Poetry. John Skelton

HERE AFTER[335] FOLOWETH THE BOKE OF PHYLLYP SPAROWE, COMPYLED BY MAYSTER SKELTON, POETE LAUREATE.

       Table of Contents

      Pla ce bo,

      Who is there, who?

      Di le xi,

      Dame Margery;

      Fa, re, my, my,

      Wherfore and why, why?

      For the sowle of Philip Sparowe,

      That was late slayn at Carowe,

      Among the Nones Blake,

      For that swete soules sake, 10

      And for all sparowes soules,

      Set in our bederolles,

      Pater noster qui,

      With an Ave Mari,

      And with the corner of a Crede,

      The more shalbe your mede.

      Whan I remembre agayn

      How mi Philyp was slayn,

      Neuer halfe the payne

      Was betwene you twayne, 20

      Pyramus and Thesbe,

      As than befell to me:

      I wept and I wayled,

      The tearys downe hayled;

      But nothynge it auayled

      To call Phylyp agayne,

      Whom Gyb our cat hath slayne.

      Gib, I saye, our cat

      Worrowyd her on that

      Which I loued best: 30

      It can not be exprest

      My sorowfull heuynesse,

      But all without redresse;

      For within that stounde,

      Halfe slumbrynge, in a sounde

      I fell downe to the grounde.

      Vnneth I kest myne eyes

      Towarde the cloudy skyes:

      But whan I dyd beholde

      My sparow dead and colde, 40

      No creatuer but that wolde

      Haue rewed vpon me,

      To behold and se

      What heuynesse dyd me pange;

      Wherewith my handes I wrange,

      That my senaws cracked,

      As though I had ben racked,

      So payned and so strayned,

      That no lyfe wellnye remayned.

      I syghed and I sobbed, 50

      For that I was robbed

      Of my sparowes lyfe.

      O mayden, wydow, and wyfe,

      Of what estate ye be,

      Of hye or lowe degre,

      Great sorowe than ye myght se,

      And lerne to wepe at me!

      Such paynes dyd me frete,

      That myne hert dyd bete,

      My vysage pale and dead, 60

      Wanne, and blewe as lead;

      The panges of hatefull death

Wellnye had[336] stopped my breath.

      Heu, heu, me,

      That I am wo for thé!

      Ad Dominum, cum tribularer, clamavi:

      Of God nothynge els craue I

      But Phyllypes soule to kepe

      From the marees deepe

      Of Acherontes well, 70

      That is a flode of hell;

      And from the great Pluto,

      The prynce of endles wo;

      And from foule Alecto,

      With vysage blacke and blo;

      And from Medusa, that mare,

      That lyke a fende doth stare;

      And from Megeras edders,

For[337] rufflynge of Phillips fethers,

      And from her fyry sparklynges, 80

      For burnynge of his wynges;

      And from the smokes sowre

      Of Proserpinas bowre;

      And from the dennes darke,

      Wher Cerberus doth barke,

      Whom Theseus dyd afraye,

      Whom Hercules dyd outraye,

      As

Скачать книгу