The Poetical Works of John Skelton (Vol. 1&2). John Skelton
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And to me warde the strayte waye he toke:
God spede, broder![274] to me quod he than;
And thus to talke with me he began.
SUSPYCYON.
Ye remembre the gentylman ryghte nowe
That commaunde[275] with you, me thought, a party space?[276]
Beware of him, for, I make God auowe,
He wyll begyle you and speke fayre to your face: 200
Ye neuer dwelte in suche an other place,
For here is none that dare well other truste;
But I wolde telle you a thynge, and I durste.
Spake he a fayth no worde to you of me?
I wote, and he dyde, ye wolde me telle.
I haue a fauoure to you, wherof it be
That I muste shewe you moche[277] of my counselle:
But I wonder what the deuyll of helle
He sayde of me, whan he with you dyde talke:
By myne auyse[278] vse not with him to walke. 210
The soueraynst thynge that ony[279] man maye haue,
Is lytyll to saye, and moche[280] to here and see;
For, but I trusted you, so God me saue,
I wolde noo thynge so playne be;
To you oonly, me thynke, I durste shryue me
For now am I plenarely dysposed
To shewe you thynges that may not be disclosed.
DREDE.
Than I assured hym my fydelyte,
His counseyle secrete neuer to dyscure,[281]
Yf he coude fynde in herte to truste me; 220
Els I prayed hym, with all my besy cure,
To kepe it hymselfe, for than he myghte be sure
That noo man[282] erthly coude hym bewreye,
Whyles of his mynde it were lockte with the keye.
By God, quod he, this and thus it is;
And of his mynde he shewed me all and some.
Farewell, quod he, we wyll talke more of this:
Soo he departed there he wolde be come.
I dare not speke, I promysed to be dome:
But, as I stode musynge in my mynde, 230
Haruy Hafter[283] came lepynge, lyghte as lynde.
Vpon his breste he bare a versynge boxe;
His throte was clere, and lustely coude fayne;
Me[284] thoughte, his gowne was all furred wyth foxe;
And euer he sange, Sythe I am no thynge playne.
To kepe him frome pykynge it was a grete payne:
He gased on me with his gotyshe berde;
Whan I loked on hym, my[285] purse was half aferde.
HARUY HAFTER.[286]
Syr, God you saue! why loke ye so sadde?
What thynge is that I maye do for you? 240
A wonder thynge that ye waxe not madde!
For, and I studye sholde as ye doo nowe,
My wytte wolde waste, I make God auowe.
Tell me your mynde: me thynke, ye make a verse;
I coude it skan,[287] and ye wolde it[288] reherse.
But to the poynte shortely to procede,
Where hathe your dwellynge ben, er ye cam here?
For, as I trowe, I haue sene you indede
Er this, whan that ye made me royall chere.
Holde vp the helme, loke vp, and lete God stere: 250
I wolde be mery, what wynde that euer blowe,
Heue and how rombelow, row the bote, Norman, rowe!
Prynces of yougthe[289] can ye synge by rote?
Or shall I sayle wyth you a felashyp assaye;
For on the booke I[290] can not synge a note.
Wolde to God, it wolde please you some daye
A balade boke before me for to laye,
And lerne me to synge, Re, my, fa, sol!
And, whan I fayle, bobbe me on the noll.
Loo, what is to you a pleasure grete, 260
To haue that connynge and wayes that ye haue!
By Goddis soule, I wonder how ye gete
Soo greate pleasyre,[291] or who to you it gaue:
Syr,