Classic Poem

FIT THE SEVENTH

" Soft!" quod one hight Sybil,
" And let me with you bibble."
She sat down in the place
With a sorry face
Whey-wormed about.
Garnished was her snout
With here and there a pustule
Like a scabbed mussel.
" This ale," said she, " is noppy;
Let us supp─ù and soppy
And not spill a droppy,
For, so may I hoppy,
It cooleth well my croppy.

" Dame Elinour," said she,
" Have here is for me —
A clout of London pins!"
And with that she begins
The pot to her pluck
And drank a " good-luck."
She swinged up a quart
At once for her part:
Her paunch was so puffed,
And so with ale stuffed,
Had she not hied apace
She had defiled the place.

Then began the sport
Among that drunken sort.
" Dame Elinour," said they,
" Lend here a cock of hay
To make all thing clean —
Ye wot well what we mean!"

But, sir, among all
That sat in that hall
There was a prick-me-dainty
Sat like a sainty
And began to painty
As though she would fainty:
She made it as coy
As a lege de moy ;
She was not half so wise
As she was peevish nice.
She said never a word,
But rose from the board
And called for our dame,
Elinour by name.
We supposed, ywis,
That she rose to piss:
But the very ground
Was for to compound
With Elinour in the spence,
To pay for her expense.
" I have no penny nor groat
To pay," she said, " God wote,
For washing of my throat,
But my beads of amber
Bear them to your chamber."
Then Elinour did them hide
Within her bedd─ùs side.

But some then sat right sad
That nothing had,
There of their own,
Neither gelt nor pawn:
Such were there many
That had not a penny.
But, when they should walk,
Were fain with a chalk
To score on the balk,
Or score on the tail:
God give it ill hail!
For my fingers itch,
I have written too much
Of this mad mumming
Of Elinour Rumming.
Thus endeth the geste
Of this worthy feast.