that euer I gaue you, and this O is the laste that euer I wyll gyue you whyle I lyue. At which answere all that were by made great laughter, and they all de[sired the bishoppe] to be good lorde vnto him for his merye conceytes: at which [earnest entrety, as it] wente, the bysshope was contente to take hym vnto his fauer agayne. By thys tale ye may se that mery conceytes dothe [a man more] good than to frete hymselfe with a[nger] and melancholy.” From _Tales, and quicke answeres, very mery, and pleasant to rede_. 4to. n. d., printed by Thomas Berthelet. (See Singer’s reprint, p. 9.) “Of the beggers answere to M. Skelton the poete. xiii. A poure begger, that was foule, blacke, and lothlye to beholde, cam vpon a tyme vnto mayster Skelton the poete, and asked him his almes. To whom mayster Skelton sayde, I praye the gette the awaye fro me, for thou lokeste as though thou camest out of helle. The poure man, perceyuing he wolde gyue him no thynge, answerd, For soth, syr, ye say trouth; I came oute of helle. Why dyddest thou nat tary styl there? quod mayster Skelton. Mary, syr, quod the begger, there is no roume for suche poure beggers as I am; all is kepte for suche gentyl men as ye be.” Prefixed to _Pithy pleasaunt and profitable workes of maister Skelton, Poete Laureate. Nowe collected and newly published. Anno 1568._ 12mo. “If slouth and tract of time (That wears eche thing away) Should rust and canker worthy artes, Good works would soen decay. If suche as present are Forgoeth the people past, Our selu[e]s should soen in silence slepe, And loes renom at last. No soyll nor land so rude But som odd men can shoe: Than should the learned pas unknowne, Whoes pen & skill did floe? God sheeld our slouth[146] wear sutch, Or world so simple nowe, That knowledge scaept without reward, Who sercheth vertue throwe, And paints forth vyce aright, And blames abues of men, And shoes what lief desarues rebuke, And who the prayes of pen. You see howe forrayn realms Aduance their poets all; And ours are drowned in the dust, Or flong against the wall. In Fraunce did Marrot raigne; And neighbour thear vnto Was Petrark, marching full with Dantte, Who erst did wonders do; Among the noble Grekes Was Homere full of skill; And where that Ouid norisht was The soyll did florish still With letters hie of style; But Virgill wan the fraes,[147] And past them all for deep engyen, And made them all to gaes Upon the bookes he made: Thus eche of them, you see, Wan prayse and fame, and honor had, Eche one in their degree. I pray you, then, my friendes, Disdaine not for to vewe The workes and sugred verses fine Of our raer poetes newe; Whoes barborus language rued Perhaps ye may mislike; But blame them not that ruedly playes If they the ball do strike, Nor skorne not mother tunge, O babes of Englishe breed!