Poetry. John Skelton
Phyllyppes graue:
But for I am a mayde,
Tymerous, halfe afrayde,
That neuer yet asayde
Of Elyconys well, 610
Where the Muses dwell;
Though I can rede and spell,
Recounte, reporte, and tell
Of the Tales of Caunterbury,
Some sad storyes, some mery;
As Palamon and Arcet,
Duke Theseus, and Partelet;
And of the Wyfe of Bath,
That[396] worketh moch scath
Whan her tale is tolde 620
Amonge huswyues bolde,
How she controlde
Her husbandes as she wolde,
And them to despyse
In the homylyest wyse,
Brynge other wyues in thought
Their husbandes to set at nought:
And though that rede haue I
Of Gawen and syr Guy,
And tell can a great pece 630
Of the Golden Flece,
How Jason it wan,
Lyke a valyaunt man;
Of Arturs rounde table,
With his knightes commendable,
And dame Gaynour, his quene,
Was somwhat wanton, I wene;
How syr Launcelote de Lake
Many a spere brake
For his ladyes sake; 640
Of Trystram, and kynge Marke,
And al the hole warke
Of Bele Isold his wyfe,
For whom was moch stryfe;
Some say she was lyght,
And made her husband knyght
Of the comyne[397] hall,
That cuckoldes men call;
And of syr Lybius,
Named Dysconius; 650
Of Quater Fylz Amund,[398]
And how they were sommonde
To Rome, to Charlemayne,
Vpon a great payne,
And how they rode eche one
On Bayarde Mountalbon;
Men se hym now and then[399]
In the forest of[400] Arden:
What though[401] I can frame
The storyes by name 660
Of Judas Machabeus,
And of Cesar Julious;
And of the loue betwene
Paris and Vyene;
And of the duke Hannyball,[402]
That[403] made the Romaynes all
Fordrede and to quake;
How Scipion dyd wake
The cytye of Cartage,
Which by his vnmerciful[404] rage 670
He bete downe to the grounde:
And though I can expounde
Of Hector of Troye,
That was all theyr ioye,
Whom Achylles slew,
Wherfore all Troy dyd rew;
And of the loue so hote
That made Troylus to dote
Vpon fayre Cressyde,
And what they wrote and sayd, 680
And of theyr wanton wylles
Pandaer bare the bylles
From one to the other;
His maisters loue to further,
Somtyme a presyous thyng,
An ouche, or els a ryng;
From her to hym agayn
Somtyme a prety chayn,
Or a bracelet of her here,
Prayd Troylus for to were 690
That token for her sake;
How hartely he dyd it take,
And moche therof dyd make;
And all that was in vayne,
For she dyd but fayne;
The story telleth playne,
He coulde not optayne,
Though his father were a kyng,
Yet there was a thyng
That made the[405] male to wryng; 700
She made hym to syng
The song of louers lay;
Musyng nyght and day,
Mournyng all alone,
Comfort had he none,
For she was quyte gone;
Thus in conclusyon,
She brought him in abusyon;
In ernest and in game
She was moch to blame; 710
Disparaged is her fame,
And blemysshed is her name,
In maner half with shame;
Troylus also hath lost
On her moch loue and cost,
And now must kys the post;
Pandara, that went betwene,
Hath won nothing, I wene,
But lyght for somer grene;
Yet for a speciall laud 720
He is named Troylus baud,
Of that name he is sure
Whyles the world shall dure:
Though I remembre the fable
Of Penelope most stable,
To her husband most trew,
Yet long tyme she ne knew
Whether he were on lyue or ded;
Her wyt stood her in sted,
That