Читать книгу Poetry - John Skelton - Страница 37

Table of Contents

The Genealogye of Heresye. Compyled by Ponce Pantolabus. Imprynted at London In Pater noster rowe. At the signe of our ladye pytye [some copies, our fadyr Pyte] By Johan Redman. Ad imprimendum solum, 1542: another edition was printed by Robert Wyer: vide Typograph. Antiq. iii. 59, 182. ed. Dibdin (the size of them not mentioned). The author was John Huntingdon.

These editions I have not seen: the whole of the tract, however, seems to be quoted in A mysterye of inyquyte contayned within the heretycall Genealogye of Ponce Pantolabus, is here both dysclosed & confuted By Johan Bale An. M.D.XLII. 12mo, Geneva, 1545, from which I subjoin the following passages:

“Blynde obstynacye

Begate heresye,

By a myschaunce,

Of dame ignoraunce.

Heresye begate

Stryfe and debate.

Debate and ambycyon

Begate supersticyon.

Supersticion playne

Begate disdayne.

Dysdayne of trowthe

Begate slowthe.

Slowthe & sluggyshnesse

Begate wylfulnesse.

Wylfulnesse, verelye

Nygh cosyne to heresye,

Begate myschefe,

Father of Wyclefe,

Which ded bringe inne

His grandfather synne.

After this brother

Came forth an other;

His name to discusse,

Menne called him Husse;

He and his cumpanye

Began in Germanye.

And after that

Came in a gnat

Of the same kynde,

Whose sowle is blynde;

His name you shall here,

Menne call him Luthere.

He by his meane

Hath bannyshed cleane

Out of that coste

The Holye Ghoste,

And hath brought inne

Lyberte and synne.

Next after him,

Is his chefe lym

One Melanchtonus,

Nequaquam bonus.

Next after this whelpe

Came in to helpe

One Oecolampadius,

With his brother Zuinglius.

…

And for this tyme

Here endeth my ryme,

The Genealogye

Of stynkynge heresye:

Wherin I requyre

And humblye desyre

All menne ywys

That shall rede this,

Aboue all thinge

To praye for our kynge,

And the quene also

Where so euer she go,

And for the sauegarde

Of our prince Edwarde,

Whom I praye Jesu

Longe to contynewe!

Amen.”

From A pore helpe.

The bukler and defence

Of mother holy kyrke,

And weapē to driue hence

Al that against her wircke.

12mo, without date or printer’s name.

“Wyll none in all this lande

Step forth, and take in hande

These felowes to withstande,

In nombre lyke the sande,

That with the Gospell melles,

And wyll do nothynge elles

But tratlynge tales telles

Agaynst our holy prelacie

And holy churches dygnitie,

Sayinge it is but papistrie,

Yea, fayned and hipocrisy,

Erronious and heresye,

And taketh theyr aucthoritie

Out of the holy Euangelie,

All customes ceremoniall

And rytes ecclesiasticall,

Not grounded on Scripture,

No longer to endure?

And thus, ye maye be sure,

The people they alure

And drawe them from your lore,

The whiche wyll greve you sore;

Take hede, I saye, therfore,

Your nede was neuer more.

But sens ye be so slacke,

It greueth me, alacke,

To heare behynde your backe

Howe they wyll carpe and cracke,

And none of you that dare

With[150] one of them compare.

Yet some there be that are

So bolde to shewe theyr ware,

And is no priest nor deacon,

And yet wyll fyre his becone

Agaynst suche fellowes frayle,

Make out with tothe and nayle,

And hoyste vp meyne sayle,

And manfully to fyght,

In holy prelates ryght,

With penne and ynke and paper,

And lyke no triflynge iaper

To touche these felowes indede

With all expedient spede,

And not before it nede:

And I indede am he

That wayteth for to se

Who dare so hardy be

To encounter here with me;

I stande here in defence

Of some that be far hence,

And can both blysse and sence,

And also vndertake

Ryght holy thynges to make,

Yea, God within a cake;

And who so that forsake

His breade shall be dowe bake;

I openly professe

The holy blyssed masse

Of strength to be no lesse

Then it was at the fyrst:

But I wolde se who durst

Set that amonge the worst,

For he shulde be accurst

With boke, bell, and candell,

And so I wolde hym handell

That he shulde ryght well knowe

Howe to escape, I trowe,

So hardy on his heade,

Depraue our holy breade,

Or els to prate or patter

Agaynst our holy watter.

This is a playne matter,

It nedeth not to flatter:

They be suche holy thynges

As hath ben vsed with kynges;

And yet these lewde loselles,

That bragge vpon theyr Gospelles,

At ceremonies swelles,

And at our christined belles,

And at our longe gownes,

And at your shauen crownes,

And at your typ[i]ttes fyne,

The iauelles wyll repyne.

They saye ye leade euyll lyues

With other mennes wyues,

And wyll none of your owne,

And so your sede is sowne

In other mennes grounde,

True wedlocke to confounde:

Thus do they rayle and raue,

Callynge euery priest knaue,

That loueth messe to saye,

And after ydle all daye:

They wolde not haue you playe

To dryue the tyme awaye,

But brabble on the Byble,

Whiche is but impossible

To be learned in all your lyfe;

Yet therin be they ryfe,

Whiche maketh all this stryfe,” &c.

From The Vpcheringe of the Messe: Inprinted at Lōdon by John Daye and Willyam Seres, 12mo, n. d.

“Who hath not knowen or herd

How we were made afeard

That, magre of our beard,

Our messe shulde cleane awaye,

That we did dayly saye,

And vtterly decaye

For euer and for aye?

So were we brought in doubte

That all that are deuout

Were like to go withoute

The messe that hath no peere,

Which longe hath taried here,

Yea, many an hundreth yere,

And to be destitute

Of that whiche constitute

Was of the highe depute

Of Christe and his apostles;

Althoughe none of the Gospels

No mention maketh or tells,

We must beleue (what ells?)

Of things done by councells,

Wherein the high professours,

Apostlique successours,

Take holde to be possessours;

And some were made confessours;

Some of them were no startars,

But were made holi marters:

Yet plowmen, smythes, & cartars,

With such as be their hartars,

Will enterprise to taxe

Thes auncyent mens actes

And holy fathers factes.

Thoughe messe were made bi men,

As popes nyne or ten,

Or many more, what then?

Or not of Scripture grounded,

Is yt therfore confounded

To be a supersticion?

Nay, nay, they mysse the quission:

Make better inquyssicion;

Ye haue an euyll condicion

To make suche exposicion;

Ye thinke nothing but Scripture

Is only clene and pure;

Yes, yes, I you ensure,

The messe shalbe hir better,

As light as ye do set hir.

The Scripture hath nothing

Wherby profyte to bryng,

But a lytyll preaching,

With tattling and teaching;

And nothing can ye espie

Nor se with outwarde eye,

But must your ears applie

To learnyng inwardlye;

And who so it will folowe,

In goods though he may walow,

If Scripture once him swalowe,

She wyll vndo him holowe;

Wherfore no good mes singers

Will come within hir fyngers,

But are hir vnder styngers,

For she wolde fayne vndo

All such as lyueth so.

To the messe she is an enymye,

And wolde distroye hir vtterlye,

Wer not for sum that frendfully

In time of nede will stand hir by.

Yet is the messe and she as lyke

As a Christian to an heretike:

The messe hath holy vestures,

And many gay gestures,

And decked with clothe of golde,

And vessells many folde,

Right galaunt to beholde,

More then may well be tolde,

With basen, ewer, and towell,

And many a prety jwelle,

With goodly candellstyckes,

And many proper tryckys,

With cruetts gilt and chalys,

Wherat some men haue malice,

With sensers, and with pax,

And many other knackys,

With patent, and with corporas,

The fynest thing that euer was.

Alasse, is it not pitie

That men be no more wittye

But on the messe to iest,

Of all suche thinge the best?

For if she were supprest,

A pyn for all the rest.

…

A, good mestres Missa,

Shal ye go from vs thissa?

Wel, yet I muste ye kissa:

Alacke, for payne I pyssa,

To se the mone here issa,

Because ye muste departe!

It greueth many an herte

That ye should from them start:

But what then? tushe, a farte!

Sins other shifte is none,

But she must neades be gone,

Nowe let vs synge eche one,

Boeth Jak and Gyll and Jone,

Requiem eternam,

Lest penam sempiternam

For vitam supernam,

And vmbram infernam

For veram lucernam,

She chaunce to enherite,

According to hir merite.

Pro cuius memoria

Ye maye wel be soria;

Full smale maye be your gloria,

When ye shal heare thys storia;

Then wil ye crie and roria,

We shal se[151] hir no moria:

Et dicam vobis quare

She may no longer stare,

Nor here with you regnare,

But trudge ad vltra mare,

And after habitare

In regno Plutonico

Et euo acronyco,

Cum cetu Babilonico

Et cantu diabolico,

With pollers and piller[s],

And al hir well willers,

And ther to dwel euer:

And thus wil I leaue hir.”

From Phylogamus, 12mo, without date or printer’s name—of which the title-page and five leaves are preserved in a volume of Ballads and Fragments in the British Museum. The late Mr. Douce has written below the title-page “Probably by Skelton;” but it is certainly not his.

“Gyue place, ye poetes fine,

Bow doune now & encline;

For nowe yᵉ Muses nyne,

So sacred and diuine,

In Parnase holy hyll

Haue wrought theyr worthy wyll.

And by theyr goodly skyll

Vppon that myghty mountayne

In Hellycons fountayne, &c.

…

O poete so impudent,

Whyche neuer yet was studente,

To thee the goddes prudente

Minerua is illudente!

Thou wrytest thynges dyffuse,

Incongrue and confuse,

Obfuscate and obtuse;

No man the lyke doth use

Among the Turckes or Jewes;

Alwayes inuentyng newes

That are incomparable,

They be so fyrme and stable:

Lyke as a shyppe is able,

Wythout ancre and cable,

Roother, maste, or sayle,

Pully, rope, or nayle,

In wynde, weather, or hayle,

To guyde both top and tayle,

And not the course to fayle;

So thys our poet maye,

Wythout a stopp or staye,

In cunnynge wend the way,

As wel by darke as day,

And neuer go astray,

Yf yt be as they saye.

O poet rare and recent,

Dedecorate and indecent,

Insolent and insensate,

Contendyng and condensate,

Obtused and obturate,

Obumbylate, obdurate,

Sparyng no priest or curate,

Cyuylyan or rurate,

That be alredy marryed,

And from theyr vow bene varyed,

Wherto the Scrypture them caried!

They myght as wel haue taryed;

I sweare by the north doore rood,

That stowte was whyle he stood,

That they had bene as good

To haue solde theyr best blew hood;

For I am in suche a moode,

That for my power and parte,

Wyth al my wyt and arte,

Wyth whole intent and harte,

I wyl so at them darte,” &c.

The Copye of a letter, sent by John Bradford to the right honorable lordes the Erles of Arundel, Darbie, Shrewsbury, & Penbroke, declarīg the nature of spaniardes, and discouering the most detestable treasons, whiche they haue pretended moste falselye againste oure moste noble kyngdome of Englande. Whereunto is added a tragical blast of the papisticall trōpet for mayntenaunce of the Popes kingdome in Englande. by. T.E. If ye beleue the trueth, ye saue your liues, &c. 12mo, and without date or printer’s name on the title-page: the copy now before me is imperfect at the end, where perhaps both are given. According to Herbert’s Ames’s Typ. Antiq. iii. 1582, this piece was printed in 1555.

In the two subjoined passages (perhaps in more) of this tract, the author adopts the Skeltonic metre, though the whole is printed as prose:—

“There be many other noble menne [among the Spaniards, besides the duke of Medena-zelie] vndoubtedly very wise and politik, which can throughe their wisdome binde themselues for a time from their nature, and applye their condicions to the maners of those menne with whom they would gladlye bee frended; whose mischeuouse maners a man shal neuer knowe, till he come vnder their subiection. But then shall ye perceiue perfectly their puffed pride, with many mischeffes beside, their prowling and poling, their bribinge and shauing, their most deceitfull dealing, their braging and bosting, their flatteringe and faininge, their abominable whorehuntynge, with most rufull ruling, | their doings vniust, | with insaciate lust, | their stout stubbernnes, | croked crabbednes, | and vnmeasurable madnes, | in enui, pride, and lecherie, | which, thei saie, God loueth hartelie, | vaineglorie and hipocrisie, | with al other vilanie | of what kinde soeuer it be; | supersticion, desolacion, extorcion, adulacion, dissimulacion, exaltacion, suppression, inuocacion, and all abominacion; with innumerable moe mischeues, whiche I coulde plainlie declare, that no nacion in the world can suffer. Their masking and mumbling | in the holi time of lent | maketh many wiues brente, | the king being present, | nighte after nighte, | as a prince of moste mighte, | which hath power in his hande | that no man dare withstande: | yet if that were the greatest euil, | we might suffer it wel, | for there is no man liuing | but would suffer the king | to haue wife, sister, doughter, maide and all, | bothe great & smal, | so many as he liste, | no man would him resist; | but the worst of all the companie | muste haue my wife priuelie, | when I am present bi; | this is more vilanie, | that one muste kepe the dore; | will not that greue you sore? | & dare not speake for your life, | when another hath youre wife,” | &c. Sig. B i.

“Ye wil say, the Spaniards kepe their olde rentaking: how can that be, when euery poore man must pay yerely for euery chimney in his house, and euery other place that is to make fire in, as ouen, fornes, and smithes forge, a Frenche crowne? wil Englishmen, or can thei, suffer to be poled and pilled moste miserably, in payeng continually suche poling pence and intollerable tollages for all maner graine and breade, befe, beare and mutton, goose, pigge and capone, henne, mallard and chicken, milk, butter and chese, egges, apples & peares, | wine white and reade, | with all other wines beside, | salt white and graye? | al thinges must pay; | small nuttes and wallnuttes, | cheries and chestnuttes, | plumbes, damassens, philbeardes, and al | both gret & smal, | whatsoeuer thei maye se, | to fede the pore commenalte; | salmon and hearing; | this is a shamefull thing; | tench, ele or conger; | this shall kepe vs vnder, | and make vs die for hunger; | flounders, floucke, plaice or carpe; | here is a miserable warke | that Englande must abide | to maintaine Spanishe pride,” &c. Sig. F ii.

From Doctour Doubble Ale—12mo, without printer’s name or date.

“Although I lacke intelligence,

And can not skyll of eloquence,

Yet wyll I do my diligence

To say sumthing or I go hence,

Wherein I may demonstrate

The figure, gesture, and estate

Of one that is a curate,

That harde is and endurate,

And ernest in the cause

Of piuish popish lawes,

That are not worth two strawes,

Except it be with dawes,

That knoweth not good from euels,

Nor Gods worde from the deuels,

Nor wyll in no wise heare

The worde of God so cleare,

But popishnes vpreare,

And make the pope Gods peare.

…

Now let vs go about

To tell the tale out

Of this good felow stout,

That for no man wyll dout,

But kepe his olde condicions

For all the newe comyssions,

And vse his supersticions,

And also mens tradycions,

And syng for dead folkes soules,

And reade hys beaderolles,

And all such thinges wyll vse

As honest men refuse:

But take hym for a cruse,

And ye wyll tell me newes;

For if he ons begyn,

He leaueth nought therin;

He careth not a pyn

How much ther be wythin,

So he the pot may wyn,

He wyll it make full thyn;

And wher the drinke doth please

There wyll he take his ease,

And drinke therof his fyll,

Tyll ruddy be his byll;

And fyll both cup and can,

Who is so glad a man

As is our curate than?

I wolde ye knewe it, a curate

Not far without Newgate;

Of a parysh large

The man hath mikle charge,

And none within this border

That kepeth such order,

Nor one a this syde Nauerne

Louyth better the ale tauerne:

But if the drinke be small,

He may not well withall;

Tush, cast it on the wall!

It fretteth out his gall;

Then seke an other house,

This is not worth a louse,

As dronken as a mouse,

Monsyre gybet a vous!

And ther wyll byb and bouse,

Tyll heuy be his brouse.

…

Thus may ye beholde

This man is very bolde,

And in his learning olde

Intendeth for to syt:

I blame hym not a whyt,

For it wolde vexe his wyt,

And cleane agaynst his earning,

To folow such learning

As now a dayes is taught;

It wolde sone bryng to naught

His olde popish brayne,

For then he must agayne

Apply hym to the schole,

And come away a fole,

For nothing shulde he get,

His brayne hath bene to het

And with good ale so wet;

Wherefore he may now set

In feldes and in medes,

And pray vpon his beades,

For yet he hath a payre

Of beades that be right fayre,

Of corall, gete, or ambre,

At home within his chambre;

For in matins or masse

Primar and portas,

And pottes and beades,

His lyfe he leades:

But this I wota,

That if ye nota

How this idiota

Doth folow the pota,

I holde you a grota

Ye wyll rede by rota

That he may were a cota

In Cocke Lorels[152] bota.

Thus the durty doctour,

The popes oune proctour,

Wyll bragge and boost

Wyth ale and a toost,

And lyke a rutter

Hys Latin wyll vtter,

And turne and tosse hym,

Wyth tu non possum

Loquere Latinum;

This alum finum

Is bonus then vinum;

Ego volo quare

Cum tu drinkare

Pro tuum caput,

Quia apud

Te propiciacio,

Tu non potes facio

Tot quam ego;

Quam librum tu lego,

Caue de me

Apponere te:

Juro per Deum

Hoc est lifum meum,

Quia drinkum stalum

Non facere malum.

Thus our dominus dodkin

Wyth ita vera bodkin

Doth leade his lyfe,

Which to the ale wife

Is very profitable:

It is pytie he is not able

To mayntayne a table

For beggers and tinkers

And all lusty drinkers,

Or captayne or beddle

Wyth dronkardes to meddle.

Ye cannot, I am sure,

For keping of a cure

Fynde such a one well,

If ye shulde rake hell:

And therefore nowe

No more to you,

Sed perlegas ista,

Si velis, papista;

Farewell and adewe,

With a whirlary whewe,

And a tirlary typpe;

Beware of the whyppe.”

[150] With] Old ed. “Whiche.”

[151] se] Old ed. “so.”

[152] Lorels] Old ed. “losels.”

From A Commemoration or Dirige of Bastarde Edmonde Boner, alias Sauage, vsurped Bisshoppe of London. Compiled by Lemeke Auale. Episcopatum eius accipiet alter. Anno Domini. 1569. Imprinted by P. O. 8vo (a tract, chiefly in verse and of various metres: see Notes, vol. ii. 121.)

“The fifte lesson.

Homo natus.

“Homo natus

Came to heauen gatus.

Sir, you doe come to latus,

With your shorne patus:

Frequentia falsa Euangelii,

For the loue of your bealie,

Cum auro & argento,

You loued the rules of Lento,

Whiche the Pope did inuento:

You are spurius de muliere.

Not legittimate nor lawful here:

O quam[153] venenosa pestis,

Fur, periurus, latro, mechus,

Homicidis[154] tantum decus!

De salute animarum,

Of Christes flocke thou hadest small carum:

Thou art filius populi:

Go, go to Constantinopoli,

To your maister the Turke;

There shall you lurke

Emong the heathen soules.

Somtyme your shorne brethren of Poules

Were as blacke as moules,

With their cappes fower forked,

Their shoes warme corked;

Nosed like redde grapes,

Constant as she apes,

In nature like blacke monkes,

And shoote in sparowes trunkes,

And boule when thei haue dinde,

And kepe them from the winde;

And thei whiche are not able

Doe sitte still at the table,

With colour scarlet pale,

So small is their good ale:

Thus from God thei did tourne,

Long before their church did burne.

Then when riche men wer sicke,

Either dedde or quicke,

Valde diligenter notant

Vbi diuites egrotant;

Ibi currunt, nec cessabunt

Donec ipsos tumilabunt;

Oues alienas tondunt,

Et perochias confundunt.

These felowes pilde as ganders,

Muche like the friers of Flanders,

Whiche serue Sathan about the cloisters,

Thei loue red wine and oisters.

Qui vult Satanæ seruire,

Claustrum debet introire,

And euer haue suche an hedde

As bastarde Boner that is dedde.

He would for the Pope take pain;

Therfore help, you friers of Spain,

You enquisiters, take paine:

It is a greate maine

Vnto the Pope, your hedde,

That Boner is thus dedde,

And buried in a misers graue,

Like a common k[naue].

Lo, lo, now is he dedde,

That was so well fedde,

And had a softe bedde!

Estote fortis in bello,

Good Hardyng and thy fellowe;

If you be papistes right,

Come steale hym awaie by night,

And put hym in a shrine;

He was the Popes deuine;

Why, shall he be forgotten,

And lye still and rotten?

Come on, and doe not fainte;

Translate with spede your sainct,

And put hym in a tombe:

His harte is now at Rome.

Come forth, you loughtes of Louen,

And steale awaie this slouen:

You are so full of ire,

And popishe desire,

And Romishe derision,

And hellishe deuision,

Therefore I am sure

Your kyngdome will not dure.”

Sig. B iii.

…

“Responde.

Ne recorderis peccata,

But open heauen gata,

Sainct Peter, with your kaies;

Shewe my lorde the right waies:

He dwelt ones at Poules,

And had cure of our soules:

I wisse, he was not a baste,

But holie, meke, and chaste;

It is a greate pitie

That he is gone from our citie;

A man of greate honor;

O holy sainct Boner!

You blessed friers

That neuer wer liers,

And you holy nunnes

That neuer had sonnes,

Set this child of grace

In some angelles place.”

Sig. B vii.