ambicyous,So shamles, and[180]so vicyous,And so supersticyous,460And so moche obliuyousFrom whens that he came,That he falleth into[181]acæciam,[182]Whiche, truly to expresse,Is a forgetfulnesse,Or wylfull blyndnesse,Wherwith the SodomitesLost theyr inward syghtes,The Gommoryans alsoWere brought to deedly wo,470As Scrypture recordis:A cæcitate cordis,In the Latyne synge we,Libera nos, Domine!But this madde Amalecke,Lyke to a Mamelek,[183]He regardeth lordesNo more than potshordes;He is in suche elacyonOf his exaltacyon,480And the supportacyonOf our souerayne lorde,That, God to recorde,He ruleth all at wyll,Without reason or skyll:How be it the[184]primordyallOf his wretched originall,And his base progeny,And his gresy genealogy,He came of the sank royall,490That was cast out of a bochers stall.But how euer he was borne,Men wolde haue the lesse scorne,If he coulde consyderHis byrth and rowme togeder,[185]And call to his myndeHow noble and how kyndeTo him he hathe foundeOur souereyne lorde, chyfe groundeOf all this prelacy,500And set hym noblyIn great auctoryte,Out from a low degre,Whiche he can nat[186]se:For he was pardeNo doctor of deuinyte,Nor doctor of the law,Nor of none other saw;But a poore maister of arte,God wot, had lytell parte510Of the quatriuials,Nor yet of triuials,Nor of philosophy,Nor of philology,Nor of good pollycy,Nor of astronomy,Nor acquaynted worth a flyWith honorable Haly,Nor with royall Ptholomy,Nor with Albumasar,520To treate of any starFyxt or els mobyll;His Latyne tonge dothe hobbyll,He doth but cloute and cobbillIn Tullis faculte,Called humanyte;Yet proudly he dare pretendeHow no man can him amende:But haue ye nat[187]harde this,How an one eyed man is530Well syghted whenHe is amonge blynde men?Than, our processe for to stable,This man was full vnableTo reche to suche degre,Had nat[188]our prynce beRoyall Henry the eyght,Take him in suche conceyght,That he set him on heyght,In exemplyfyenge540Great Alexander the kynge,In writynge as we fynde;Whiche of his royall mynde,And of his noble pleasure,Transcendynge out of mesure,Thought to do a thyngeThat perteyneth to a kynge,To make vp one of nought,And made to him be broughtA wretched poore man,550Whiche his lyuenge wanWith plantyng of lekesBy the dayes and by the wekes,And of this poore vassallHe made a kynge royall,And gaue him a realme to rule,That occupyed a showell,A mattoke, and a spade,Before that he was madeA kynge, as I haue tolde,560And ruled as he wolde.Suche is a kynges power,To make within an hower,And worke suche a myracle,That shall be a spectacleOf renowme and worldly fame:In lykewyse now the sameCardynall is promoted,Yet with lewde condicyons cotyd,[189]As herafter ben notyd,570Presumcyon and vayne glory,Enuy, wrath, and lechery,Couetys and glotony,Slouthfull to do good,Now frantick, now starke wode.Shulde this man of suche modeRule the swerde of myght,How can he do ryght?For he wyll as sone smyghtHis frende as his fo;580A prouerbe longe ago.Set vp a wretche on hyeIn a trone triumphantlye,Make him a great astate,And he wyll play checke mateWith ryall[190]maieste,Counte him selfe as good as he;A prelate potencyall,To rule vnder Bellyall,As ferce and as cruell590As the fynd of hell.His seruauntes menyallHe dothe reuyle, and brall,Lyke Mahounde in a play;No man dare him withsay:He hath dispyght and scorneAt them that be well borne;He rebukes them and rayles,Ye horsons, ye vassayles,Ye knaues, ye churles sonnys,600Ye rebads, nat[191]worth two plummis,Ye raynbetyn beggers reiagged,Ye recrayed ruffyns all ragged!With, stowpe, thou hauell,Rynne, thou iauell!Thou peuysshe pye pecked,Thou losell longe necked!Thus dayly they be decked,Taunted and checked,That they ar so wo,610They wot not whether to go.No man dare come to the specheOf this gentell Iacke breche,Of what estate he be,Of spirituall dygnyte,Nor duke of hye degre,Nor marques, erle, nor lorde;Whiche shrewdly doth accorde,Thus he borne so baseAll noble men shulde out face,620His countynaunce lyke a kayser.My lorde is nat[192]at layser;Syr, ye must tary a stounde,Tyll better layser be founde;And, syr, ye must daunce attendaunce,And take pacient sufferaunce,For my lordes graceHath nowe no tyme nor spaceTo speke with you as yet.And thus they shall syt,630Chuse them syt or flyt,Stande, walke, or ryde,And his layser abydeParchaunce halfe a yere,And yet neuer the nere.This daungerous dowsypere,Lyke a kynges pere;And within this xvi. yereHe wolde haue ben ryght fayneTo haue ben a chapleyne,640And haue taken ryght gret payneWith a poore knyght,What soeuer he hyght.The chefe of his owne counsell,They can nat[193]well tellWhan they with hym shulde mell,He is so fyers and fell;He rayles and he ratis,He calleth them doddypatis;He grynnes and he gapis,650As it were iack napis.Suche a madde bedlemeFor to rewle this reame,[194]It is a wonders[195]case:That the kynges graceIs toward him so mynded,And so farre blynded,That he can nat[196]parceyueHow he doth hym disceyue,I dought, lest by sorsery,660Or suche other loselry,As wychecraft, or charmyng;For he is the kynges derlyng,And his swete hart rote,And is gouerned by this mad kote:For what is a man the betterFor the kynges letter?For he wyll tere it asonder;Wherat moche I wonder,How suche a hoddypoule670So boldely dare controule,And so malapertly withstandeThe kynges owne hande,And settys nat[197]by it a myte;He sayth the kynge doth wryteAnd writeth he wottith nat[198]what;And yet for all that,The kynge his clemencyDespensyth with his demensy.But what his grace doth thinke,680I haue no pen nor inkeThat therwith can mell;But wele I can tellHow Frauncis Petrarke,That moche noble clerke,Wryteth how CharlemaynCoude nat[199]him selfe refrayne,But was rauysht with a rageOf a lyke dotage:But how that came aboute,690Rede ye the story oute,And ye shall fynde surelyIt was by nycromansy,By carectes and coniuracyon,Vnder a certeyne constellacion,And a certayne fumygacion,Vnder a stone on a golde ryng,Wrought to Charlemayn the king,Whiche constrayned him forceblyFor to loue a certayne body700Aboue all other inordinatly.This is no fable nor no lye;At Acon it was brought to pas,As by myne auctor tried it was.But let mi masters mathematicalTell you the rest, for me they shal;They haue the full intellygence,And dare vse the experyens,In there obsolute consciensTo practyue[200]suche abolete sciens;710For I abhore to smatterOf one so deuyllysshe a matter.But I wyll make further relacionOf this isagogicall colation,How maister Gaguine, the crownyclerOf the feytis of warThat were done in Fraunce,Maketh remembraunce,How Kynge Lewes of lateMade vp a great astate720Of a poore wretchid man,Wherof moche care began.Iohannes Balua was his name,Myne auctor writeth the same;Promoted was heTo a cardynalles dygnyteBy Lewes the kyng aforesayd,With hym so wele apayd,That he made him his chauncelarTo make all or to mar,730And to rule as him lyst,Tyll he cheked at the fyst,And agayne all reasonCommyted open traysonAnd[201]against his lorde souerayn;Wherfore he suffred payn,Was hedyd, drawen, and quarterd,And dyed stynkingly marterd.Lo, yet for all thatHe ware a cardynals hat,740In hym was small fayth,As myne auctor sayth:Nat[202]for that I meneSuche a casuelte shulde be sene,Or suche chaunce shulde fallVnto our cardynall.Allmyghty God, I trust,Hath for him dyscustThat of force he mustBe faythfull, trew, and iust750To our most royall kynge,Chefe rote of his makynge;Yet it is a wyly mouseThat can bylde his dwellinge houseWithin the cattes eare[203]Withouten drede or feare.It is a nyce reconynge,To put all the gouernynge,All the rule of this landeInto one mannys hande:760One wyse mannys hedeMay stande somwhat in stede;But the wyttys of many wyseMoche better can deuyse,By theyr cyrcumspection,And theyr sad dyrrection,To cause the commune wealeLonge to endure in heale.Christ kepe King Henry the eyghtFrom trechery and dysceyght,770And graunt him grace to knowThe faucon from the crow,The wolfe from the lam,From whens that mastyfe cam!Let him neuer confoundeThe gentyll greyhownde:Of this matter the growndeIs easy to expounde,And soone may be perceyued,[204]How the worlde is conueyed.780But harke, my frende, one wordeIn ernest or in borde:Tell me nowe in this stedeIs maister Mewtas dede,The kynges Frenshe secretary,And his vntrew aduersary?For he sent in writyngeTo Fraunces the French kyngOf our maisters counsel in eueri thing:That was a peryllous rekenyng!—790Nay, nay, he is nat[205]dede;But he was so payned in the hede,That he shall neuer ete more bred.Now he is gone to another stede,With a bull vnder lead,By way of commissyon,To a straunge iurisdictyon,Called Dymingis Dale,Farre byyonde Portyngale,And bathe his pasport to pas800Ultra Sauromatas,To the deuyll, syr Sathanas,To Pluto, and syr Bellyall,The deuyls vycare generall,And to his college conuentuall,As well calodemonyallAs to cacodemonyall,[206]To puruey for our cardynallA palace pontifycall,To kepe his court prouyncyall,810Vpon artycles iudicyall,To contende and to stryueFor his prerogatyue,Within that consystoryTo make sommons peremtoryBefore some prothonotory[207]Imperyall or papall.Vpon this matter mistycallI haue tolde you part, but nat[208]all:Herafter perchaunce I shall820Make a larger[209]memoryall,And a further rehersall,And more paper I thinke to blot,To the court why I cam not;Desyring you aboue all thyngeTo kepe you from laughyngeWhan ye fall to redyngeOf this wanton scrowle,And pray for Mewtas sowle,For he is well past and gone;830That wolde God euerychoneOf his affynyteWere gone as well as he!Amen, amen, say ye,Of your inward charyte;Amen,Of your inward charyte.It were great rewth,For wrytynge of trewthAny man shulde be840In perplexyteOf dyspleasure;For I make you sure,Where trouth is abhorde,It is a playne recordeThat there wantys grace;In whose placeDothe occupy,Full vngracyously,Fals flatery,850Fals trechery,[210]Fals brybery,Subtyle Sym Sly,With madde foly;For who can best lye,He is best set by.Than farewell to thé,Welthfull felycite!For prosperyteAway than wyll fle.860Than must we agreWith pouerte;For mysery,With penury,MyserablyAnd wretchydlyHath made askryeAnd outcry,Folowynge the chaseTo dryue away grace.870Yet sayst thou percase,We can lacke no grace,For my lordes grace,And my ladies grace,With trey duse ase,And ase in the face,Some haute and some base,Some daunce the traceEuer in one case:Marke me that chase880In the tennys play,For synke quater treyIs a tall man:He rod, but we ran,Hay, the gye and the gan!The gray gose is no swan;The waters wax wan,And beggers they ban,And they cursed Datan,De tribu Dan,890That this warke[211]began,Palam et clam,With Balak and Balam,The golden ramOf Flemmyng dam,Sem, Iapheth, or Cam.But howe comme to pas,Your cupbord that wasIs tourned to glasse,From syluer to brasse,900From golde to pewter,Or els to a newter,To copper, to tyn,To lede, or alcumyn?A goldsmyth your mayre;But the chefe of your fayreMyght stande nowe by potters,And suche as sell trotters:Pytchars,[212]potshordis,This shrewdly accordis910To be a cupborde[213]for lordys.My lorde now and syr knyght,Good euyn and good nyght!For now, syr Trestram,Ye must weare bukram,Or canues of Cane,For sylkes are wane.Our royals that shone,Our nobles are goneAmonge the Burgonyons,920And Spanyardes onyons,And the Flanderkyns.Gyll swetis, and Cate spynnys,They are happy that wynnys;But Englande may well say,Fye on this wynnyng all way!Now nothynge but pay, pay,With, laughe and lay downe,Borowgh, cyte, and towne.Good Sprynge of Lanam930Must counte what becameOf his clothe makynge:He is at suche takynge,Though his purse wax dull,He must tax for his wullBy nature of a newe writ;My lordys grace nameth itAquia non satisfacit:In the spyght of his tetheHe must pay agayne940A thousande or twayneOf his golde in store;And yet he payde beforeAn[214]hunderd pounde and more,Whiche pyncheth him sore.My lordis grace wyll bryugeDowne this hye sprynge,And brynge it so lowe,It shall nat[215]euer flowe.Suche a prelate, I trowe,950Were worthy to roweThorow the streytes of[216]MarockTo the gybbet of Baldock:He wolde dry vp the stremysOf ix. kinges realmys,[217]All ryuers and wellys,All waters that swellys;For with vs he so mellysThat within Englande dwellys,I wolde he were somwhere ellys;960For els by and byHe wyll drynke vs so drye,And suck vs so nye,That men shall scantlyHaue peny or halpeny.God saue his noble grace,And graunt him a placeEndlesse to dwellWith the deuyll of hell!For, and he were there,970We nede neuer feereOf the fendys blake:For I vndertakeHe wolde so brag and crake,That he wolde than makeThe deuyls to quake,To shudder and to shake,Lyke a fyer drake,And with a cole rakeBrose[218]them on a brake,980And bynde them to a stake,And set hell on fyer,At his owne desyer.He is suche a grym syer,And suche a potestolate,And suche a potestate,That he wolde breke the braynesOf Lucyfer[219]in his chaynes,And rule them echoneIn Lucyfers trone.990I wolde he were gone;For amonge vs is noneThat ruleth but he alone,Without all good reason,And all out of season:For Folam peasonWith him be nat[220]geson;They growwe very rankeVpon euery bankeOf his herbers grene,1000With my lady bryght and shene;On theyr game it is seneThey play nat[221]all clene,And it be as I wene.But as touchynge dyscrecyon,[222]With sober dyrectyon,He kepeth them in subiectyon:They can haue no protectyonTo rule nor to guyde,But all must be tryde,1010And abyde the correctyonOf his[223]wylfull affectyon.For as for wytte,The deuyll spede whitte!But braynsyk and braynlesse,Wytles and rechelesse,Careles and shamlesse,Thriftles and gracelesse,Together are bended,And so condyscended,1020That the commune welthShall neuer haue good helth,But tatterd and tuggyd,Raggyd and ruggyd,Shauyn and shorne,And all threde bare worne.Suche gredynesse,Suche nedynesse,Myserablenesse,With wretchydnesse,1030Hath brought in dystresseAnd moche heuynesseAnd great dolowreEnglande, the flowreOf relucent honowre,In olde commemoracionMost royall Englyssh nacion.Now all is out of facion,Almost in desolation;I speke by protestacion:1040God of his miseracyonSend better reformacyon!Lo, for to do shamfullyHe iugeth it no foly!But to wryte of his shame,He sayth we ar to blame.What a frensy is this,No shame to do amys,And yet he is ashamedTo be shamfully named![224]1050And ofte prechours be blamed,Bycause they haue proclamedHis madnesse by writynge,His symplenesse resytynge,Remordynge and bytynge,With chydyng and with flytynge,[225]Shewynge him Goddis lawis:He calleth the prechours dawis,And of holy scriptures sawisHe counteth them for gygawis,1060And putteth them to sylenceAnd[226]with wordis of vyolence,Lyke Pharao, voyde of grace,Dyd Moyses sore manase,And Aron sore he thret,The worde of God to let;This maumet in lyke wyseAgainst the churche doth ryse;The prechour he dothe dyspyse,With crakynge in suche wyse,1070So braggynge all with bost,That no prechour almostDare speke for his lyfeOf my lordis grace nor his wyfe,For he hath suche a bull,He may take whom he wull,And as many as him lykys;May ete pigges in Lent for pikys,After the sectes of heretykis,For in Lent he wyll ete1080All maner of flesshe meteThat he can ony[227]where gete;With other abusyons grete,Wherof for[228]to treteIt wolde make the deuyll to swete,For all priuileged placesHe brekes and defaces,All placis of relygionHe bathe them in derisyon,And makith suche prouisyon1090To dryue them at diuisyon,And fynally in conclusyonTo bringe them to confusyon;Saint Albons to recordeWherof this vngracyous lordeHathe made him selfe abbot,Against their wylles, God wot.All this he dothe dealeVnder strength of the great seale,And by his legacy,1100Whiche madly he dothe applyVnto an extrauagancyPyked out of[229]all good lawe,With reasons that ben rawe.Yet, whan he toke first his hat,He said he knew what was what;All iustyce he pretended,All thynges sholde be amended,All wronges he wolde redresse,All iniuris he wolde represse,1110All periuris he wolde oppresse;And yet this gracelesse elfe,He is periured himselfe,As playnly it dothe appere,Who lyst to enquereIn the regestryOf my Lorde of Cantorbury,To whom he was professedIn thre poyntes expressed;The fyrst to do him reuerence,1120The seconde to owe hym obedyence,[230]The thirde with hole affectyonTo be vnder his subiectyon:But now he maketh obiectyon,Vnder the protectyonOf the kynges great seale,That he setteth neuer a dealeBy his former othe,Whether God be pleased or wroth.He makith so proude pretens,1130That in his equipolensHe iugyth him equiualentWith God omnipotent:But yet beware the rod,And the stroke of God!The Apostyll PeterHad a pore myterAnd a poore copeWhan he was creat Pope,First in Antioche;1140He dyd neuer approcheOf Rome to the seeWeth suche dygnyte.Saynt Dunstane, what was he?Nothynge, he sayth, lyke to me:[231]There is a dyuersyteBytwene him and me;We passe hym in degre,Aslegatus a latere.Ecce, sacerdos magnus,1150That wyll hed vs and hange vs,And streitly strangle vsAnd[232]he may fange vs!Decre and decretall,Constytucyon prouincyall,Nor no lawe canonicall,Shall let the preest pontyficallTo sytin causa sanguinis.Nowe God amende that is amys!For I suppose that he is1160Of Ieremy the whyskynge rod,The flayle, the scourge of almighty God.This Naman Sirus,So fell and so irons,So full of malencoly,With a flap afore[233]his eye,Men wene that he is pocky,Or els his surgions they lye,For, as far as they[234]can spyBy the craft of surgery,1170It ismanus Domini.And yet this proude Antiochus,He is so ambicious,So elate, and so vicious,And so cruell hertyd,That he wyll nat[235]be conuertyd;For he setteth God apart,He is nowe so ouerthwart,And so payned with pangis,That all his trust hangis1180In Balthasor, whiche heledDomingos nose that was wheled;That Lumberdes nose meane I,That standeth yet awrye;It was nat[236]heled alderbest,It standeth somwhat on the west;I meane Domyngo Lomelyn,That was wont to wynMoche money of the kyngeAt the cardys and haserdynge:1190Balthasor, that helyd Domingos nose[237]From the puskylde pocky pose,[238]Now with his gummys of ArabyHath promised to hele our cardinals eye;Yet sum surgions put a dout,Lest he wyll put[239]it clene out,And make him lame of his neder limmes:God sende him sorowe for his sinnes!Some men myght aske a question,By whose suggestyon1200I toke on hand this warke,Thus boldly for to barke?And men lyst to harke,And my wordes marke,I wyll answere lyke a clerke;For trewly and vnfayned,I am forcebly constrayned,At Iuuynals request,To wryght of this glorious gest,Of this vayne gloryous best,1210His fame to be encrestAt euery solempne feest;Quia difficile estSatiram non scribere.Now, mayster doctor, howe say ye,What soeuer your name be?What though ye be namelesse,Ye shall nat[240]escape blamelesse,Nor yet shall scape shamlesse:Mayster doctor in your degre,1220Yourselfe madly ye ouerse;Blame Iuuinall, and blame nat[241]me:Maister doctor Diricum,Omne animi vitium, &c.As Iuuinall dothe recorde,A small defaute in a great lorde,A lytell cryme in a great astate,Is moche more inordinate,And more horyble to beholde,Than any other a thousand folde.1230Ye put to blame ye wot nere whom;Ye may weare a cockes come;Your fonde hed in your furred hood,[242]Holde ye your tong, ye can no goode:And at more conuenyent tymeI may fortune for to rymeSomwhat of your madnesse;For small is your sadnesseTo put any man in lack,And say yll behynde his back:1240And my wordes marke truly,That ye can nat[243]byde thereby,Forsmegma non est cinnamomum,Butde absentibus nil nisi bonum.Complayne, or do what ye wyll,Of your complaynt it shall nat[244]skyl:This is the tenor of my byl,A daucock ye be, and so shalbe styll.

For age is a page

For the courte full vnmete,

For age cannat[124]rage,

Nor basse her swete swete:

But whan age seeth that rage

Dothe aswage and refrayne,

Than wyll age haue a corage

To come to court agayne.

But

Helas, sage ouerage

So[125]madly decayes,40

That age for dottage

Is reconed[126]now adayes:

Thus age (a[127]graunt domage)

Is nothynge set by,

And rage in arerage

Dothe rynne lamentably.

That rage must make pyllage,

To catche that catche may,

And with suche forage

Hunte the boskage,50

That hartes wyll ronne away;

Bothe hartes and hyndes,

With all good myndes:

Fare well, than, haue good day!

Than, haue good daye, adewe!

For defaute of rescew,

Some men may happely rew,

And some[128]theyr hedes mew;

The tyme dothe fast ensew,

That bales begynne to brew:60

I drede, by swete Iesu,

This tale wyll be to trew;

In faythe, dycken, thou krew,

In fayth, dicken, thou krew, &c.

Dicken, thou krew doutlesse;

For, trewly to expresse,

There hath ben[129]moche excesse,

With banketynge braynlesse,

With ryotynge rechelesse,

With gambaudynge thryftlesse,70

With spende and wast witlesse,

Treatinge of trewse restlesse,

Pratynge for peace peaslesse.

The[130]countrynge at Cales

Wrang vs on the males:[131]

Chefe counselour was carlesse,

Gronynge, grouchyng, gracelesse;

And to none entente

Our talwod is all brent,

Our fagottes are all spent,80

We may blowe at the cole:

Our mare hath cast her fole,

And Mocke hath lost her sho;

What may she do therto?

An ende of an olde song,

Do ryght and do[132]no wronge,

As ryght as a rammes horne;

For thrifte is threde bare worne,

Our shepe are shrewdly shorne,

And trouthe is all to-torne;90

Wysdom is laught to skorne,

Fauell is false forsworne,

Iauell is nobly borne,

Hauell and Haruy Hafter,

Iack Trauell and Cole Crafter,

We shall here more herafter;

With pollynge and shauynge,

With borowynge and crauynge,[133]

With reuynge and rauynge,

With swerynge and starynge,100

Ther vayleth no resonynge,

For wyll dothe rule all thynge,

Wyll, wyll, wyll, wyll, wyll,

He ruleth alway styll.

Good reason and good skyll,

They may garlycke pyll,

Cary sackes to the myll,

Or pescoddes they may shyll,

Or elles go rost a stone:

There is no man but one110

That hathe the strokes alone;

Be it blacke or whight,

All that he dothe is ryght,

As right as a cammocke croked.

This byll well ouer loked,

Clerely perceuye we may

There went the hare away,

The hare, the fox, the gray,

The harte, the hynde, the buck:

God sende vs better luck!120

God sende vs better lucke, &c.

Twit, Andrewe, twit, Scot,[134]

Ge heme, ge scour thy pot;

For we haue spente our shot:

We shall haue atot quot

From the Pope of Rome,

To weue all in one lome

A webbe of lylse wulse,

Opus male dulce:

The deuyll kysse his[135]cule!130

For, whyles he doth rule,

All is warse and warse;

The deuyll kysse his arse!

For whether he blesse or curse,

It can not be moche worse.

From Baumberow to Bothombar[136]

We haue cast vp our war,

And made[137]a worthy trewse,

With, gup, leuell suse!

Our mony madly lent,[138]140

And mor madly spent:

From Croydon to[139]Kent,

Wote ye whyther they went?

From Wynchelsey to Rye,

And all nat[140]worth a flye;

From Wentbridge to Hull;

Our armye waxeth dull,

With, tourne all home agayne,

And neuer a Scot slayne.

Yet the good Erle of Surray,150

The Frenche men he doth fray,

And vexeth them day by day

With all the power he may;

The French men he hath faynted,

And made[141]theyr hertes attaynted:

Of cheualry he is the floure;

Our Lorde be his soccoure!

The French men he hathe so mated,

And theyr courage abated,

That they are but halfe men;160

Lyke foxes in theyr denne,

Lyke cankerd cowardes all,

Lyke vrcheons[142]in a stone wall,

They kepe them in theyr holdes,

Lyke henherted cokoldes.

But yet they ouer shote vs

Wyth crownes and wyth scutus;

With scutis and crownes of gold

I drede we are bought and solde;

It is a wonders warke:170

They shote all at one marke,

At the Cardynals hat,

They[143]shote all at that;

Oute of theyr stronge townes

They shote at him with crownes;

With crownes of golde enblased

They make him so amased,

And his eyen so dased,

That he ne se can

To know God nor man.180

He is set so hye

In his ierarchy

Of frantycke frenesy

And folysshe fantasy,

That in the Chambre of Starres[144]

All maters there he marres;

Clappyng his rod on the borde,

No man dare speke a worde,

For he hathe all the sayenge,

Without any renayenge;190

He rolleth in his recordes,

He sayth, How saye ye, my lordes?

Is nat[145]my reason good?

Good euyn, good Robyn Hood![146]

Some say yes, and some

Syt styll as they were dom:

Thus thwartyng ouer thom,

He ruleth all the roste

With braggynge and with bost;

Borne vp on euery syde200

With pompe and with pryde,

With, trompe vp, alleluya!

For dame Philargerya[147]

Hathe so his herte in holde,

He loueth nothyng but golde;

And Asmodeus of hell

Maketh his membres swell

With Dalyda to mell,

That wanton damosell.[148]

Adew, Philosophia,210

Adew, Theologia!

Welcome, dame Simonia,

With dame Castrimergia,

To drynke and for to eate

Swete ypocras[149]and swete meate!

To kepe his flesshe chast,

In Lent for a repast

He eateth capons[150]stewed,

Fesaunt and partriche mewed,

Hennes, checkynges, and pygges;220

He foynes and he frygges,

Spareth neither mayde ne wyfe:

This is a postels lyfe!

Helas! my herte is sory

To tell of vayne glory:

But now vpon this story

I wyll no further ryme

Tyll another tyme,

Tyll another tyme, &c.[151]

What newes, what newes?[152]230

Small newes the[153]true is,

That be worth ii. kues;

But at the naked stewes,

I vnderstande how that

The sygne of the Cardynall Hat,

That inne is now shyt vp,

With, gup, hore, gup, now gup,

Gup, Guilliam[154]Trauillian,

With, iast you, I say, Jullian!

Wyll ye bere no coles?240

A mayny of marefoles,

That occupy theyr holys,

Full of pocky molys.

What here ye of Lancashyre?

They were nat[155]payde their hyre;

They are fel as any fyre.

What here ye of Chesshyre?

They haue layde all in the myre;

They grugyd,[156]and sayde

Theyr wages were nat[157]payde;250

Some sayde they were afrayde

Of the Scottysshe hoste,[158]

For all theyr crack[159]and bost,

Wylde fyre and thonder;

For all this worldly wonder,

A hundred myle asonder

They were whan they[160]were next;

That is a trew text.

What here ye of the Scottes?

They make vs all sottes,260

Poppynge folysshe dawes;

They make vs to pyll strawes;

They play their olde pranckes,

After Huntley bankes:

At the streme of Banockes burne

They dyd vs a shrewde turne,

Whan Edwarde of Karnaruan

Lost all that[161]his father wan.

What here ye of the Lorde Dakers?

He maketh vs Jacke Rakers;270

He sayes we ar but crakers;

He calleth vs England men

Stronge herted lyke an hen;

For the Scottes and he

To well they do agre,

With, do thou for me,

And I shall do for thé.

Whyles the red hat doth endure,

He maketh himselfe cock sure;

The red hat with his lure280

Bryngeth all thynges vnder cure.

But, as the worlde now gose,

What here ye of the Lorde Rose?

Nothynge to purpose,

Nat[162]worth a cockly fose:

Their hertes be in thyr hose.

The Erle of Northumberlande

Dare take nothynge on hande:

Our barons be so bolde,

Into a mouse hole they wolde290

Rynne[163]away and crepe,

Lyke a mayny of shepe;

Dare nat[164]loke out at dur[165]

For drede of the mastyue cur,

For drede of the bochers dogge

Wold wyrry them lyke an hogge.

For and this curre do gnar,

They must stande all a far,

To holde vp their hande at the bar.

For all their noble blode300

He pluckes them by the hode,

And shakes them by the eare,

And brynge[s] them in suche feare;

He bayteth them lyke a bere,

Lyke an oxe or a bull:

Theyr wyttes, he saith, are dull;

He sayth they haue no brayne

Theyr astate to mayntayne;

And maketh them to[166]bow theyr kne

Before his maieste.310

Juges of the kynges lawes,

He countys them foles and dawes;

Sergyantes of the coyfe eke,

He sayth they are to seke

In pletynge of theyr case

At the Commune Place,

Or at the Kynges Benche;

He wryngeth them suche a wrenche,

That all our lerned men

Dare nat[167]set theyr penne320

To plete a trew tryall

Within Westmynster hall;

In the Chauncery where he syttes,

But suche as he admyttes

None so hardy to speke;

He sayth, thou huddypeke,

Thy lernynge is to lewde,

Thy tonge is nat[168]well thewde,

To seke before our grace;

And openly in that place330

He rages and he raues,

And cals them cankerd knaues:

Thus royally he dothe deale

Vnder the kynges brode seale;

And in the Checker he them cheks;

In the Ster Chambre he noddis and beks,

And bereth him there so stowte,

That no man dare rowte,

Duke, erle, baron, nor lorde,

But to his sentence must accorde;340

Whether he be knyght or squyre,

All men must[169]folow his desyre.

What say ye of the Scottysh kynge?

That is another thyng.

He is but an yonglyng,

A stalworthy[170]stryplyng:

There[171]is a whyspring and a whipling,

He shulde be hyder[172]brought;

But, and it were well sought,

I trow all wyll be nought,350

Nat[173]worth a shyttel cocke,

Nor worth a sowre calstocke.

There goth many a lye

Of the Duke of Albany,

That of shulde go his hede,

And brought in quycke or dede,

And all Scotlande owers

The mountenaunce of two houres.

But, as some men sayne,

I drede of some false trayne360

Subtelly wrought shall be

Vnder a fayned treatee;

But within monethes thre

Men may happely se

The trechery and the prankes

Of the Scottysshe bankes.

What here ye of Burgonyons,

And the Spainyardes onyons?

They haue slain our Englisshmen

Aboue threscore and ten:370

For all your amyte,

No better they agre.

God saue my lorde admyrell!

What here ye of Mutrell?

There with I dare nat[174]mell.

Yet what here ye tell

Of our graunde counsell?

I coulde say some what,

But speke ye no more of that,

For drede of the red hat380

Take peper in the nose;

For than thyne heed of gose,

Of by the harde arse.

But there is some trauarse

Bytwene some and some,

That makys our syre to glum;

It is some what wronge,

That his berde is so longe;

He morneth in blacke clothynge.

I pray God saue the kynge!390

Where euer he go or ryde,

I pray God be his gyde!

Thus wyll I conclude my style,

And fall to rest a whyle,

And so to rest a whyle, &c.

Ones[175]yet agayne

Of you I wolde frayne,

Why come ye nat[176]to court?—

To whyche court?

To the kynges courte,400

Or to Hampton Court?—

Nay, to the kynges court:

The kynges courte

Shulde haue the excellence;

But Hampton Court

Hath the preemynence,

And Yorkes Place,

With my lordes grace,

To whose magnifycence

Is all the conflewence,410

Sutys and supplycacyons,

Embassades of all nacyons.

Strawe for lawe canon,[177]

Or for the lawe common,

Or for lawe cyuyll!

It shall be as he wyll:

Stop at law tancrete,

An obstract or a concrete;

Be it soure, be it swete,

His wysdome is so dyscrete,420

That in a fume or an hete,

Wardeyn of the Flete,

Set hym fast by the fete!

And of his royall powre

Whan him lyst to lowre,

Than, haue him to the Towre,

Saunz aulterremedy,

Haue hym forthe by and by

To the Marshalsy,

Or to the Kynges Benche!430

He dyggeth so in the trenche

Of the court royall,

That he ruleth them all.

So he dothe vndermynde,

And suche sleyghtes dothe fynde,

That the kynges mynde

By hym is subuerted,

And so streatly coarted

In credensynge his tales,

That all is but nutshales440

That any other sayth;

He hath in him suche fayth.

Now, yet all this myght be

Suffred and taken in gre,

If that that he wrought

To any good ende were brought;

But all he bringeth to nought,

By[178]God, that me dere bought!

He bereth the kyng[179]on hand,

That he must pyll his lande,450

To make his cofers ryche;

But he laythe all in the dyche,

And vseth suche abusyoun,

That in the conclusyoun

All commeth to confusyon.

Perceyue the cause why,

To tell the trouth playnly,

He is so ambicyous,

So shamles, and[180]so vicyous,

And so supersticyous,460

And so moche obliuyous

From whens that he came,

That he falleth into[181]acæciam,[182]

Whiche, truly to expresse,

Is a forgetfulnesse,

Or wylfull blyndnesse,

Wherwith the Sodomites

Lost theyr inward syghtes,

The Gommoryans also

Were brought to deedly wo,470

As Scrypture recordis:

A cæcitate cordis,

In the Latyne synge we,

Libera nos, Domine!

But this madde Amalecke,

Lyke to a Mamelek,[183]

He regardeth lordes

No more than potshordes;

He is in suche elacyon

Of his exaltacyon,480

And the supportacyon

Of our souerayne lorde,

That, God to recorde,

He ruleth all at wyll,

Without reason or skyll:

How be it the[184]primordyall

Of his wretched originall,

And his base progeny,

And his gresy genealogy,

He came of the sank royall,490

That was cast out of a bochers stall.

But how euer he was borne,

Men wolde haue the lesse scorne,

If he coulde consyder

His byrth and rowme togeder,[185]

And call to his mynde

How noble and how kynde

To him he hathe founde

Our souereyne lorde, chyfe grounde

Of all this prelacy,500

And set hym nobly

In great auctoryte,

Out from a low degre,

Whiche he can nat[186]se:

For he was parde

No doctor of deuinyte,

Nor doctor of the law,

Nor of none other saw;

But a poore maister of arte,

God wot, had lytell parte510

Of the quatriuials,

Nor yet of triuials,

Nor of philosophy,

Nor of philology,

Nor of good pollycy,

Nor of astronomy,

Nor acquaynted worth a fly

With honorable Haly,

Nor with royall Ptholomy,

Nor with Albumasar,520

To treate of any star

Fyxt or els mobyll;

His Latyne tonge dothe hobbyll,

He doth but cloute and cobbill

In Tullis faculte,

Called humanyte;

Yet proudly he dare pretende

How no man can him amende:

But haue ye nat[187]harde this,

How an one eyed man is530

Well syghted when

He is amonge blynde men?

Than, our processe for to stable,

This man was full vnable

To reche to suche degre,

Had nat[188]our prynce be

Royall Henry the eyght,

Take him in suche conceyght,

That he set him on heyght,

In exemplyfyenge540

Great Alexander the kynge,

In writynge as we fynde;

Whiche of his royall mynde,

And of his noble pleasure,

Transcendynge out of mesure,

Thought to do a thynge

That perteyneth to a kynge,

To make vp one of nought,

And made to him be brought

A wretched poore man,550

Whiche his lyuenge wan

With plantyng of lekes

By the dayes and by the wekes,

And of this poore vassall

He made a kynge royall,

And gaue him a realme to rule,

That occupyed a showell,

A mattoke, and a spade,

Before that he was made

A kynge, as I haue tolde,560

And ruled as he wolde.

Suche is a kynges power,

To make within an hower,

And worke suche a myracle,

That shall be a spectacle

Of renowme and worldly fame:

In lykewyse now the same

Cardynall is promoted,

Yet with lewde condicyons cotyd,[189]

As herafter ben notyd,570

Presumcyon and vayne glory,

Enuy, wrath, and lechery,

Couetys and glotony,

Slouthfull to do good,

Now frantick, now starke wode.

Shulde this man of suche mode

Rule the swerde of myght,

How can he do ryght?

For he wyll as sone smyght

His frende as his fo;580

A prouerbe longe ago.

Set vp a wretche on hye

In a trone triumphantlye,

Make him a great astate,

And he wyll play checke mate

With ryall[190]maieste,

Counte him selfe as good as he;

A prelate potencyall,

To rule vnder Bellyall,

As ferce and as cruell590

As the fynd of hell.

His seruauntes menyall

He dothe reuyle, and brall,

Lyke Mahounde in a play;

No man dare him withsay:

He hath dispyght and scorne

At them that be well borne;

He rebukes them and rayles,

Ye horsons, ye vassayles,

Ye knaues, ye churles sonnys,600

Ye rebads, nat[191]worth two plummis,

Ye raynbetyn beggers reiagged,

Ye recrayed ruffyns all ragged!

With, stowpe, thou hauell,

Rynne, thou iauell!

Thou peuysshe pye pecked,

Thou losell longe necked!

Thus dayly they be decked,

Taunted and checked,

That they ar so wo,610

They wot not whether to go.

No man dare come to the speche

Of this gentell Iacke breche,

Of what estate he be,

Of spirituall dygnyte,

Nor duke of hye degre,

Nor marques, erle, nor lorde;

Whiche shrewdly doth accorde,

Thus he borne so base

All noble men shulde out face,620

His countynaunce lyke a kayser.

My lorde is nat[192]at layser;

Syr, ye must tary a stounde,

Tyll better layser be founde;

And, syr, ye must daunce attendaunce,

And take pacient sufferaunce,

For my lordes grace

Hath nowe no tyme nor space

To speke with you as yet.

And thus they shall syt,630

Chuse them syt or flyt,

Stande, walke, or ryde,

And his layser abyde

Parchaunce halfe a yere,

And yet neuer the nere.

This daungerous dowsypere,

Lyke a kynges pere;

And within this xvi. yere

He wolde haue ben ryght fayne

To haue ben a chapleyne,640

And haue taken ryght gret payne

With a poore knyght,

What soeuer he hyght.

The chefe of his owne counsell,

They can nat[193]well tell

Whan they with hym shulde mell,

He is so fyers and fell;

He rayles and he ratis,

He calleth them doddypatis;

He grynnes and he gapis,650

As it were iack napis.

Suche a madde bedleme

For to rewle this reame,[194]

It is a wonders[195]case:

That the kynges grace

Is toward him so mynded,

And so farre blynded,

That he can nat[196]parceyue

How he doth hym disceyue,

I dought, lest by sorsery,660

Or suche other loselry,

As wychecraft, or charmyng;

For he is the kynges derlyng,

And his swete hart rote,

And is gouerned by this mad kote:

For what is a man the better

For the kynges letter?

For he wyll tere it asonder;

Wherat moche I wonder,

How suche a hoddypoule670

So boldely dare controule,

And so malapertly withstande

The kynges owne hande,

And settys nat[197]by it a myte;

He sayth the kynge doth wryte

And writeth he wottith nat[198]what;

And yet for all that,

The kynge his clemency

Despensyth with his demensy.

But what his grace doth thinke,680

I haue no pen nor inke

That therwith can mell;

But wele I can tell

How Frauncis Petrarke,

That moche noble clerke,

Wryteth how Charlemayn

Coude nat[199]him selfe refrayne,

But was rauysht with a rage

Of a lyke dotage:

But how that came aboute,690

Rede ye the story oute,

And ye shall fynde surely

It was by nycromansy,

By carectes and coniuracyon,

Vnder a certeyne constellacion,

And a certayne fumygacion,

Vnder a stone on a golde ryng,

Wrought to Charlemayn the king,

Whiche constrayned him forcebly

For to loue a certayne body700

Aboue all other inordinatly.

This is no fable nor no lye;

At Acon it was brought to pas,

As by myne auctor tried it was.

But let mi masters mathematical

Tell you the rest, for me they shal;

They haue the full intellygence,

And dare vse the experyens,

In there obsolute consciens

To practyue[200]suche abolete sciens;710

For I abhore to smatter

Of one so deuyllysshe a matter.

But I wyll make further relacion

Of this isagogicall colation,

How maister Gaguine, the crownycler

Of the feytis of war

That were done in Fraunce,

Maketh remembraunce,

How Kynge Lewes of late

Made vp a great astate720

Of a poore wretchid man,

Wherof moche care began.

Iohannes Balua was his name,

Myne auctor writeth the same;

Promoted was he

To a cardynalles dygnyte

By Lewes the kyng aforesayd,

With hym so wele apayd,

That he made him his chauncelar

To make all or to mar,730

And to rule as him lyst,

Tyll he cheked at the fyst,

And agayne all reason

Commyted open trayson

And[201]against his lorde souerayn;

Wherfore he suffred payn,

Was hedyd, drawen, and quarterd,

And dyed stynkingly marterd.

Lo, yet for all that

He ware a cardynals hat,740

In hym was small fayth,

As myne auctor sayth:

Nat[202]for that I mene

Suche a casuelte shulde be sene,

Or suche chaunce shulde fall

Vnto our cardynall.

Allmyghty God, I trust,

Hath for him dyscust

That of force he must

Be faythfull, trew, and iust750

To our most royall kynge,

Chefe rote of his makynge;

Yet it is a wyly mouse

That can bylde his dwellinge house

Within the cattes eare[203]

Withouten drede or feare.

It is a nyce reconynge,

To put all the gouernynge,

All the rule of this lande

Into one mannys hande:760

One wyse mannys hede

May stande somwhat in stede;

But the wyttys of many wyse

Moche better can deuyse,

By theyr cyrcumspection,

And theyr sad dyrrection,

To cause the commune weale

Longe to endure in heale.

Christ kepe King Henry the eyght

From trechery and dysceyght,770

And graunt him grace to know

The faucon from the crow,

The wolfe from the lam,

From whens that mastyfe cam!

Let him neuer confounde

The gentyll greyhownde:

Of this matter the grownde

Is easy to expounde,

And soone may be perceyued,[204]

How the worlde is conueyed.780

But harke, my frende, one worde

In ernest or in borde:

Tell me nowe in this stede

Is maister Mewtas dede,

The kynges Frenshe secretary,

And his vntrew aduersary?

For he sent in writynge

To Fraunces the French kyng

Of our maisters counsel in eueri thing:

That was a peryllous rekenyng!—790

Nay, nay, he is nat[205]dede;

But he was so payned in the hede,

That he shall neuer ete more bred.

Now he is gone to another stede,

With a bull vnder lead,

By way of commissyon,

To a straunge iurisdictyon,

Called Dymingis Dale,

Farre byyonde Portyngale,

And bathe his pasport to pas800

Ultra Sauromatas,

To the deuyll, syr Sathanas,

To Pluto, and syr Bellyall,

The deuyls vycare generall,

And to his college conuentuall,

As well calodemonyall

As to cacodemonyall,[206]

To puruey for our cardynall

A palace pontifycall,

To kepe his court prouyncyall,810

Vpon artycles iudicyall,

To contende and to stryue

For his prerogatyue,

Within that consystory

To make sommons peremtory

Before some prothonotory[207]

Imperyall or papall.

Vpon this matter mistycall

I haue tolde you part, but nat[208]all:

Herafter perchaunce I shall820

Make a larger[209]memoryall,

And a further rehersall,

And more paper I thinke to blot,

To the court why I cam not;

Desyring you aboue all thynge

To kepe you from laughynge

Whan ye fall to redynge

Of this wanton scrowle,

And pray for Mewtas sowle,

For he is well past and gone;830

That wolde God euerychone

Of his affynyte

Were gone as well as he!

Amen, amen, say ye,

Of your inward charyte;

Amen,

Of your inward charyte.

It were great rewth,

For wrytynge of trewth

Any man shulde be840

In perplexyte

Of dyspleasure;

For I make you sure,

Where trouth is abhorde,

It is a playne recorde

That there wantys grace;

In whose place

Dothe occupy,

Full vngracyously,

Fals flatery,850

Fals trechery,[210]

Fals brybery,

Subtyle Sym Sly,

With madde foly;

For who can best lye,

He is best set by.

Than farewell to thé,

Welthfull felycite!

For prosperyte

Away than wyll fle.860

Than must we agre

With pouerte;

For mysery,

With penury,

Myserably

And wretchydly

Hath made askrye

And outcry,

Folowynge the chase

To dryue away grace.870

Yet sayst thou percase,

We can lacke no grace,

For my lordes grace,

And my ladies grace,

With trey duse ase,

And ase in the face,

Some haute and some base,

Some daunce the trace

Euer in one case:

Marke me that chase880

In the tennys play,

For synke quater trey

Is a tall man:

He rod, but we ran,

Hay, the gye and the gan!

The gray gose is no swan;

The waters wax wan,

And beggers they ban,

And they cursed Datan,

De tribu Dan,890

That this warke[211]began,

Palam et clam,

With Balak and Balam,

The golden ram

Of Flemmyng dam,

Sem, Iapheth, or Cam.

But howe comme to pas,

Your cupbord that was

Is tourned to glasse,

From syluer to brasse,900

From golde to pewter,

Or els to a newter,

To copper, to tyn,

To lede, or alcumyn?

A goldsmyth your mayre;

But the chefe of your fayre

Myght stande nowe by potters,

And suche as sell trotters:

Pytchars,[212]potshordis,

This shrewdly accordis910

To be a cupborde[213]for lordys.

My lorde now and syr knyght,

Good euyn and good nyght!

For now, syr Trestram,

Ye must weare bukram,

Or canues of Cane,

For sylkes are wane.

Our royals that shone,

Our nobles are gone

Amonge the Burgonyons,920

And Spanyardes onyons,

And the Flanderkyns.

Gyll swetis, and Cate spynnys,

They are happy that wynnys;

But Englande may well say,

Fye on this wynnyng all way!

Now nothynge but pay, pay,

With, laughe and lay downe,

Borowgh, cyte, and towne.

Good Sprynge of Lanam930

Must counte what became

Of his clothe makynge:

He is at suche takynge,

Though his purse wax dull,

He must tax for his wull

By nature of a newe writ;

My lordys grace nameth it

Aquia non satisfacit:

In the spyght of his tethe

He must pay agayne940

A thousande or twayne

Of his golde in store;

And yet he payde before

An[214]hunderd pounde and more,

Whiche pyncheth him sore.

My lordis grace wyll bryuge

Downe this hye sprynge,

And brynge it so lowe,

It shall nat[215]euer flowe.

Suche a prelate, I trowe,950

Were worthy to rowe

Thorow the streytes of[216]Marock

To the gybbet of Baldock:

He wolde dry vp the stremys

Of ix. kinges realmys,[217]

All ryuers and wellys,

All waters that swellys;

For with vs he so mellys

That within Englande dwellys,

I wolde he were somwhere ellys;960

For els by and by

He wyll drynke vs so drye,

And suck vs so nye,

That men shall scantly

Haue peny or halpeny.

God saue his noble grace,

And graunt him a place

Endlesse to dwell

With the deuyll of hell!

For, and he were there,970

We nede neuer feere

Of the fendys blake:

For I vndertake

He wolde so brag and crake,

That he wolde than make

The deuyls to quake,

To shudder and to shake,

Lyke a fyer drake,

And with a cole rake

Brose[218]them on a brake,980

And bynde them to a stake,

And set hell on fyer,

At his owne desyer.

He is suche a grym syer,

And suche a potestolate,

And suche a potestate,

That he wolde breke the braynes

Of Lucyfer[219]in his chaynes,

And rule them echone

In Lucyfers trone.990

I wolde he were gone;

For amonge vs is none

That ruleth but he alone,

Without all good reason,

And all out of season:

For Folam peason

With him be nat[220]geson;

They growwe very ranke

Vpon euery banke

Of his herbers grene,1000

With my lady bryght and shene;

On theyr game it is sene

They play nat[221]all clene,

And it be as I wene.

But as touchynge dyscrecyon,[222]

With sober dyrectyon,

He kepeth them in subiectyon:

They can haue no protectyon

To rule nor to guyde,

But all must be tryde,1010

And abyde the correctyon

Of his[223]wylfull affectyon.

For as for wytte,

The deuyll spede whitte!

But braynsyk and braynlesse,

Wytles and rechelesse,

Careles and shamlesse,

Thriftles and gracelesse,

Together are bended,

And so condyscended,1020

That the commune welth

Shall neuer haue good helth,

But tatterd and tuggyd,

Raggyd and ruggyd,

Shauyn and shorne,

And all threde bare worne.

Suche gredynesse,

Suche nedynesse,

Myserablenesse,

With wretchydnesse,1030

Hath brought in dystresse

And moche heuynesse

And great dolowre

Englande, the flowre

Of relucent honowre,

In olde commemoracion

Most royall Englyssh nacion.

Now all is out of facion,

Almost in desolation;

I speke by protestacion:1040

God of his miseracyon

Send better reformacyon!

Lo, for to do shamfully

He iugeth it no foly!

But to wryte of his shame,

He sayth we ar to blame.

What a frensy is this,

No shame to do amys,

And yet he is ashamed

To be shamfully named![224]1050

And ofte prechours be blamed,

Bycause they haue proclamed

His madnesse by writynge,

His symplenesse resytynge,

Remordynge and bytynge,

With chydyng and with flytynge,[225]

Shewynge him Goddis lawis:

He calleth the prechours dawis,

And of holy scriptures sawis

He counteth them for gygawis,1060

And putteth them to sylence

And[226]with wordis of vyolence,

Lyke Pharao, voyde of grace,

Dyd Moyses sore manase,

And Aron sore he thret,

The worde of God to let;

This maumet in lyke wyse

Against the churche doth ryse;

The prechour he dothe dyspyse,

With crakynge in suche wyse,1070

So braggynge all with bost,

That no prechour almost

Dare speke for his lyfe

Of my lordis grace nor his wyfe,

For he hath suche a bull,

He may take whom he wull,

And as many as him lykys;

May ete pigges in Lent for pikys,

After the sectes of heretykis,

For in Lent he wyll ete1080

All maner of flesshe mete

That he can ony[227]where gete;

With other abusyons grete,

Wherof for[228]to trete

It wolde make the deuyll to swete,

For all priuileged places

He brekes and defaces,

All placis of relygion

He bathe them in derisyon,

And makith suche prouisyon1090

To dryue them at diuisyon,

And fynally in conclusyon

To bringe them to confusyon;

Saint Albons to recorde

Wherof this vngracyous lorde

Hathe made him selfe abbot,

Against their wylles, God wot.

All this he dothe deale

Vnder strength of the great seale,

And by his legacy,1100

Whiche madly he dothe apply

Vnto an extrauagancy

Pyked out of[229]all good lawe,

With reasons that ben rawe.

Yet, whan he toke first his hat,

He said he knew what was what;

All iustyce he pretended,

All thynges sholde be amended,

All wronges he wolde redresse,

All iniuris he wolde represse,1110

All periuris he wolde oppresse;

And yet this gracelesse elfe,

He is periured himselfe,

As playnly it dothe appere,

Who lyst to enquere

In the regestry

Of my Lorde of Cantorbury,

To whom he was professed

In thre poyntes expressed;

The fyrst to do him reuerence,1120

The seconde to owe hym obedyence,[230]

The thirde with hole affectyon

To be vnder his subiectyon:

But now he maketh obiectyon,

Vnder the protectyon

Of the kynges great seale,

That he setteth neuer a deale

By his former othe,

Whether God be pleased or wroth.

He makith so proude pretens,1130

That in his equipolens

He iugyth him equiualent

With God omnipotent:

But yet beware the rod,

And the stroke of God!

The Apostyll Peter

Had a pore myter

And a poore cope

Whan he was creat Pope,

First in Antioche;1140

He dyd neuer approche

Of Rome to the see

Weth suche dygnyte.

Saynt Dunstane, what was he?

Nothynge, he sayth, lyke to me:[231]

There is a dyuersyte

Bytwene him and me;

We passe hym in degre,

Aslegatus a latere.

Ecce, sacerdos magnus,1150

That wyll hed vs and hange vs,

And streitly strangle vs

And[232]he may fange vs!

Decre and decretall,

Constytucyon prouincyall,

Nor no lawe canonicall,

Shall let the preest pontyficall

To sytin causa sanguinis.

Nowe God amende that is amys!

For I suppose that he is1160

Of Ieremy the whyskynge rod,

The flayle, the scourge of almighty God.

This Naman Sirus,

So fell and so irons,

So full of malencoly,

With a flap afore[233]his eye,

Men wene that he is pocky,

Or els his surgions they lye,

For, as far as they[234]can spy

By the craft of surgery,1170

It ismanus Domini.

And yet this proude Antiochus,

He is so ambicious,

So elate, and so vicious,

And so cruell hertyd,

That he wyll nat[235]be conuertyd;

For he setteth God apart,

He is nowe so ouerthwart,

And so payned with pangis,

That all his trust hangis1180

In Balthasor, whiche heled

Domingos nose that was wheled;

That Lumberdes nose meane I,

That standeth yet awrye;

It was nat[236]heled alderbest,

It standeth somwhat on the west;

I meane Domyngo Lomelyn,

That was wont to wyn

Moche money of the kynge

At the cardys and haserdynge:1190

Balthasor, that helyd Domingos nose[237]

From the puskylde pocky pose,[238]

Now with his gummys of Araby

Hath promised to hele our cardinals eye;

Yet sum surgions put a dout,

Lest he wyll put[239]it clene out,

And make him lame of his neder limmes:

God sende him sorowe for his sinnes!

Some men myght aske a question,

By whose suggestyon1200

I toke on hand this warke,

Thus boldly for to barke?

And men lyst to harke,

And my wordes marke,

I wyll answere lyke a clerke;

For trewly and vnfayned,

I am forcebly constrayned,

At Iuuynals request,

To wryght of this glorious gest,

Of this vayne gloryous best,1210

His fame to be encrest

At euery solempne feest;

Quia difficile est

Satiram non scribere.

Now, mayster doctor, howe say ye,

What soeuer your name be?

What though ye be namelesse,

Ye shall nat[240]escape blamelesse,

Nor yet shall scape shamlesse:

Mayster doctor in your degre,1220

Yourselfe madly ye ouerse;

Blame Iuuinall, and blame nat[241]me:

Maister doctor Diricum,

Omne animi vitium, &c.

As Iuuinall dothe recorde,

A small defaute in a great lorde,

A lytell cryme in a great astate,

Is moche more inordinate,

And more horyble to beholde,

Than any other a thousand folde.1230

Ye put to blame ye wot nere whom;

Ye may weare a cockes come;

Your fonde hed in your furred hood,[242]

Holde ye your tong, ye can no goode:

And at more conuenyent tyme

I may fortune for to ryme

Somwhat of your madnesse;

For small is your sadnesse

To put any man in lack,

And say yll behynde his back:1240

And my wordes marke truly,

That ye can nat[243]byde thereby,

Forsmegma non est cinnamomum,

Butde absentibus nil nisi bonum.

Complayne, or do what ye wyll,

Of your complaynt it shall nat[244]skyl:

This is the tenor of my byl,

A daucock ye be, and so shalbe styll.

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