toke me by the hand and led me a daunce,
And with her sugred lyppes on me she smyled; 30
But, what for her dissembled countenaunce,
I coud not beware tyl I was begyled:
Now from this world she hath me excyled,
When I was lothyst hens for to go,
And I am in age but, as who sayth, a chylde,
Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!
I se wyll,[166] they leve that doble my ȝeris:
This[167] dealid this world with me as it lyst,[168]
And hathe me made, to ȝow that be my perys,
Example to thynke on Had I wyst: 40
I storyd my cofers and allso my chest[169]
With taskys takynge of the comenalte;
I toke ther tresure, but of ther prayȝeris mist;
Whom I beseche with pure humylyte
For to forgeve and have on me pety;
I was ȝour kynge, and kept ȝow from ȝowr foo:
I wold now amend, but that wull not be,
[Quia,] ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!
I had ynough, I held me not content,
Without remembraunce that I should dye; 50
And more euer to incroche[170] redy was I bent,
I knew not how longe I should it occupy:
I made the Tower stronge, I wyst not why;
I knew not to whom I purchased Tetersall;
I amendid Douer on the mountayne hye,
And London I prouoked to fortify the wall;
I made Notingam a place full[171] royall,
Wyndsore, Eltam,[172] and many other mo:
Yet at the last I went from them all,
Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio! 60
Where is now my conquest and victory?
Where is my riches and my royal aray?
Wher be my coursers and my horses hye?
Where is my myrth, my solas, and my[173] play?
As vanyte, to nought al is wandred[174] away.
O lady Bes, longe for me may ye call!
For I[175] am departed tyl domis day;
But loue ye that Lorde that is soueraygne of all.
Where be my castels and buyldynges royall?
But Windsore alone, now I haue no mo, 70
And of Eton the prayers perpetuall,
Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!
Why should a man be proude or presume hye?
Sainct Bernard therof nobly doth trete,
Seyth a man is but[176] a sacke of stercorry,
And shall returne vnto wormis mete.
Why, what cam of Alexander the greate?
Or els of stronge Sampson, who can tell?
Were not[177] wormes ordeyned theyr flesh to frete?
And of Salomon, that was of wyt the well? 80
Absolon profferyd his heare for to sell,
Yet for al his bewte wormys ete him also;
And I but late in honour dyd excel,
Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!
I haue played my pageyond, now am I past;
Ye wot well all I was of no great yeld:
This[178] al thing concluded shalbe at the last,
When death approchyth, then lost is the felde:
Then sythen this world me no longer vphelde,
Nor nought[179] would conserue me here in my place, 90
In manus tuas, Domine, my spirite vp I yelde,
Humbly[180] beseching thé, God, of thy[181] grace!
O ye curtes commyns, your hertis vnbrace
Benyngly now to pray for me also;
For ryght wel you know your kyng I was,
Et, ecce, nunc in pulvere dormio!
[155] Of the death, &c.] From the ed. by Kynge and Marche of Certaine bokes compyled by Mayster Skelton, n. d.—collated with the same work, ed. Day, n. d., and ed. Lant, n. d.; with Marshe’s ed. of Skelton’s Workes, 1568; occasionally with the Mirrour for Magistrates, 1587 (in the earlier eds. of which the poem was incorporated), and with a contemporary MS. in the possession of Miss Richardson Currer, which last has furnished a stanza hitherto unprinted.
[156] This world, &c.] MS.:
“For
