Then I convayed me into Kent; For of the law wold I meddle no more, Because no man to me tooke entent, I dyght me to do as I dyd before. Now Jesus that in Bethlem was bore, Save London, and send trew lawyers there mede, For who so wants mony with them shall not spede. EXPLICIT LONDON LYCKPENY. UPON THE EMPTINESS OF HIS PURSE: BY JOHN LYDGATE. [_Harleian MSS._ 2255, _f._ 45^{b}.] Riht myhty prynce, and it be your wille, Condescende leiser for to take, To seen the content of this litil bille, Which whan I wrot, myn hand I felte quake; Tokne of mornyng weryd clothys blake, Cause my purs was falle in gret rerage; Lynyng outward, his guttys wer out shake, Oonly for lak of plate, and of coignage. I souhte leechys for a restoratiff, In whom I fond no consolacione; Appotecaryes for a confortatiff; Dragge nor dya was noon in Bury tone, Botme of his stomak was tournyd up so done; A laxatif did hym so gret outrage, Made hym slendre by a consumpcione, Oonly for lak of plate, and of coignage. Ship was ther noon, nor seilis rede of hewe, The wynd froward to make hem ther to londe; The flood was passyd, and sodeynly of newe, A lowh ground ebbe was faste by the stronde; No maryneer durste take on honde, To caste an ankir for streihtnesse of passage, The custom skars, as fow may undirstonde, Oonly for lak of plate, and of coignage. Ther was no tokne sent done from the Tour, As any gossomer the countirpeys was liht, A fretyng etyk causyd his langour, By a cotidian which heeld hym day and nyht: Sol and Luna wer clypsyd of ther liht, Ther was no cros nor preent of no visage, His lynyng dirk, ther wer no platys briht, Oonly for lak, and scarsete of coignage. Harde to likke hony out of a marbil stoon, For ther is nouthir licour nor moisture; An ernest grote, whan it is dronke and goon, Bargeyn of marchauntys stant in aventure. My purs and I be callyd to the lure Off indigence, our stuff leyd in morgage; But ye, my lord, may al our soor recure, With a receyt of plate, and of coignage. Nat sugre plate maad by thappotecarye, Plate of briht metal yevith a mery sone, In Boklerys bury is noon such letuary; Gold is a cordial, gladdest confeccione, Ageyn etiques of oold consumpcione, Auru' potabile, for folk ferre ronne in age, In quynt essence best restauracione, With silver plate, enprentyd with coignage. O seely bille! why art thu nat ashamyd, So malapertly to shewe out thy constreynt; But povert hath so nyh thy tonne attamyd, That nichil habet is cause of thy compleynt. A drye tisyk makith oold men ful feynt; Reediest weye to renewe ther corage, Is a fresshe dragge of no spycis meynt, But of a briht plate, enpreentyd with coignage. Thu mayst afferme, as for thyn excus, Thy bareyn soyl is sool and solitarye; Of cros nor pyl ther is no reclus, Preent nor impressione in al thy seyntuarye. To conclude breefly, and nat tarye, Ther is no noyse herd in thyn hermytage; God sende soone a gladdere letuarye, With a cleer sone of plate, and of coignage.