As prouithe well, in hys Rethorikys olde, Cicero with hys tong of golde. That nature wrowght in yow and me, Irreuocable ys hyr decre; Waywardly wrowght she hath in thé, Beholde thi selfe, and thou mayst se; Thow xalte beholde no wher a warse, They[560] myrrour may be the deuyllys ars. Wyth, knaue, syr knaue, and knaue ageine! To cal me knaue thou takyst gret payne: 20 The prowdyst knaue yet of vs tewyne Within thy skyn he xall remayne; The starkest knaue, and lest good kan, Thou art callyd of euery man; The corte, the contre, wylage, and towne, Sayth from thy to vnto thi croune,[561] Of all prowde knauys thow beryst the belle, Lothsum as Lucifer lowest in helle. On that syde, on thys syde thou dost gasy, Thou thynkyst thy selfe Syr Pers de Brasy, 30 Thy caytyvys carkes cours and crasy; Moche of thy maneres I can[562] blasy. Of Lumbardy Gorge Hardyson, Thow wolde haue scoryd hys habarion; That jentyll Jorge the Januay, Ye wolde haue trysyd hys trowle away: Soche paiantes with your fryndes ye play, With trechery ye them betray. Garnyshe, ye gate of Gorge with gaudry Crimsin velvet for your bawdry. 40 Ye haue a fantasy to Fanchyrche strete, With Lumbardes lemmanns for to mete, With, Bas me, buttyng, praty Cys! Yower lothesum lypps loue well to kyse, Slaueryng lyke a slymy snayle; I wolde ye had kyst hyr on the tayle! Also nat fare from Bowgy row, Ye pressyd pertely to pluk a crow: Ye lost your holde,[563] onbende your bow, Ye wan nothyng there but a mow; 50 Ye wan nothyng there but a skorne; Sche wolde nat of yt thow had sworne. Sche seyd ye war coluryd with cole dust; To daly with yow she had no lust. Sche seyd your brethe stanke lyke a broke; With, Gup, Syr Gy, ye gate a moke. Sche sware with hyr ye xulde nat dele, For ye war smery, lyke a sele, And ye war herey, lyke a calfe; Sche praiid yow walke, on Goddes halfe! 60 And thus there ye lost yower pray; Get ye anothyr where ye may. Dysparage ye myn auncetry? Ye ar dysposyd for to ly: I sey, thow felle and fowle flessh fly, In thys debate I thé askry. Thow claimist thé jentyll, thou art a curre; Haroldis they know thy cote armur: Thow thou be a jantyll man borne, Yet jentylnes in thé ys thred bare worne; 70 Haroldes from honor may thé devors, For harlottes hawnte thyn hatefull cors: Ye bere out brothells lyke a bawde; Ye get therby a slendyr laude Betweyn the tappett and the walle,— Fusty bawdyas! I sey nat alle. Of harlottes to vse soche an harres, Yt bredth mothys in clothe of Arres. What eylythe thé, rebawde, on me to raue? A kyng to me myn habyte gaue: 80 At Oxforth, the vniversyte, Auaunsid I was to that degre;