This wanton clarkes be nyse all way;
Avent, avent, my popagay!
What, will ye do no thyng but play?
Tully valy, strawe, let be, I say!
Gup, Cristian Clowte, gup, Jak of the vale!
With, Manerly Margery Mylk and Ale.
Be God, ye be a praty pode,
And I loue you an hole cart lode.
Strawe, Jamys foder, ye play the fode, 10
I am no hakney for your rode;
Go watch a bole, your bak is brode:
Gup, Cristian Clowte, gup, Jak of the vale!
With, Manerly Margery Mylk and Ale.
I wiss ye dele vncurtesly;
What wolde ye frompill me? now, fy!
What, and ye shalbe my piggesnye?
Be Crist, ye shall not, no hardely;
I will not be japed bodely: 20
Gup, Cristian Clowte, gup, Jake of the vale!
With, Manerly Margery Mylk and Ale.
Walke forth your way, ye cost me nought;
Now haue I fownd that I haue sought,
The best chepe flessh that euyr I bought.
Yet, for His loue that all hath wrought,
Wed me, or els I dye for thought!
Gup, Cristian Clowte, your breth[231] is stale!
Go, Manerly Margery Mylk and Ale!
Gup, Cristian Clowte, gup, Jak of the vale! 30
With, Manerly Margery Mylk and Ale.
[230] Manerly Margery, &c.] From the Fairfax MS., which formerly belonged to Ralph Thoresby, and now forms part of the Additional MSS. (5465. fol. 109) in the British Museum. It was printed (together with the music), by Hawkins, Hist. of Music, iii. 2. This song was inserted also in the first edition of Ancient Songs, 1790, p. 100, by Ritson, who observes—“Since Sir J. Hawkins’s transcript was made, the ms. appears to have received certain alterations, occasioned, as it should seem, but certainly not authorised, by the over-scrupulous delicacy of its late or present possessor.” p. 102.
[231] breth] Hawkins and Ritson print “broth.”
HERE BEGYNNETH A LYTELL TREATYSE,
NAMED
THE BOWGE OF COURTE.[232]
THE PROLOGUE TO THE BOWGE OF COURTE.
In autumpne, whan the sonne in Virgine
By radyante hete enryped hath our corne;
Whan Luna, full of mutabylyte,
As emperes the dyademe hath worne
Of our pole artyke, smylynge halfe in scorne
At our foly and our vnstedfastnesse;
The tyme whan Mars to werre hym dyde dres;
I, callynge to mynde the greate auctoryte
Of poetes olde, whyche full craftely,
Vnder as couerte termes as coude be, 10
Can touche a trouth[233] and cloke it[234] subtylly
Wyth fresshe vtteraunce full sentencyously;
Dyuerse in style, some spared not vyce to wryte,[235]
Some of moralyte[236] nobly dyde endyte;
Wherby I rede theyr renome and theyr fame
Maye neuer dye, bute euermore endure:
I was sore moued to aforce the same,
But Ignoraunce full soone dyde me dyscure,[237]
And shewed that in this arte I[238] was not sure;
For to illumyne, she sayde, I was to dulle, 20
Auysynge[239] me my penne awaye to pulle,
And not to wryte;[240] for he so wyll atteyne
Excedynge ferther than his connynge is,
His hede maye be harde, but feble is his[241] brayne,
Yet haue I knowen suche er this;
But of reproche surely he maye not mys,
That clymmeth hyer than he may fotynge haue;
What and he slyde downe, who shall hym saue?
Thus vp and down my mynde was drawen and cast,
That I ne wyste what to do was[242] beste; 30
So sore enwered, that I was at the laste
Enforsed to slepe and for to take some reste:
And to lye downe as soone as I me[243] dreste,
At Harwyche Porte slumbrynge as I laye,
In
