wher so we dwell
Deth wyll us qwell,
And with us mell.
For all oure pamperde paunchys,
Ther may no fraunchys,
Nor worldly blys,
Redeme vs from this:
Oure days be datyd,
To be chekmatyd 30
With drawttys of deth,
Stoppyng oure breth;
Oure eyen synkyng,
Oure bodys stynkyng,
Oure gummys grynnyng,
Oure soulys brynnyng.
To whom, then, shall we sew,
For to haue rescew,
But to swete Jesu,
On vs then for to rew? 40
O goodly chyld
Of Mary mylde,
Then be oure shylde!
That we be not exyld[223]
To the dyne dale
Of boteles[224] bale,
Nor to the lake
Of fendys blake.
But graunt vs grace
To se thy face, 50
And to purchace
Thyne heuenly place,
And thy palace,
Full of solace,
Aboue the sky,
That is so hy;
Eternally
To beholde and se
The Trynyte!
Amen. 60
Myrres vous y.
[222] nor] Marshe’s ed. “not.”
[223] exyld] So Marshe’s ed. Pynson’s ed. “exylyd.”
[224] boteles] Marshe’s ed. “botemles.”
Womanhod, wanton, ye want;
Youre medelyng, mastres, is manerles;
Plente of yll, of goodnes skant,
Ye rayll at ryot, recheles:
To prayse youre porte it is nedeles;
For all your draffe yet and youre dreggys,
As well borne as ye full oft tyme beggys.
Why so koy and full of skorne?
Myne horse is sold, I wene, you say;
My new furryd gowne, when it is worne, 10
Put vp youre purs, ye shall non pay.
By crede, I trust to se the day,
As proud a pohen as ye sprede,
Of me and other ye may haue nede.
Though angelyk be youre smylyng,
Yet is youre tong an adders tayle,
Full lyke a scorpyon styngyng
All those by whom ye haue auayle:
Good mastres Anne, there ye do shayle:
What prate ye, praty pyggysny? 20
I truste to quyte you or I dy.
Youre key is mete for euery lok,
Youre key is commen and hangyth owte;
Youre key is redy, we nede not knok,
Nor stand long wrestyng there aboute;
Of youre doregate ye haue no doute:
But one thyng is, that ye be lewde:
Holde youre tong now, all beshrewde!
To mastres Anne, that farly swete,
That wonnes at the Key in Temmys strete. 30
Here folowythe dyuers Balettys[225] and Dyties solacyous, deuysyd by Master Skelton, Laureat.
With, Lullay, lullay, lyke a chylde,
Thou slepyst to long, thou art begylde.
My darlyng dere, my daysy floure,
Let me, quod he, ly in your lap.
Ly styll, quod she, my paramoure,
Ly styll hardely, and take a nap.
Hys bed was heuy, such was his hap,
All drowsy dremyng, dround in slepe,
That of hys loue he toke no kepe,
With, Hey, lullay, &c.
With ba, ba, ba, and bas, bas, bas,
She cheryshed hym both cheke and chyn,
That he wyst neuer where he was; 10
He had forgoten all dedely syn.
He wantyd wyt her loue to wyn:
