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Sithe ye haue me chalyngyd, M[aster] Garnesche,

Ruduly revilyng me in the kynges noble hall,

Soche an odyr chalyngyr cowde me no man wysch,[545]

But yf yt war Syr Tyrmagant that tyrnyd with out nall;[546]

For Syr Frollo de Franko was neuer halfe so talle.

But sey me now, Syr Satrapas, what autoryte ye haue

In your chalenge, Syr Chystyn, to cale me knaue?

What, haue ye kythyd yow a knyght, Syr Dugles the dowty,

So currysly to beknaue me in the kynges place?[547]

Ye stronge sturdy stalyon, so sterne and stowty, 10

Ye bere yow bolde as Barabas, or Syr Terry of Trace;[548]

Ye gyrne grymly with your gomys and with your grysly face.

But sey me yet, Syr Satropas, what auctoryte ye haue

In your chalange, Syr Chesten, to calle me a knaue?

Ye fowle, fers and felle, as Syr Ferumbras the ffreke,

Syr capten of Catywade, catacumbas of Cayre,

Thow ye be lusty as Syr Lybyus launces to breke,

Yet your contenons oncomly, your face ys nat fayer:

For alle your proude prankyng, your pride may apayere.

But sey me yet, Syr Satrapas, wat auctoryte ye haue 20

In your chalenge, Syr Chesten, to cal me a knaue?

Of Mantryble the Bryge, Malchus the murryon,

Nor blake Baltazar with hys basnet routh as a bere,

Nor Lycon, that lothly luske, in myn opynyon,

Nor no bore so brymly brystlyd ys with here,

As ye ar brystlyd on the bake for alle your gay gere.

[But sey me yet, Syr Satrapas, what auctoryte ye haue

In your chalenge, Syr Chesten, to calle me a knaue?]

Your wynde schakyn shankkes, your longe lothy legges,

Crokyd as a camoke, and as a kowe calfles, 30

Bryngges yow out of fauyr with alle femall teggys:

That mastres Punt put yow of, yt was nat alle causeles;

At Orwelle hyr hauyn your anggre was laules.

[But sey me yet, Syr Satrapas, what auctoryte ye haue

In your chalenge, Syr Chesten, to calle me a knaue?]

I sey, ye solem Sarson, alle blake ys your ble;

As a glede glowynge, your ien glyster as glasse,

Rowlynge in yower holow hede, vgly to see;

Your tethe teintyd with tawny; your semely[549] snowte doth passe,

Howkyd as an hawkys beke, lyke Syr Topyas. 40

Boldly bend you to batell, and buske your selfe to saue:

Chalenge your selfe for a fole, call me no more knaue.

Be the kynges most noble commandement.

[544] Skelton Lauriate, &c.] These Poems against Garnesche (now for the first time printed) are from a MS. in the Harleian Collection, 367 (fol. 101), which is in many parts scarcely legible, being written in a hand very difficult to decipher, as well as being much injured by damp.

[545] wysch] So MS. seems to read.

[546] with out nall] Seems to be the reading of MS.—“nall” having been added, instead of “alle” which is drawn through with the pen.

[547] place] Might be read perhaps “palace.”

[548] Trace] MS. “Tracy.”

[549] semely] Appears at first sight to be “sriuely;” but compare v. 131 of the concluding poem against Garnesche.