Why so koy and full of skorne? Myne horse is sold, I wene, you say; My new furryd gowne, when it is worne, 10 Put vp youre purs, ye shall non pay. By crede, I trust to se the day, As proud a pohen as ye sprede, Of me and other ye may haue nede. Though angelyk be youre smylyng, Yet is youre tong an adders tayle, Full lyke a scorpyon styngyng All those by whom ye haue auayle: Good mastres Anne, there ye do shayle: What prate ye, praty pyggysny? 20 I truste to quyte you or I dy. Youre key is mete for euery lok, Youre key is commen and hangyth owte; Youre key is redy, we nede not knok, Nor stand long wrestyng there aboute; Of youre doregate ye haue no doute: But one thyng is, that ye be lewde: Holde youre tong now, all beshrewde! To mastres Anne, that farly swete, That wonnes at the Key in Temmys strete. 30 _Here folowythe dyuers Balettys[225] and Dyties solacyous, deuysyd by Master Skelton, Laureat._ With, Lullay, lullay, lyke a chylde, Thou slepyst to long, thou art begylde. My darlyng dere, my daysy floure, Let me, quod he, ly in your lap. Ly styll, quod she, my paramoure, Ly styll hardely, and take a nap. Hys bed was heuy, such was his hap, All drowsy dremyng, dround in slepe, That of hys loue he toke no kepe, With, Hey, lullay, &c. With ba, ba, ba, and bas, bas, bas, She cheryshed hym both cheke and chyn, That he wyst neuer where he was; 10 He had forgoten all dedely syn. He wantyd wyt her loue to wyn: He trusted her payment, and lost all hys pray:[226] She left hym slepyng, and stale away, Wyth, Hey, lullay, &c. The ryuers rowth, the waters wan; She sparyd not to wete her fete; She wadyd ouer, she found a man That halsyd her hartely and kyst her swete: Thus after her cold she cought a hete. My lefe, she sayd, rowtyth in hys bed; 20 I wys he hath an heuy bed, Wyth, Hey, lullay, &c. What dremyst thou, drunchard, drousy pate! Thy lust and lykyng is from thé gone; Thou blynkerd blowboll, thou wakyst to late, Behold, thou lyeste, luggard, alone! Well may thou sygh, well may thou grone, To dele wyth her so cowardly: I wys, powle hachet, she bleryd thyne I. Qd Skelton, laureate. * * * * * The auncient acquaintance, madam, betwen vs twayn, The famylyaryte, the formar dalyaunce, Causyth me that I can not myself refrayne But that I must wryte for my plesaunt pastaunce: Remembryng your passyng goodly countenaunce, Your goodly port, your bewteous visage, Ye may be countyd comfort of all corage.