Читать книгу Poetry - John Skelton - Страница 52

Pla ce bo,

Who is there, who?

Di le xi,

Dame Margery;

Fa, re, my, my,

Wherfore and why, why?

For the sowle of Philip Sparowe,

That was late slayn at Carowe,

Among the Nones Blake,

For that swete soules sake, 10

And for all sparowes soules,

Set in our bederolles,

Pater noster qui,

With an Ave Mari,

And with the corner of a Crede,

The more shalbe your mede.

Whan I remembre agayn

How mi Philyp was slayn,

Neuer halfe the payne

Was betwene you twayne, 20

Pyramus and Thesbe,

As than befell to me:

I wept and I wayled,

The tearys downe hayled;

But nothynge it auayled

To call Phylyp agayne,

Whom Gyb our cat hath slayne.

Gib, I saye, our cat

Worrowyd her on that

Which I loued best: 30

It can not be exprest

My sorowfull heuynesse,

But all without redresse;

For within that stounde,

Halfe slumbrynge, in a sounde

I fell downe to the grounde.

Vnneth I kest myne eyes

Towarde the cloudy skyes:

But whan I dyd beholde

My sparow dead and colde, 40

No creatuer but that wolde

Haue rewed vpon me,

To behold and se

What heuynesse dyd me pange;

Wherewith my handes I wrange,

That my senaws cracked,

As though I had ben racked,

So payned and so strayned,

That no lyfe wellnye remayned.

I syghed and I sobbed, 50

For that I was robbed

Of my sparowes lyfe.

O mayden, wydow, and wyfe,

Of what estate ye be,

Of hye or lowe degre,

Great sorowe than ye myght se,

And lerne to wepe at me!

Such paynes dyd me frete,

That myne hert dyd bete,

My vysage pale and dead, 60

Wanne, and blewe as lead;

The panges of hatefull death

Wellnye had[336] stopped my breath.

Heu, heu, me,

That I am wo for thé!

Ad Dominum, cum tribularer, clamavi:

Of God nothynge els craue I

But Phyllypes soule to kepe

From the marees deepe

Of Acherontes well, 70

That is a flode of hell;

And from the great Pluto,

The prynce of endles wo;

And from foule Alecto,

With vysage blacke and blo;

And from Medusa, that mare,

That lyke a fende doth stare;

And from Megeras edders,

For[337] rufflynge of Phillips fethers,

And from her fyry sparklynges, 80

For burnynge of his wynges;

And from the smokes sowre

Of Proserpinas bowre;

And from the dennes darke,

Wher Cerberus doth barke,

Whom Theseus dyd afraye,

Whom Hercules dyd outraye,

As famous poetes say;

From[338] that hell hounde,

That lyeth in cheynes bounde, 90

With gastly hedes thre,

To Jupyter pray we

That Phyllyp preserued may be!

Amen, say ye with me!

Do mi nus,

Helpe nowe, swete Jesus!

Levavi oculos meos in montes:[339]

Wolde God I had Zenophontes,[340]

Or Socrates the wyse,

To shew me their deuyse, 100

Moderatly to take

This sorow that I make

For Phyllip Sparowes sake!

So feruently I shake,

I fele my body quake;

So vrgently I am brought

Into carefull thought.

Like Andromach,[341] Hectors wyfe,

Was wery of her lyfe,

Whan she had lost her ioye, 110

Noble Hector of Troye;

In lyke maner also

Encreaseth my dedly wo,

For my sparowe is go.

It was so prety a fole,

It wold syt[342] on a stole,

And lerned after my scole

For to kepe his cut,

With, Phyllyp, kepe your cut!

It had a veluet cap, 120

And wold syt vpon my lap,

And seke after small wormes,

And somtyme white bred crommes;

And many tymes and ofte

Betwene my brestes softe

It wolde lye and rest;

It was propre and prest.

Somtyme he wolde gaspe

Whan he sawe a waspe;

A fly or a gnat, 130

He wolde flye at that;

And prytely he wold pant

Whan he saw an ant;

Lord, how he wolde pry

After the butterfly!

Lorde, how he wolde hop

After the gressop!

And whan I sayd, Phyp, Phyp,

Than he wold lepe and skyp,

And take me by the lyp. 140

Alas, it wyll me slo,

That Phillyp is gone me fro!

Si in i qui ta tes,

Alas, I was euyll at ease!

De pro fun dis cla ma vi,

Whan I sawe my sparowe dye!

Nowe, after my dome,

Dame Sulpicia[343] at Rome,

Whose name regystred was

For euer in tables of bras, 150

Because that[344] she dyd pas

In poesy to endyte,

And eloquently[345] to wryte,

Though she wolde pretende

My sparowe to commende,

I trowe she coude not amende

Reportynge the vertues all

Of my sparowe royall.

For it wold come and go,

And fly[346] so to and fro; 160

And on me it wolde lepe

Whan I was aslepe,

And his fethers[347] shake,

Wherewith he wolde make

Me often for to wake,

And for to take him in

Vpon my naked skyn;

God wot, we thought no syn:

What though[348] he crept so lowe?

It was no hurt, I trowe, 170

He dyd nothynge perde

But syt vpon my kne:

Phyllyp, though he were nyse,

In him it was no vyse;

Phyllyp had leue to go

To pyke my lytell too;

Phillip myght be bolde

And do what he wolde;

Phillip wolde seke and take

All the flees blake 180

That he coulde there espye

With his wanton eye.

O pe ra,

La, soll, fa, fa,

Confitebor tibi, Domine, in[349] toto corde meo.

Alas, I wold ryde and go

A thousand myle of grounde!

If any such might be found,

It were worth an hundreth pound

Of kynge Cresus golde, 190

Or of Attalus[350] the olde,

The ryche prynce of Pargame,

Who so lyst the story to se.

Cadmus, that his syster sought,

And he shold be bought

For golde and fee,

He shuld ouer the see,

To wete if he coulde brynge

Any of the ofsprynge,[351]

Or any of the blode. 200

But whoso vnderstode

Of Medeas arte,

I wolde I had a parte

Of her crafty magyke!

My sparowe than shuld be quycke

With a charme or twayne,

And playe with me agayne.

But all this is in vayne

Thus for to complayne.

I toke my sampler ones, 210

Of purpose, for the nones,

To sowe with stytchis of sylke

My sparow whyte as mylke,

That by representacyon

Of his image and facyon,

To me it myght importe

Some pleasure and comforte

For my solas and sporte:

But whan I was sowing his beke,

Methought, my sparow did speke, 220

And opened[352] his prety byll,

Saynge, Mayd, ye are in wyll

Agayne me for to kyll,

Ye prycke me in the head!

With that my nedle waxed[353] red,

Methought, of Phyllyps blode;

Myne hear ryght vpstode,

And was in suche a fray,

My speche was taken away.

I kest downe that there was, 230

And sayd, Alas, alas,

How commeth this to pas?

My fyngers, dead and colde,

Coude not my sampler holde;

My nedle and threde

I threwe away for drede.

The best now that I maye,

Is for his soule to pray:

A porta inferi,

Good Lorde, haue mercy 240

Vpon my sparowes soule,

Wryten in my bederoule!

Au di vi vo cem,

Japhet, Cam, and Sem,

Ma gni fi cat,

Shewe me the ryght path

To the hylles of Armony,

Wherfore the birdes[354] yet cry

Of your fathers bote,

That was sometyme aflote, 250

And nowe they lye and rote;

Let some poetes wryte

Deucalyons flode it hyght:

But as verely as ye be

The naturall sonnes thre

Of Noe the patryarke,

That made that great arke,

Wherin he had apes and owles,

Beestes, byrdes, and foules,

That if ye can fynde 260

Any of my sparowes kynde,

God sende the soule good rest!

I wolde haue yet[355] a nest

As prety and as prest

As my sparowe was.

But my sparowe dyd pas

All sparowes of the wode

That were syns Noes flode,

Was neuer none so good;

Kynge Phylyp of Macedony 270

Had no such Phylyp as I,

No, no, syr, hardely.

That vengeaunce I aske and crye,

By way of exclamacyon,

On all the hole nacyon

Of cattes wylde and tame;

God send them sorowe and shame!

That cat specyally

That slew so cruelly

My lytell prety sparowe 280

That I brought vp at Carowe.

O cat of carlyshe[356] kynde,

The fynde was in thy mynde

Whan thou my byrde vntwynde!

I wold thou haddest ben blynde!

The leopardes sauage,

The lyons in theyr rage,

Myght catche thé in theyr pawes,

And gnawe thé in theyr iawes!

The[357] serpentes[358] of Lybany 290

Myght stynge thé venymously!

The dragones with their tonges

Might poyson thy lyuer and longes!

The mantycors of the montaynes

Myght fede them on thy braynes!

Melanchates, that hounde

That plucked Acteon to the grounde,

Gaue hym his mortall wounde,

Chaunged to a dere,

The story doth appere, 300

Was chaunged to an harte:

So thou, foule cat that thou arte,

The selfe same hounde

Myght thé confounde,

That his owne lord bote,

Myght byte asondre thy throte!

Of Inde the gredy grypes

Myght tere out all thy trypes!

Of Arcady the beares

Might plucke awaye thyne eares! 310

The wylde wolfe Lycaon

Byte asondre thy backe bone!

Of Ethna the brennynge hyll,

That day and night brenneth styl,

Set in thy tayle a blase,

That all the world may gase

And wonder vpon thé,

From Occyan the greate se

Vnto the Iles of Orchady,

From Tyllbery fery 320

To the playne of Salysbery!

So trayterously my byrde to kyll

That neuer ought thé euyll wyll!

Was neuer byrde in cage

More gentle of corage

In doynge his homage

Vnto his souerayne.

Alas, I say agayne,

Deth hath departed vs twayne!

The false cat hath thé slayne: 330

Farewell, Phyllyp, adew!

Our Lorde thy soule reskew!

Farewell without restore,

Farewell for euermore!

And it were[359] a Jewe,

It wolde make one rew,

To se my sorow new.

These vylanous false cattes

Were made for myse and rattes,

And not for byrdes smale. 340

Alas, my face waxeth pale,

Tellynge this pyteyus tale,

How my byrde so fayre,

That was wont to repayre,

And go in at my spayre,

And crepe in at my gore[360]

Of my gowne before,

Flyckerynge with his wynges!

Alas, my hert it stynges,

Remembrynge prety thynges! 350

Alas, myne hert it sleth

My Phyllyppes dolefull deth,

Whan I remembre it,

How pretely it wolde syt,

Many tymes and ofte,

Vpon my fynger aloft!

I played with him tyttell tattyll,

And fed him with my spattyl,

With his byll betwene my lippes;

It was my prety Phyppes! 360

Many a prety kusse

Had I of his[361] swete musse;

And now the cause is thus,

That he is slayne me fro,

To my great payne and wo.

Of fortune this the chaunce

Standeth on[362] varyaunce:

Oft tyme after pleasaunce

Trouble and greuaunce;

No man can be sure 370

Allway to haue pleasure:

As well perceyue ye maye

How my dysport and play

From me was taken away

By Gyb, our cat sauage,

That in a[363] furyous rage

Caught Phyllyp by the head,

And slew him there starke dead.

Kyrie, eleison,

Christe, eleison, 380

Kyrie, eleison!

For Phylyp Sparowes soule,

Set in our bederolle,

Let vs now whysper

A Pater noster.

Lauda, anima mea, Dominum!

To wepe with me loke that ye come,

All maner of byrdes in your kynd;

Se none be left behynde.

To mornynge loke that ye fall 390

With dolorous songes funerall,

Some to synge, and some to say,

Some to wepe, and some to pray,

Euery byrde in his laye.

The goldfynche, the wagtayle;

The ianglynge iay to rayle,

The fleckyd pye to chatter

Of this dolorous mater;

And robyn redbrest,

He shall be the preest 400

The requiem masse to synge,

Softly[364] warbelynge,

With helpe of the red sparow,

And the chattrynge swallow,

This herse for to halow;

The larke with his longe to;

The spynke, and the martynet also;

The shouelar with his brode bek;

The doterell, that folyshe pek,

And also the mad coote, 410

With a balde face to toote;

The feldefare, and the snyte;

The crowe, and the kyte;

The rauyn, called Rolfe,

His playne songe to solfe;

The partryche, the quayle;

The plouer with vs to wayle;

The woodhacke, that syngeth chur

Horsly, as he had the mur;

The lusty chauntyng nyghtyngale; 420

The popyngay to tell her tale,

That toteth oft in a glasse,

Shal rede the Gospell at masse;

The mauys with her whystell

Shal rede there the pystell.

But with a large and a longe

To kepe iust playne songe,

Our chaunters shalbe the cuckoue,

The culuer, the stockedowue,

With puwyt the lapwyng, 430

The versycles shall syng.

The bitter[365] with his bumpe,

The crane with his trumpe,

The swan of Menander,[366]

The gose and the gander,

The ducke and the[367] drake,

Shall watche at this wake;

The pecocke so prowde,

Bycause his voyce is lowde,

And hath a glorious tayle, 440

He shall syng the grayle;

The owle, that is[368] so foule,

Must helpe vs to houle;

The heron so gaunce,[369]

And the cormoraunce,[370]

With the fesaunte,

And the gaglynge gaunte,

And the churlysshe chowgh;

The route and the kowgh;[371]

The barnacle, the bussarde, 450

With the wilde[372] mallarde;

The dyuendop to slepe;

The water hen[373] to wepe;

The puffin[374] and the tele

Money they shall dele

To poore folke at large,

That shall be theyr charge;

The semewe and the tytmose;

The wodcocke with the longe nose;

The threstyl with her warblyng; 460

The starlyng with her brablyng;

The roke, with the ospraye

That putteth fysshes to a fraye;

And the denty curlewe,

With the turtyll most trew.

At this Placebo

We may not well forgo

The countrynge of the coe:

The storke also,

That maketh his nest 470

In chymneyes to rest;

Within those walles

No[375] broken galles

May there abyde

Of cokoldry syde,

Or els phylosophy

Maketh a great lye.

The estryge, that wyll eate

An horshowe so great,

In the stede of meate, 480

Such feruent heat

His stomake doth freat;[376]

He can not well fly,

Nor synge tunably,

Yet at a brayde

He hath well assayde

To solfe aboue ela,

Ga,[377] lorell, fa, fa;

Ne quando

Male cantando, 490

The best that we can,

To make hym our belman,

And let hym ryng the bellys;

He can do nothyng ellys.

Chaunteclere, our coke,

Must tell what is of the clocke

By the astrology

That he hath naturally

Conceyued and cought,[378]

And was neuer tought[379] 500

By Albumazer

The astronomer,

Nor by Ptholomy

Prince of astronomy,

Nor yet by Haly;

And yet he croweth dayly

And nightly[380] the tydes

That no man abydes,

With Partlot his hen,

Whom now and then 510

Hee plucketh by the hede

Whan he doth her trede.

The byrde of Araby,

That potencyally

May neuer dye,

And yet there is none

But one alone;

A phenex it is

This herse that must blys

With armatycke gummes 520

That cost great summes,[381]

The way of thurifycation

To make a[382] fumigation,

Swete of reflary,[383]

And redolent of eyre,[384]

This corse for to[385] sence

With greate reuerence,

As patryarke or pope

In a blacke cope;

Whyles[386] he senseth [the herse], 530

He shall synge the verse,

Libera me,

In de, la, soll, re,

Softly bemole

For my sparowes soule.

Plinni sheweth all

In his story naturall

What he doth fynde

Of the phenyx kynde;

Of whose incyneracyon 540

There ryseth a new creacyon

Of the same facyon

Without alteracyon,

Sauyng that olde age

Is turned into corage

Of fresshe youth agayne;

This matter trew and playne,

Playne matter indede,

Who so lyst to rede.

But for the egle doth flye 550

Hyest in the skye,

He shall be the[387] sedeane,

The quere to demeane,

As prouost pryncypall,

To teach them theyr ordynall;

Also the noble fawcon,

With the gerfawcon,[388]

The tarsell gentyll,

They shall morne soft and styll

In theyr amysse of gray; 560

The sacre with them shall say

Dirige for Phyllyppes soule;

The goshauke shall haue a role

The queresters to controll;

The lanners and the[389] marlyons

Shall stand in their morning gounes;

The hobby and the muskette

The sensers and the crosse shall fet;

The kestrell in all this warke

Shall be holy water[390] clarke. 570

And now the darke cloudy nyght

Chaseth away Phebus bryght,

Taking his course toward the west,

God sende my sparoes sole good rest!

Requiem æternam dona eis,[391] Domine!

Fa, fa, fa, my, re, re,[392]

A por ta in fe ri,

Fa, fa, fa, my, my.

Credo videre bona Domini,

I pray God, Phillip to heuen may fly! 580

Domine, exaudi orationem meam!

To heuen he shall, from heuen he cam!

Do mi nus vo bis cum!

Of al good praiers God send him sum!

Oremus.

Deus, cui proprium est misereri et parcere,

On Phillips soule haue pyte!

For he was a prety cocke,

And came of a gentyll stocke,

And wrapt in a maidenes smocke, 590

And cherysshed full dayntely,

Tyll[393] cruell fate made him to dy:

Alas, for dolefull desteny![394]

But whereto shuld I

Lenger morne or crye?

To Jupyter I call,

Of heuen emperyall,

That Phyllyp may fly

Aboue the starry sky,

To treade the prety wren, 600

That is our Ladyes hen:

Amen, amen, amen!

Yet one thynge is behynde,

That now commeth to mynde;[395]

An epytaphe I wold haue

For Phyllyppes graue:

But for I am a mayde,

Tymerous, halfe afrayde,

That neuer yet asayde

Of Elyconys well, 610

Where the Muses dwell;

Though I can rede and spell,

Recounte, reporte, and tell

Of the Tales of Caunterbury,

Some sad storyes, some mery;

As Palamon and Arcet,

Duke Theseus, and Partelet;

And of the Wyfe of Bath,

That[396] worketh moch scath

Whan her tale is tolde 620

Amonge huswyues bolde,

How she controlde

Her husbandes as she wolde,

And them to despyse

In the homylyest wyse,

Brynge other wyues in thought

Their husbandes to set at nought:

And though that rede haue I

Of Gawen and syr Guy,

And tell can a great pece 630

Of the Golden Flece,

How Jason it wan,

Lyke a valyaunt man;

Of Arturs rounde table,

With his knightes commendable,

And dame Gaynour, his quene,

Was somwhat wanton, I wene;

How syr Launcelote de Lake

Many a spere brake

For his ladyes sake; 640

Of Trystram, and kynge Marke,

And al the hole warke

Of Bele Isold his wyfe,

For whom was moch stryfe;

Some say she was lyght,

And made her husband knyght

Of the comyne[397] hall,

That cuckoldes men call;

And of syr Lybius,

Named Dysconius; 650

Of Quater Fylz Amund,[398]

And how they were sommonde

To Rome, to Charlemayne,

Vpon a great payne,

And how they rode eche one

On Bayarde Mountalbon;

Men se hym now and then[399]

In the forest of[400] Arden:

What though[401] I can frame

The storyes by name 660

Of Judas Machabeus,

And of Cesar Julious;

And of the loue betwene

Paris and Vyene;

And of the duke Hannyball,[402]

That[403] made the Romaynes all

Fordrede and to quake;

How Scipion dyd wake

The cytye of Cartage,

Which by his vnmerciful[404] rage 670

He bete downe to the grounde:

And though I can expounde

Of Hector of Troye,

That was all theyr ioye,

Whom Achylles slew,

Wherfore all Troy dyd rew;

And of the loue so hote

That made Troylus to dote

Vpon fayre Cressyde,

And what they wrote and sayd, 680

And of theyr wanton wylles

Pandaer bare the bylles

From one to the other;

His maisters loue to further,

Somtyme a presyous thyng,

An ouche, or els a ryng;

From her to hym agayn

Somtyme a prety chayn,

Or a bracelet of her here,

Prayd Troylus for to were 690

That token for her sake;

How hartely he dyd it take,

And moche therof dyd make;

And all that was in vayne,

For she dyd but fayne;

The story telleth playne,

He coulde not optayne,

Though his father were a kyng,

Yet there was a thyng

That made the[405] male to wryng; 700

She made hym to syng

The song of louers lay;

Musyng nyght and day,

Mournyng all alone,

Comfort had he none,

For she was quyte gone;

Thus in conclusyon,

She brought him in abusyon;

In ernest and in game

She was moch to blame; 710

Disparaged is her fame,

And blemysshed is her name,

In maner half with shame;

Troylus also hath lost

On her moch loue and cost,

And now must kys the post;

Pandara, that went betwene,

Hath won nothing, I wene,

But lyght for somer grene;

Yet for a speciall laud 720

He is named Troylus baud,

Of that name he is sure

Whyles the world shall dure:

Though I remembre the fable

Of Penelope most stable,

To her husband most trew,

Yet long tyme she ne knew

Whether he were on lyue or ded;

Her wyt stood her in sted,

That she was true and iust 730

For any bodely lust

To Ulixes her make,

And neuer wold him forsake:

Of Marcus Marcellus

A proces I could tell vs;

And of Anteocus;

And of Josephus

De Antiquitatibus;

And of Mardocheus,

And of great Assuerus, 740

And of Vesca his queene,

Whom he forsoke with teene,

And of Hester his other wyfe,

With whom he ledd a plesaunt life;

Of kyng Alexander;

And of kyng Euander;

And of Porcena the great,

That made the Romayns to sweat:[406]

Though I haue enrold

A thousand new and old 750

Of these historious tales,

To fyll bougets and males

With bokes that I haue red,

Yet I am nothyng sped,

And can but lytell skyll

Of Ouyd or Virgyll,

Or of Plutharke,

Or[407] Frauncys Petrarke,

Alcheus or Sapho,

Or such other poetes mo, 760

As Linus and Homerus,

Euphorion and Theocritus,

Anacreon and Arion,

Sophocles and Philemon,

Pyndarus and Symonides,[408]

Philistion[409] and Phorocides;

These poetes of auncyente,

They ar to diffuse for me:

For, as I tofore haue sayd,

I am but a yong mayd, 770

And cannot in effect

My style as yet direct

With Englysh wordes elect:[410]

Our naturall tong is rude,

And hard to be enneude

With pullysshed termes lusty;

Our language is so rusty,

So cankered, and so full

Of frowardes, and so dull,

That if I wolde apply 780

To wryte ornatly,[411]

I wot not where to fynd

Termes to serue my mynde.

Gowers Englysh is olde,

And of no value told;[412]

His mater is worth gold,

And worthy to be enrold.

In Chauser I am sped,

His tales I haue red:

His mater is delectable, 790

Solacious, and commendable;

His Englysh well alowed,

So as it is enprowed,

For as it is enployd,

There is no Englysh voyd,

At those dayes moch commended,

And now men wold haue amended

His Englysh, whereat they barke,

And mar all they warke:

Chaucer, that famus clerke, 800

His termes were not darke,

But plesaunt, easy, and playne;

No[413] worde he wrote in vayne.

Also Johnn Lydgate

Wryteth after an hyer rate;

It is dyffuse to fynde

The sentence of his mynde,

Yet wryteth he in his kynd,

No man that can amend

Those maters that he hath pende; 810

Yet some men fynde a faute,

And say he wryteth to haute.

Wherfore hold me excused

If I haue not well perused

Myne Englyssh halfe abused;

Though it be refused,

In worth I shall it take,

And fewer wordes make.

But, for my sparowes sake,

Yet as a woman may, 820

My wyt I shall assay

An epytaphe to wryght

In Latyne playne and lyght,

Wherof the elegy

Foloweth by and by:

Flos volucrum[414] formose, vale!

Philippe, sub isto

Marmore jam recubas,

Qui mihi carus eras.

Semper erunt nitido 830

Radiantia sidera cœlo;

Impressusque meo

Pectore semper eris.

Per me laurigerum

Britonum Skeltonida vatem

Hæc cecinisse licet

Ficta sub imagine texta.

Cujus eras[415] volucris,

Præstanti corpore virgo:

Candida Nais erat, 840

Formosior ista Joanna est;

Docta Corinna fuit,

Sed magis ista sapit.

Bien men souient.