The Poetical Works of John Skelton, Volume 2 (of 2)

Name: The Poetical Works of John Skelton, Volume 2 (of 2)
Author: Skelton, John

Skelton, John

English poetry -- Early modern, 1500-1700

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 a _tot 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 syde                                               200
  With pompe and with pryde,
  With, trompe vp, alleluya!
  For dame Philargerya[147]
  Hathe so his herte in holde,
  He loueth nothyng but golde;

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The Poetical Works of John Skelton, Volume 2 (of 2)

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