possible to kepe me out of your dorys than to kepe out crowes or pyes; for I cam not in at your gatys, but I cam ouer the mote, that I haue ben almost drownyd for my labour. And shewyd hys clothys how euyll he was arayed, whych causyd many that stode therby to laughe apace. Than quod Skelton, Yf it lyke your lordeshyp, I haue brought you a dyshe to your super, a cople of fesantes. Nay, quod the byshop, I defy the and thy fesauntys also, and, wrech as thou art, pyke the out of my howse, for I wyll none of thy gyft how [something lost here] Skelton than, consyderynge that the bysshoppe called hym fole so ofte, sayd to one of hys famylyers thereby, that thoughe it were euyll to be christened a fole, yet it was moche worse to be confyrmyd a fole of suche a bysshoppe, for the name of confyrmacyon muste nedes abyde. Therfore he ymagened howe he myghte auoyde that confyrmacyon, and mused a whyle, and at the laste sayde to the bysshope thus, If your lordeshype knewe the names of these fesantes, ye wold [be] contente to take them. Why, caytefe, quod the bisshoppe hastly and angrey, [what] be theyr names? Ywys, my lorde, quod Skelton, this fesante is called Alpha, which is, in primys the fyrst, and this is called O, that is, novissimus the last; and for the more playne vnderstandynge of my mynde, if it plese your lordeshype to take them, I promyse you, this Alpha is the fyrste that euer I gaue you, and this O is the laste that euer I wyll gyue you whyle I lyue. At which answere all that were by made great laughter, and they all de[sired the bishoppe] to be good lorde vnto him for his merye conceytes: at which [earnest entrety, as it] wente, the bysshope was contente to take hym vnto his fauer agayne.
By thys tale ye may se that mery conceytes dothe [a man more] good than to frete hymselfe with a[nger] and melancholy.”
From Tales, and quicke answeres, very mery, and pleasant to rede. 4to. n. d., printed by Thomas Berthelet. (See Singer’s reprint, p. 9.)
“Of the beggers answere to M. Skelton the poete. xiii.
A poure begger, that was foule, blacke, and lothlye to beholde, cam vpon a tyme vnto mayster Skelton the poete, and asked him his almes. To whom mayster Skelton sayde, I praye the gette the awaye fro me, for thou lokeste as though thou camest out of helle. The poure man, perceyuing he wolde gyue him no thynge, answerd, For soth, syr, ye say trouth; I came oute of helle. Why dyddest thou nat tary styl there? quod mayster Skelton. Mary, syr, quod the begger, there is no roume for suche poure beggers as I am; all is kepte for suche gentyl men as ye be.”
Prefixed to Pithy pleasaunt and profitable workes of maister Skelton, Poete Laureate. Nowe collected and newly published. Anno 1568. 12mo.
“If slouth and tract of time
(That wears eche thing away)
Should rust and canker worthy artes,
Good works would soen decay.
If suche as present are
Forgoeth the people past,
Our selu[e]s should soen in silence slepe,
And loes renom at last.
No soyll nor land so rude
But som odd men can shoe:
Than should the learned pas unknowne,
Whoes pen & skill did floe?
God sheeld our slouth[146] wear sutch,
Or world so simple nowe,
That knowledge scaept without reward,
Who sercheth vertue throwe,
And paints forth vyce aright,
And blames abues of men,
And shoes what lief desarues rebuke,
And who the prayes of pen.
You see howe forrayn realms
Aduance their poets all;
And ours are drowned in the dust,
Or flong against the wall.
In Fraunce did Marrot raigne;
And neighbour thear vnto
Was Petrark, marching full with Dantte,
Who erst did wonders do;
Among the noble Grekes
Was Homere full of skill;
And where that Ouid norisht was
The soyll did florish still
With letters hie of style;
But Virgill wan the fraes,[147]
And past them all for deep engyen,
And made them all to gaes
Upon the bookes he made:
Thus eche of them, you see,
Wan prayse and fame, and honor had,
Eche one in their degree.
I pray you, then, my friendes,
Disdaine not for to vewe
The workes and sugred verses fine
Of our raer poetes newe;
Whoes barborus language rued
Perhaps ye may mislike;
But blame them not that ruedly playes
If they the ball do strike,
Nor skorne not mother tunge,
O babes of Englishe breed!
I haue of other language seen,
And you at full may reed
Fine verses trimly wrought,
And coutcht in comly sort;
But neuer I nor you, I troe,
In sentence plaine and short
Did yet beholde with eye,
In any forraine tonge,
A higher verse, a staetly[er] style,
That may be read or song,
Than is this daye indeede
Our Englishe verse and ryme,
The grace wherof doth touch yᵉ gods,
And reatch the cloudes somtime.
Thorow earth and waters deepe
The
