The Poetical Works of John Skelton (Vol. 1&2). John Skelton
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“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