Classic Poem

Pla ce bo!
Who is there, who?
Di le xi!
Dame Margery
Fa, re, my, my.
Wherefore and why, why?
For the soul of Philip Sparrow
That was late slain at Carrow,
Among the Nun─ùs Black.
For that sweet soul─ùs sake,
And for all sparrows' souls
Set in our bead-rolls,
Pater noster qui,
With an Ave Mari ,
And with the corner of a Creed,
The more shall be your meed.

When I remember again
How my Philip was slain,
Never half the pain
Was between you twain,
Pyramus and Thisbe,
As then befell to me.
I wept and I wailed,
The tear─ùs down hailed,
But nothing it availed
To call Philip again,
Whom Gib, our cat, hath slain.

Gib, I say, our cat
Worrowed her on that
Which I loved best.
It cannot be exprest
My sorrowful heaviness,
But all without redress!
For within that stound,
Half slumbering, in a sound
I fell down─ù to the ground.

Unneth I cast mine eyes
Toward the cloudy skies.
But when I did behold
My sparrow dead and cold,
No cr─ùature but that wold
Have rued upon me,
To behold and see
What heaviness did me pang:
Wherewith my hands I wrang,
That my sinews cracked,
As though I had been racked,
So pained and so strained
That no life wellnigh remained.

I sighed and I sobbed,
For that I was robbed
Of my sparrow's life.
O maiden, widow, and wife,
Of what estate ye be,
Of high or low degree,
Great sorrow then ye might see,
And learn to weep at me!
Such pain─ùs did me frete
That mine heart did beat,
My visage pale and dead,
Wan, and blue as lead:
The pangs of hateful death
Wellnigh had stopped my breath.

Heu, heu, me,
That I am woe for thee!
Ad Dominum, cum tribularer, clamavi.
Of God nothing else crave I
But Philip's soul to keep
From the marees deep
Of Acheronte's well,
That is a flood of hell;
And from the great Pluto,
The prince of endless woe;
And from foul Alecto,
With visage black and blo;
And from Medusa, that mare,
That like a fiend doth stare;
And from Megaera's adders
For ruffling of Philip's feathers,
And from her fiery sparklings
For burning of his wings;
And from the smok─ùs sour
Of Proserpina's bower;
And from the den─ùs dark
Where Cerberus doth bark,
Whom Theseus did affray,
Whom Hercules did outray,
As famous poet─ùs say;
From that hell-hound
That lieth in chain─ùs bound,
With ghastly head─ùs three;
To Jupiter pray we
That Philip preserved may be!
Amen, say ye with me!

Do mi nus,
Help now, sweet Jesus!
Levavi oculos meos in montes.
Would God I had Zenophontes,
Or Socrates the wise,
To shew me their device
Moderately to take
This sorrow that I make
For Philip Sparrow's sake!
So fervently I shake,
I feel my body quake;
So urgently I am brought
Into careful thought.
Like Andromach, Hector's wife,
Was weary of her life,
When she had lost her joy,
Noble Hector of Troy;
In like manner also
Increaseth my deadly woe,
For my sparrow is go.

It was so pretty a fool,
It would sit on a stool,
And learned after my school
For to keep his cut,
With " Philip, keep your cut!"

It had a velvet cap,
And would sit upon my lap,
And seek after small worm─ùs,
And sometime white bread-crumb─ùs;
And many times and oft
Between my breast─ùs soft
It would─ù lie and rest;
It was proper and prest.

Sometime he would gasp
When he saw a wasp;
A fly or a gnat,
He would fly at that;
And prettily he would pant
When he saw an ant.
Lord, how he would pry
After the butterfly!
Lord, how he would hop
After the gressop!
And when I said, " Phip, Phip!"
Then he would leap and skip,
And take me by the lip.
Alas, it will me slo
That Philip is gone me fro!

Si in i qui ta tes . . .
Alas, I was evil at ease!
De pro fun dis cla ma vi,
When I saw my sparrow die!

Now, after my dome,
Dame Sulpicia at Rome,
Whose name registered was
For ever in tables of brass,
Because that she did pass
In poesy to indite
And eloquently to write,
Though she would pretend
My sparrow to commend,
I trow she could not amend
Reporting the virtues all
Of my sparrow royal.

For it would come and go,
And fly so to and fro;
And on me it would─ù leap
When I was asleep,
And his feathers shake,
Wherewith he would─ù make
Me often for to wake,
And for to take him in
Upon my naked skin.
God wot, we thought no sin:
What though he crept so low?
It was no hurt, I trow
He did nothing, perde,
But sit upon my knee.
Philip, though he were nice,
In him it was no vice.
Philip might be bold
And do what he wold:
Philip would seek and take
All the fleas black
That he could there espy
With his wanton eye.

O pe ra.
La, sol, fa, fa,
Confitebor tibi, Domine, in toto corde meo!
Alas, I would ride and go
A thousand mile of ground!
If any such might be found
It were worth an hundred pound
Of King Croesus' gold,
Or of Attalus the old,
The rich─ù prince of Pergame,
Whoso list the story to see.
Cadmus, that his sister sought,
An he should be bought
For gold and fee,
He should over the sea
To weet if he could bring
Any of the offspring,
Or any of the blood.
But whoso understood
Of Medea's art,
I would I had a part
Of her crafty magic!
My sparrow then should be quick
With a charm or twain,
And play with me again.
But all this is in vain
Thus for to complain.

I took my sampler once
Of purpose, for the nonce,
To sew with stitches of silk
My sparrow white as milk,
That by representation
Of his image and fashion
To me it might import
Some pleasure and comfort,
For my solace and sport.
But when I was sewing his beak,
Methought my sparrow did speak,
And opened his pretty bill,
Saying, " Maid, ye are in will
Again me for to kill,
Ye prick me in the head!"
With that my needle waxed red,
Methought, of Philip's blood;
Mine hair right upstood,
I was in such a fray
My speech was taken away.
I cast down that there was,
And said, " Alas, alas,
How cometh this to pass?"
My fingers, dead and cold,
Could not my sampler hold:
My needle and thread
I threw away for dread.
The best now that I may
Is for his soul to pray:
A porta inferi . . .
Good Lord, have mercy
Upon my sparrow's soul,
Written in my bead-roll!

Au di vi vo cem,
Japhet, Ham, and Shem,
Ma gni fi cat,
Shew me the right path
To the hills of Armony,
Whereon the boards yet lie
Of your father's boat,
That was sometime afloat,
And now they lie and rot;
Let some poet─ùs write
Deucalion's flood it hight.
But as verily as ye be
The natural sonn─ùs three
Of No─ù the patriarch,
That made that great ark,
Wherein he had apes and owls,
Beasts, birds, and fowls,
That if ye can find
Any of my sparrow's kind
(God send the soul good rest!)
I would have yet a nest
As pretty and as prest
As my sparrow was.
But my sparrow did pass
All sparrows of the wood
That were since No─ù's flood,
Was never none so good.
King Philip of Macedony
Had no such Philip as I,
No, no, sir, hard─ùly!

That vengeance I ask and cry,
By way of exclamation,
On all the whol─ù nation
Of catt─ùs wild and tame:
God send them sorrow and shame!
That cat specially
That slew so cruelly
My little pretty sparrow
That I brought up at Carrow.

O cat of carlish kind,
The fiend was in thy mind
When thou my bird untwined!
I would thou hadst been blind!
The leopards savage,
The lions in their rage
Might catch thee in their paws,
And gnaw thee in their jaws!
The serpents of Libany
Might sting thee venomously!
The dragons with their tongues
Might poison thy liver and lungs!
The manticors of the mountains
Might feed them on thy brains!

Melanchaetes, that hound
That plucked Actaeon to the ground,
Gave him his mortal wound,
Changed to a deer,
The story doth appear,
Was changed to an hart:
So thou, foul cat that thou art,
The selfsame hound
Might thee confound,
That his own lord─ù bote,
Might bite asunder thy throat!

Of Ind the greedy grypes
Might tear out all thy tripes!
Of Arcady the bears
Might pluck away thine ears!
The wild wolf Lycaon
Bite asunder thy backbone!
Of Etna the burning hill,
That day and night burneth still,
Set in thy tail a blaze
That all the world may gaze
And wonder upon thee,
From Ocean the great sea
Unto the Isles of Orcady,
From Tilbury Ferry
To the plain of Salisbury!
So traitorously my bird to kill
That never ought thee evil will!

Was never bird in cage
More gentle of corage
In doing his homage
Unto his sovereign.
Alas, I say again,
Death hath departed us twain!
The false cat hath thee slain:
Farewell, Philip, adew!
Our Lord, thy soul rescue!
Farewell, without restore,
Farewell, for evermore!

An it were a Jew,
It would make one rue,
To see my sorrow new.
These villainous false cats
Were made for mice and rats,
And not for bird─ùs smale.
Alas, my face waxeth pale,
Telling this piteous tale,
How my bird so fair,
That was wont to repair,
And go in at my spair,
And creep in at my gore
Of my gown before,
Flickering with his wings!
Alas, my heart it stings,
Remembering pretty things!
Alas, mine heart it sleth,
My Philip's doleful death!
When I remember it,
How prettily it would sit,
Many times and oft,
Upon my finger aloft!
I played with him tittle-tattle,
And fed him with my spittle,
With his bill between my lips,
It was my pretty Phips!
Many a pretty kiss
Had I of his sweet muss!
And now the cause is thus,
That he is slain me fro,
To my great pain and woe.

Of fortune this the chance
Standeth on variance:
Oft time after pleasance,
Trouble and grievance.
No man can be sure
Alway to have pleasure:
As well perceive ye may
How my disport and play
From me was taken away
By Gib, our cat savage,
That in a furious rage
Caught Philip by the head
And slew him there stark dead!

Kyrie, eleison,
Christe, eleison,
Kyrie, eleison!
For Philip Sparrow's soul,
Set in our bead-roll,
Let us now whisper
A Paternoster .

Lauda, anima mea, Dominum!
To weep with me look that ye come
All manner of bird─ùs in your kind;
See none be left behind.
To mourning look─ù that ye fall
With dolorous song─ùs funerall,
Some to sing, and some to say,
Some to weep, and some to pray,
Every bird─ù in his lay.
The goldfinch, the wagtail;
The jangling jay to rail,
The flecked pie to chatter
Of this dolorous matter;
And robin redbreast,
He shall be the priest
The requiem mass to sing,
Softly warbeling,
With help of the reed sparrow,
And the chattering─ù swallow,
This hears─ù for to hallow;
The lark with his long toe;
The spink, and the martinet also;
The shoveller with his broad beak;
The dotterel, that foolish peke,
And also the mad coot,
With bald─ù face to toot;
The fieldfare and the snite;
The crow and the kite;
The raven, called Rolf─ù,
His plain-song to sol-fa;
The partridge, the quail;
The plover with us to wail;
The woodhack, that singeth " chur"
Hoarsely, as he had the mur;
The lusty chanting nightingale;
The popinjay to tell her tale,
That toteth oft in a glass,
Shall read the Gospel at mass;
The mavis with her whistle
Shall read there the Epistle.
But with a large and a long
To keep─ù just plain-song,
Our chanters shall be the cuckoo,
The culver, the stockdoo.
With " peewit" the lapwing,
The Versicles shall sing.

The bittern with his bump─ù,
The crane with his trump─ù,
The swan of Maeander,
The goose and the gander,
The duck and the drake,
Shall watch at this wake;
The peacock so proud,
Because his voice is loud,
And hath a glorious tail,
He shall sing the Grail;
The owl, that is so foul,
Must help us to howl;
The heron so gaunt,
And the cormorant,
With the pheasant,
And the gaggling gant,
And the churlish chough;
The knot and the ruff;
The barnacle, the buzzard,
With the wild mallard;
The divendop to sleep;
The water-hen to weep;
The puffin and the teal
Money they shall deal
To poor─ù folk at large,
That shall be their charge;
The seamew and the titmouse;
The woodcock with the long─ù nose;
The throstle with her warbling;
The starling with her brabling;
The rook, with the osprey
That putteth fishes to a fray;
And the dainty curlew,
With the turtle most true.

At this Placebo
We may not well forgo
The countering of the coe;
The stork also,
That maketh his nest
In chimneys to rest;
Within those walls
No broken galls
May there abide
Of cuckoldry side,
Or else philosophy
Maketh a great lie.
The ostrich, that will eat
An horseshoe so great,
In the stead of meat,
Such fervent heat
His stomach doth frete;
He cannot well fly,
Nor sing tunably,
Yet at a brayd
He hath well assayed
To sol-fa above E-la.
Fa, lorell, fa, fa!
Ne quando
Male cantando,
The best that we can,
To make him our bell-man,
And let him ring the bells.
He can do nothing else.

Chanticleer, our cock,
Must tell what is of the clock
By the astrology
That he hath naturally
Conceived and caught,
And was never taught
By Albumazer
The astronomer,
Nor by Ptolomy
Prince of astronomy,
Nor yet by Haly;
And yet he croweth daily
And nightly the tides
That no man abides,
With Partlot his hen,
Whom now and then
He plucketh by the head
When he doth her tread.

The bird of Araby,
That potentially
May never die,
And yet there is none
But one alone;
A phoenix it is
This hearse that must bless
With aromatic gums
That cost great sums,
The way of thurification
To make a fumigation,
Sweet─ù of reflar─ù,
And redolent of air─ù,
This cors─ù for to cense
With great─ù reverence,
As patriarch or pope
In a black─ù cope.
Whiles he censeth the hearse,
He shall sing the verse,
Libera me,
In de la, sol, re,
Softly B molle
For my sparrow's soul.
Pliny sheweth all
In his Story Natural
What he doth find
Of the phoenix kind;
Of whose incineration
There riseth a new creation
Of the same fashion
Without alteration,
Saving that old─ù age
Is turned into corage
Of fresh─ù youth again;
This matter true and plain,
Plain matter indeed,
Who so list to read.

But for the eagle doth fly
Highest in the sky,
He shall be the sub-dean,
The choir to demean,
As provost principal,
To teach them their Ordinal;
Also the noble falcon,
With the ger-falcon,
The tarsel gentil,
They shall mourn soft and still
In their amice of gray;
The saker with them shall say
Dirige for Philip's soul;
The goshawk shall have a roll
The choristers to control;
The lanners and the merlions
Shall stand in their mourning-gowns;
The hobby and the musket
The censers and the cross shall fet;
The kestrel in all this wark
Shall be holy water clerk.

And now the dark cloudy night
Chaseth away Phoebus bright,
Taking his course toward the west,
God send my sparrow's soul good rest!
Requiem aeternum dona eis, Domine!
Fa, fa, fa, mi, re, re,
A por ta in fe ri,
Fa, fa, fa, mi, mi.

Credo videre bona Domini,
I pray God, Philip to heaven may fly!
Domine, exaudi orationem meam!
To heaven he shall, from heaven he came!
Do mi nus vo bis cum!
Of all good prayers God send him some!
Oremus ,
Deus, cui proprium est misereri et parcere,
On Philip's soul have pity!
For he was a pretty cock,
And came of a gentle stock,
And wrapt in a maiden's smock,
And cherished full daintily,
Till cruel fate made him to die:
Alas, for doleful destiny!
But whereto should I
Longer mourn or cry?
To Jupiter I call,
Of heaven imperial,
That Philip may fly
Above the starry sky,
To tread the pretty wren,
That is our Lady's hen.
Amen, amen, amen!

Yet one thing is behind,
That now cometh to mind;
An epitaph I would have
For Philipp─ùs grave:
But for I am a maid,
Timorous, half afraid,
That never yet assayed
Of Helicon─ùs well,
Where the Muses dwell;
Though I can read and spell,
Recount, report, and tell
Of the Tales of Canterbury ,
Some sad stories, some merry;
As Palamon and Arcet,
Duke Theseus, and Partelet;
And of he Wife of Bath,
That worketh much scath
When her tale is told
Among housewiv─ùs bold,
How she controlled
Her husbands as she wold,
And them to despise
In the homeliest wise,
Bring other wives in thought
Their husbands to set at nought.
And though that read have I
Of Gawain and Sir Guy,
And tell can a great piece
Of the Golden Fleece,
How Jason it wan,
Like a valiant man;
Of Arthur's Round Table,
With his knights commendable,
And Dame Gaynour, his queen,
Was somewhat wanton, I ween;
How Sir Lancelot de Lake
Many a spear brake
For his lady's sake;
Of Tristram, and King Mark,
And all the whole wark
Of Belle Isold his wife,
For whom was much strife;
Some say she was light,
And made her husband knight
Of the common hall,
That cuckolds men call;
And of Sir Lybius,
Named Dysconius;
Of Quater Fylz Amund,
And how they were summoned
To Rome, to Charlemagne,
Upon a great pain,
And how they rode each one
On Bayard Mountalbon;
Men see him now and then
In the forest of Arden.
What though I can frame
The stories by name
Of Judas Maccabeus,
And of Caesar Julius;
And of the love between
Paris and Vienne;
And of the duke Hannibal,
That made the Romans all
Fordread and to quake;
How Scipion did wake
The city of Carthage,
Which by his unmerciful rage
He beat down to the ground.
And though I can expound
Of Hector of Troy,
That was all their joy,
Whom Achilles slew,
Wherefore all Troy did rue;
And of the love so hot
That made Troilus to dote
Upon fair Cresseid;
And what they wrote and said,
And of their wanton will─ùs
Pander bare the bill─ùs
From one to the other;
His master's love to further,
Sometime a precious thing,
A brooch or else a ring;
From her to him again
Sometime a pretty chain,
Or a bracelet of her hair,
Prayed Troilus for to wear
That token for her sake;
How heartily he did it take,
And much thereof did make;
And all that was in vain,
For she did but feign;
The story telleth plain,
He could not obtain,
Though his father were a king,
Yet there was a thing
That made the male to wring;
She made him to sing
The song of lover's lay;
Musing night and day,
Mourning all alone,
Comfort had he none,
For she was quit─ù gone.
Thus in conclusion,
She brought him in abusion;
In earnest and in game
She was much to blame;
Disparaged is her fame,
And blemished is her name,
In manner half with shame;
Troilus also hath lost
On her much love and cost,
And now must kiss the post;
Pandarus, that went between,
Hath won nothing, I ween,
But light for summer green;
Yet for a special laud
He is named Troilus' bawd;
Of that name he is sure
Whil─ùs the world shall 'dure.

Though I remember the fable
Of Penelope most stable,
To her husband most true,
Yet long-time she ne knew
Whether he were live or dead;
Her wit stood her in stead,
That she was true and just
For any bodily lust
To Ulysses her make,
And never would him forsake.

Of Marcus Marcellus
A process I could tell us;
And of Antiochus,
And of Josephus
De Antiquitatibus;
And of Mardocheus,
And of great Ahasuerus,
And of Vesca his queen,
Whom he forsook with teen,
And of Esther his other wife,
With whom he led a pleasant life;
Of King Alexander;
And of King Evander;
And of Porsena the great,
That made the Romans to sweat.

Though I have enrolled
A thousand new and old
Of these historious tales,
To fill budgets and males
With books that I have read,
Yet I am nothing sped,
And can but little skill
Of Ovid or Virgil,
Or of Plutarch,
Or Francis Petrarch,
Alcaeus or Sappho,
Or such others poets mo,
As Linus and Homerus,
Euphorion and Theocritus,
Anacreon and Arion,
Sophocles and Philemon,
Pindarus and Simonides,
Philistion and Pherecydes;
These poets of ancient─ù,
They are too diffuse for me:

For, as I tofore have said,
I am but a young maid,
And cannot in effect
My style as yet direct
With English words elect.
Our natural tongue is rude,
And hard to be ennewed
With polished term─ùs lusty;
Our language is so rusty,
So cankered, and so full
Of frowards, and so dull,
That if I would apply
To write ornately,
I wot not where to find
Terms to serve my mind.

Gower's English is old,
And of no value told;
His matter is worth gold,
And worthy to be enrolled.

In Chaucer I am sped,
His Tal─ùs I have read:
His matter is delectable,
Solacious, and commendable;
His English well allowed,
So as it is enprowed,
For as it is employed,
There is no English void,
At those days much commended;
And now men would have amended
His English, whereat they bark,
And mar all they wark.
Chaucer, that famous clerk,
His term─ùs were not dark,
But pleasant, easy, and plain;
No word he wrote in vain.

Also John Lydgate
Writeth after an higher rate;
It is diffuse to find
The sentence of his mind,
Yet writeth he in his kind,
No man that can amend
Those matters that he hath penned;
Yet some men find a faute,
And say he writeth too haut.

Wherefore hold me excused
If I have not well perused
Mine English half abused;
Though it be refused,
In worth I shall it take,
And fewer word─ùs make.

But, for my sparrow's sake,
Yet as a woman may,
My wit I shall assay
An epitaph to write
In Latin plain and light,
Whereof the elegy
Followeth by and by:
Flos volucrum formose, vale!
Philippe, sub isto
Marmore jam recubas,
Qui mihi carus eras.
Semper erunt nitido
Radiantia sidera caelo;
Impressusque meo
Pectore semper eris.

Per me laurigerum
Britonum Skeltonida Vatem
Haec cecinisse licet
Ficta sub imagine texta.
Cujus eris volucris,
Praestanti corpore virgo:
Candida Nais erat,
Formosior ista Joanna est;
Docta Corinna fuit,
Sed magis ista sapit

Bien m'en souvient.

THE COMMENDATIONS

Beati immaculati in via,
O gloriosa femina!
Now mine whole imagination
And studious meditation
Is to take this commendation
In this consideration;
And under patient toleration
Of that most goodly maid
That Placebo hath said,
And for her sparrow prayed
In lamentable wise,
Now will I enterprise,
Thorough the grace divine
Of the Muses nine,
Her beauty to commend,
If Arethusa will send
Me influence to indite,
And with my pen to write;
If Apollo will promise
Melodiously to it devise
His tunable harp strings
With harmony that sings
Of princes and of kings
And of all pleasant things,
Of lust and of delight,
Thorough his godly might;
To whom be the laud ascribed
That my pen hath imbibed
With the aureate dropp─ùs,
As verily my hope is,
Of Tagus, that golden flood,
That passeth all earthly good;
And as that flood doth pass
All floods that ever was
With his golden sand─ùs,
Whoso that understand─ùs
Cosmography, and the stream─ùs
And the floods in strang─ù ream─ùs,
Right so she doth exceed
All other of whom we read,
Whose fame by me shall spread
Into Persia and Mede,
From Britons' Albion
To the Tower of Babylon.

I trust it is no shame,
And no man will me blame,
Though I register her name
In the court of Fame;
For this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fresh colour,
So Jupiter me succour,
She flourisheth new and new
In beauty and virtue:
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa femina,
Retribue servo tuo, vivifica me!
Labia mea laudabunt te.

But enforced am I
Openly to ascry,
And to make an outcry
Against odious Envy,
That evermore will lie,
And say cursedly;
With his leather eye,
And cheek─ùs dry;
With visage wan,
As swart as tan;
His bon─ùs crake,
Lean as a rake;
His gumm─ùs rusty
Are full unlusty;
His heart withal
Bitter as gall;
His liver, his lung
With anger is wrung;
His serpent's tongue
That many one hath stung;
He frowneth ever;
He laugheth never,
Even nor morrow,
But other men's sorrow
Causeth him to grin
And rejoice therein;
No sleep can him catch,
But ever doth watch,
He is so bete
With malice, and frete
With anger and ire,
His foul desire
Will suffer no sleep
In his head to creep;
His foul semblant
All displeasant;
When others are glad,
Then is he sad,
Frantic and mad;
His tongue never still
For to say ill,
Writhing and wringing,
Biting and stinging;
And thus this elf
Consumeth himself,
Himself doth slo
With pain and woe.
This false Envy
Sayeth that I
Use great folly
For to indite,
And for to write,
And spend my time
In prose and rime,
For to express
The nobleness
Of my mistress,
That causeth me
Studious to be
To make a relation,
Of her commendation.
And there again
Envy doth complain,
And hath disdain;
But yet certain
I will be plain,
And my style 'dress
To this process
Now Phoebus me ken
To sharp my pen,
And lead my fist
As him best list,
That I may say
Honour alway
Of womankind!
Truth doth me bind
And loyalty
Ever to be
Their true bedell,
To write and tell
How women excel
In nobleness;
As my mistress,
Of whom I think
With pen and ink
For to compile
Some goodly style;
For this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fresh colour,
So Jupiter me succour,
She flourisheth new and new
In beauty and virtue:
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa femina,
Legem pone mihi, domina, viam justificationum tuarum!
Quemadmodum desiderat cervus ad fontes aquarum.

How shall I report
All the goodly sort
Of her featur─ùs clear,
That hath none earthly peer?
The favour of her face
Ennewed all with grace,
Comfort, pleasure, and solace.
Mine heart doth so embrace,
And so hath ravished me
Her to behold and see,
That in word─ùs plain
I cannot me refrain
To look on her again.
Alas, what should I feign?
It were a pleasant pain
With her aye to remain.

Her eyen grey and steep
Causeth mine heart to leap;
With her brow─ùs bent
She may well represent
Fair Lucres, as I ween,
Or else fair Polexene,
Or else Calliope,
Or else Penelope;
For this most goodly floure,
This blosom of fresh colour,
So Jupiter me succour,
She flourisheth new and new
In beauty and virtue:
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa femina,
Memor esto verbi tui servo tuo!
Servus tuus sum ego.

The Indy sapphire blue
Her vein─ùs doth ennew;
The orient pearl so clear,
The whiteness of her lere;
Her lusty ruby ruddes
Resemble the rose budd─ùs;
Her lipp─ùs soft and merry
Enbloomed like the cherry:
It were an heavenly bliss
Her sugared mouth to kiss.

Her beauty to augment,
Dame Nature hath her lent
A wart upon her cheek, —
Whoso list to seek
In her visage a scar, —
That seemeth from afar
Like to the radiant star,
All with favour fret,
So properly it is set!
She is the violet,
The daisy delectable,
The columbine commendable,
The jelofer amiable:
For this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fresh colour,
So Jupiter me succour,
She flourisheth new and new
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa femina,
Bonitatem fecisti cum servo tuo, domina,
Et ex praecordiis sonant praeconia!

And when I perceived
Her wart and conceived,
It cannot be denay'd
But it was well conveyed
And set so womanly,
And nothing wantonly,
But right conveniently,
And full congruently,
As Nature could devise,
In most goodly wise!
Whoso list behold,
It maketh lovers bold
To her to sue for grace,
Her favour to purchase;
The scar upon her chin,
Enhatched on her fair skin,
Whiter than the swan,
It would make any man
To forget deadly sin
Her favour to win!
For this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fresh colour,
So Jupiter me succour,
She flourisheth new and new
In beauty and virtue:
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa femina,
Defecit in salutatione tua anima mea;
Quid petis filio, mater dulcissima? babae!

Soft, and make no din,
For now I will begin
To have in remembrance
Her goodly dalliance,
And her goodly pastance:
So sad and so demure,
Behaving her so sure,
With word─ùs of pleasure
She would make to the lure
And any man convert
To give her his whole heart.
She made me sore amazed
Upon her when I gazed,
Methought mine heart was crazed,
My eyen were so dazed!
For this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fresh colour,
So Jupiter me succour,
She flourisheth new and new
In beauty and virtue:
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa femina,
Quomodo dilexi legem tuam, domina!
Recedant vetera, nova sunt omnia.

And to amend her tale,
When she list to avail,
And with her fingers smale,
And hand─ùs soft as silk,
Whiter than the milk,
That are so quickly veined,
Wherewith my hand she strained,
Lord, how I was pained!
Unneth I me refrained,
How she me had reclaimed,
And me to her retained,
Embracing therewithall
Her goodly middle small
With sid─ùs long and strait!
To tell you what conceit
I had then in a trice,
The matter were too nice —
And yet there was no vice,
Nor yet no villany,
But only fantasy.
For this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fresh colour,
So Jupiter me succour,
She flourisheth new and new
In beauty and virtue:
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa femina,
Iniquos odio habui!
Non calumnientur me super bi.

But whereto should I note
How often did I toot
Upon her pretty foot?
It rased mine heart-root
To see her tread the ground
With heel─ùs short and round!
She is plainly express
Egeria, the goddess,
And like to her image,
Emportured with corage,
A lover's pilgrimage;
There is no beast savage,
Ne no tiger so wood,
But she would change his mood,
Such relucent grace
Is formed in her face.
For this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fresh colour,
So Jupiter me succour,
She flourisheth new and new
In beauty and virtue:
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa femina,
Mirabilia testimonia tua!
Sicut novellae plantationes in juventute sua.

So goodly as she dresses,
So properly she presses
The bright golden tresses
Of her hair so fine,
Like Phoebus' beam─ùs shine.
Whereto should I disclose
The gartering of her hose?
It is for to suppose
How that she can wear
Gorgeously her gear;
Her fresh habiliments
With other implements
To serve for all intents,
Like Dame Flora, queen
Of lusty summer green:
For this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fresh colour,
So Jupiter me succour,
She flourisheth new and new
In beauty and virtue:
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa femina,
Clamavi in toto corde, exaudi me!
Misericordia tua magna est super me.

Her kirtle so goodly laced,
And under that is braced
Such pleasures that I may
Neither write nor say!
Yet though I write with ink,
No man can let me think,
For thought hath liberty,
Thought is frank and free;
To think a merry thought
It cost me little nor nought.
Would God mine homely style
Were polished with the file
Of Cicero's eloquence,
To praise her excellence!
For this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fresh colour,
So Jupiter me succour,
She flourisheth new and new
In beauty and virtue:
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa femina,
Principes persecuti sunt me gratis!
Omnibus consideratis,
Par adisus voluptatis
Haec virgo est dulcissima.

My pen it is unable,
My hand it is unstable,
My reason rude and dull
To praise her at the full;
Goodly Mistress Jane,
Sober, demure Diane;
Jane this mistress hight,
The lode-star of delight,
Dame Venus of all pleasure,
The well of worldly treasure!
She doth exceed and pass
In prudence Dame Pallas;
For this most goodly floure,
This blossom of fresh colour,
So Jupiter me succour,
She flourisheth new and new
In beauty and virtue:
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa femina!

Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine!
With this psalm, Domine , probasti me ,
Shall sail over the sea,
With Tibi , Domine , commendamus ,
On pilgrimage to Saint Jam─ùs,
For shrimp─ùs, and for prawn─ùs,
And for stalking cran─ùs.
And where my pen hath offended,
I pray you it may be amended
By discreet consideration
Of your wise reformation.
I have not offended, I trust,
If it be sadly discust.
It were no gentle guise
This treatise to despise
Because I have written and said
Honour of this fair maid.
Wherefore should I be blamed,
That I Jane have named,
And famously proclaimed?
She is worthy to be enrolled
With letters of gold.
Car elle vaut .

Per me laurigerum Britonum Skeltonida vatem
Laudibus eximiis merito haec redimita puella est.
Formosam cecini, qua non formosior ulla est;
Formosam potius quam commendaret Homerus.
Sic juvat interdum rigidos recreare labores,
Nec minus hoc titulo tersa Minerva mea est.

Rien que plaisir.

Thus endeth the Book of Philip Sparrow, and here followeth an addition made by Master Skelton.

The guise nowadays
Of some jangling jays
Is to discommend
That they cannot amend,
Though they would spend
All the wits they have.
What ails them to deprave
Philip Sparrow's grave?
His Dirige , her Commendation
Can be no derogation,
But mirth and consolation
Made by protestation,
No man to miscontent
With Philip's inter─ùment.
Alas, that goodly maid,
Why should she be afraid?
Why should she tak─ù shame
That her goodly name,
Honourably reported,
Should be set and sorted,
To be matriculate
With lady─ùs of estate?
I conjure thee, Philip Sparrow,
By Hercules that hell did harrow,
And with a venomous arrow
Slew of the Epidaurs
One of the Centaurs,
Or Onocentaurs,
Or Hippocentaurs;
By whose might and main
An hart was slain
With horn─ùs twain
Of glittering gold;
And the apples of gold
Of Hesperides withhold,
And with a dragon kept
That nevermore slept,
By martial strength
He won at length;
And slew Geryon
With three bodies in one;
With mighty courage
Adaunted the rage
Of a lion savage;
Of Diomedes' stable
He brought out a rabble
Of coursers and rounces
With leap─ùs and bounces;
And with mighty lugging,
Wrestling and tugging,
He plucked the bull
By the horned skull,
And offered to Cornucopia —
And so forth per cetera .
Also by Hecate's bower,
In Pluto's ghastly tower;
By the ugly Eumenides,
That never have rest nor ease;
By the venomous serpent,
That in hell is never brent,
In Lerna the Greek─ùs' fen,
That was engendered then;
By Chimera's flames,
And all the deadly names
Of infernal posty,
Where soul─ùs fry and roasty;
By the Stygian flood,
And the stream─ùs wood
Of Cocytus' bottomless well;
By the ferryman of hell,
Charon with his b─ùard hoar,
That roweth with a rude oar
And with his frownced foretop
Guideth his boat with a prop;
I conjure Philip, and call
In the same of King Saul;
Primo Regum express,
He bad the Pythoness
To witchcraft her to 'dress,
And by her abusions
And damnable illusions
Of marvellous conclusions,
And by her superstitions,
And wonderful conditions,
She raised up in that stead
Samuel that was dead;
But whether it were so,
He were idem in numero ,
The self-same Samuel,
Howbeit to Saul he did tell
The Philistines should him ascry,
And the next day he should die,
I will myself discharge
To lettered men at large.
But, Philip, I conjure thee
Now by these nam─ùs three,
Diana in the wood─ùs green,
Luna that so bright doth shine,
Proserpina in hell,
That thou shortly tell,
And show now unto me
What the cause may be
Of this perplexity!

Inferias, Philippe, tuas Scroupe pulchra Joanna
Instanter petiit: cur nostri carminis illam
Nunc pudet? est sero; minor est infamia vero.

Then such as have disdained
And of this work complained,
I pray God they be pained
No worse than is contained
In verses two or three
That follow as you may see.

Luride, cur, livor, volucris pia funera damnas?
Talia te rapiant rapiunt quae fata volucrem!
Est tamen invidia mors tibi continua.