Poetry. John Skelton

Poetry - John Skelton


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      For this maye brede to a confusyon,

      Withoute God make a good conclusyon.

      Naye, see where yonder stondeth the teder man!

      A flaterynge knaue and false he is, God wote;

      The dreuyll stondeth to herken, and he can:

      It were more thryft, he boughte him a newe cote;

      It will not be, his purse is not on flote:

      All that he wereth, it is borowed ware;

      His wytte is thynne, his hode is threde bare. 490

      More coude I saye, but what this is ynowe:

      Adewe tyll soone, we shall speke more of this:

      Ye muste be ruled as I shall tell you howe;

      Amendis maye be of that is now amys;

      And I am your, syr, so haue I blys,

      Gyue me your honde, farewell, and haue good daye.

      DREDE.

      Sodaynly, as he departed me fro,

      Came pressynge in one in a wonder araye:

      Er I was ware, behynde me he sayde, Bo! 500

      Thenne I, astonyed of that sodeyne fraye,

      Sterte all at ones, I lyked no thynge his playe;

      For, yf I had not quyckely fledde the touche,

      He had plucte oute the nobles of my pouche.

      He was trussed in a garmente strayte:

      I haue not sene suche an others page;

      For he coude well vpon a casket wayte;

      Lyghte lyme fynger, he toke none other wage.

      Harken, quod he, loo here myne honde in thyne; 510

      To vs welcome thou arte, by saynte Quyntyne.

      DISCEYTE.

      But, by that Lorde that is one, two, and thre,

      I haue an errande to rounde in your ere:

      He tolde me so, by God, ye maye truste me,

      There I wynked on you—wote ye not where?

      In A loco, I mene juxta B:

      Woo is hym that is blynde and maye not see!

      But to here the subtylte and the crafte,

      As I shall tell you, yf ye wyll harke agayne; 520

      And, whan I sawe the horsons wolde you hafte,

      To holde myne honde, by God, I had grete payne;

      For forthwyth there I had him slayne,

      Who deleth with shrewes hath nede to loke aboute.

      DREDE.

      Of false collusyon confetryd by assente,

      Me thoughte, I see lewde felawes here and there

      Came for to slee me of mortall entente;

      And, as they came, the shypborde faste I hente, 530

      And thoughte to lepe; and euen with that woke,

      I wolde therwith no man were myscontente;

      Besechynge you that shall it see or rede,

      In euery poynte to be indyfferente,

      Syth all in substaunce of slumbrynge doth procede:

      I wyll not saye it is mater in dede,

      But yet oftyme suche dremes be founde trewe:

      Now constrewe ye what is the resydewe.

       Thus endeth the Bowge of Courte.

      [232] The Bowge of Courte] From the ed. of Wynkyn de Worde, n. d., in the Advocates’ Library, Edinburgh, collated with another ed. by Wynkyn de Worde, n. d., in the Public Library, Cambridge, and with Marshe’s ed. of Skelton’s Workes, 1568.


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