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Good Cassander,
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought,
Far may be sought
Ere that ye can find
So courteous, so kind
As Merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.
Ma
Aye, beshrew you, by my fay,
These wanton clerks be nice alway,
Avaunt, avaunt, my popagay!
“What, will ye do nothing but play?”
Tilly vally straw, let be I say!
Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!
With Ma
“By God, ye be a pretty pode,
And I love you an whole cartload”.
Straw, James Foder, ye play the fode,
I am no hackney for your rod:
Go watch a bull, your back is broad!
Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!
With Ma
Ywis ye deal uncourteously;
What, would ye frumple me? now fie!
What, and ye shall not be my pigsny?”
By Christ, ye shall not, no hardily:
I will not be japed bodily!
Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!
With Ma
“Walk forth your way, ye cost me naught;
Now have I found that I have sought:
The best cheap flesh that ever I bought”.
Yet, for his love that hath all wrought,
Wed me, or else I die for thought.
Gup, Christian Clout, your breath is stale!
With Ma
Gup, Christian Clout, gup, Jack of the Vale!
With Ma
* * *
Womanhood, wanton, ye want:
Your meddling, mistress, is ma
Plenty of ill, of goodness scant,
Ye rail at riot, reckless:
To praise your port it is needless;
For all your draff yet and your dregs,
As well borne as ye full oft time begs.
Why so coy and full of scorn?
Mine horse is sold, I ween, you say;
My new furrèd gown, when it is worn…
Put up your purse, ye shall not pay!
By crede, I trust to see the day,
As proud a pea-hen as ye spread,
Of me and other ye may have need!
Though angelic be your smiling,
Yet is your tongue an adder’s tail,
Full like a scorpion stinging
All those by whom ye have avail.
Good mistress A
What prate ye, pretty pigesnye?
I trust to ’quite you ere I die!
Your key is meet for every lock,
Your key is common and hangeth out;
Your key is ready, we need not knock,
Nor stand long wresting there about;
Of your door-gate ye have no doubt:
But one thing is, that ye be lewd:
Hold your tongue now, all beshrewd!
To mistress A
That wones at The Key in Thames Street.
Upon a Dead Man’s Head
That was sent to him from an honorable gentlewoman for a token, Skelton, Laureate, devised this ghostly meditation in English covenable, in sentence, сommendable, lamentable, lacrimable, profitable for the soul.
Your ugly token
My mind hath broken
From worldly lust;
For I have discussed,
We are but dust
And die we must.
It is general
To be mortal;
I have well espied
No man may him hide
From Death hollow-eyed
With sinews wyderéd
With bones shyderéd,
With his worm-eaten maw
And his ghastly jaw
Gaping aside,
Naked of hide,
Neither flesh nor fell!
Then, by my counsel
Look that ye spell!
Well this gospel,
For whereso we dwell
Death will us quell
And with us mell!
For all our pampered paunches
There may no fraunchis!
Nor worldly bliss
Redeem us from this:
Our days be dated
To be checkmated
With draughtes of death