Classic Poem

Tell you I chyll,
If that ye wyll
A whyle be styll,
Of a comely gyll
That dwelt on a hyll;
But she is not gryll,
For she is somewhat sage
And well worne in age,
For her vysage
It woldt aswage
A mannes courage.
Her lothely lere
Is nothynge clere,
But ugly of chere,
Droupy and drowsy,
Scurvy and lowsy;
Her face all bowsy,
Comely crynklyd,
Woundersly wrynklyd,
Lyke a rost pygges eare
Brystled with here.
Her lewde lyppes twayne,
They slaver, men sayne,
Lyke a ropy rayne,
A gummy glayre.
She is ugly fayre:
Her nose somdele hoked
And camously croked,
Never stoppynge
But ever droppynge;
Her skynne lose and slacke,
Greuyned lyke a sacke;
With a croked backe.
Her eyen gowndy
Are full unsowndy,
For they are blered;
And she gray-hered,
Jawed lyke a jetty;
A man wolde have pytty
To se howe she is gumbed,
Fyngered and thumbed,
Gently joynted,
Gresed and anoynted
Up to the knockles;
The bones of her huckels
Lyke as they were with buckels
Togyder made fast.
Her youth is farre past;
Foted lyke a plane,
Legged lyke a crane;
And yet she wyll jet
Lyke a joyly fet
In her furred flocket
And graye russet rocket,
With symper the cocket.
Her huke of Lyncole grene,
It had ben hers, I wene,
More then fourty yere;
And so doth it apere,
For the grene bare thredes
Loke lyke sere wedes,
Wyddered lyke hay,
The woll worne away.
And yet I dare saye
She thynketh herselfe gaye
Upon the holy daye,
Whan she doth her aray,
And gyrdeth in her gytes
Stytched and pranked with pletes;
Her kyrtell Brystowe red,
With clothes upon her hed
That wey a sowe of led,
Wrythen in wonder wyse
After the Sarasyns gyse,
With a whym-wham
Knyt with a trym-tram
Upon her brayne-pan,
Lyke an Egypcyan
Lapped about.
Whan she goeth out
Herselfe for to shewe,
She dryveth downe the dewe
With a payre of heles
As brode as two wheles;
She hobles as she gose
With her blanket hose
Over the falowe,
Her shone smered wyth talowe,
Gresed upon dyrt
That baudeth her skyrt.
Primus Passus

And this comely dame,
I understande, her name
Is Elynour Rummynge,
At home in her wonnynge;
And as men say,
She dwelt in Sothray
In a certayne stede
Bysyde Lederhede.
She is a tonnysh gyb,
The devyll and she be syb.
But to make up my tale,
She breweth noppy ale,
And maketh thereof port sale
To travellars, to tynkers,
To sweters, to swynkers
And all good ale drynkers,
That wyll nothynge spare,
But drynke tyll they stare
And brynge themselve bare,
With, Now away the mare,
And let us sley care!
As wyse as an hare!
Come whoso wyll
To Elynoure on the hyll,
With, Fyll the cup, fyll!
And syt there by styll,
Erly and late:
Thyther cometh Kate,
Cysly and Sare,
With theyr legges bare,
And also theyr fete
Hardely full unswete;
With theyr heles dagged,
Theyr kyrtelles all to-jagged,
Theyr smockes all to-ragged,
With tytters and tatters,
Brynge dysshes and platters,
With all theyr myght runnynge
To Elynour Rummynge
To have of her tunnynge;
She leneth them on the same,
And thus begynneth the game.
Some wenches come unlased,
Some huswyves come unbrased,
With theyr naked pappes,
That flyppes and flappes,
It wygges and it wagges
Lyke tawny saffron bagges--
A sorte of foule drabbes
All scurvy with scabbes.
Some be flybytten,
Some skewed as a kytten;
Some with a sho clout
Bynde theyr heddes about;
Some have no herelace,
Theyr lockes aboute theyr face,
Theyr tresses untrust,
All full of unlust;
Some loke strawry,
Some cawry mawry;
Full untydy tegges,
Lyke rotten egges:
Such a lewde sorte
To Elynour resorte
From tyde to tyde.
Abyde, abyde,
And you shall be tolde
Howe hyr ale is solde
To mawte and to molde.
Secundus Passus

Some have no mony
That thyder commy,
For theyr ale to pay--
That is a shreud aray!
Elynour swered, Nay,
Ye shall not bere awaye
Myne ale for nought,
By hym that me bought!
With, Hey, dogge, hay,
Have these hogges away!
With, Get me a staffe,
The swyne eate my draffe!
Stryke the hogges with a clubbe,
They have dronke up my swyllyng tubbe!
For be there never so moche prese,
These swyne go to the hye dese;
The sowe with her pygges,
The bore his tayle wrygges,
His rumpe also he frygges
Agaynst the hye benche.
With, Fo, ther is a stenche!
Gather up, thou wenche;
Seest thou not what is fall?
Take up dyrt and all
And bere out of the hall!
God gyve it yll prevynge,
Clenly as yvell chevynge!
But let us turne playne
There we lefte agayne.
For as yll a patch as that,
The hennes ron in the mashfat;
For they go to roust
Streyght over the ale joust,
And donge, whan it commes,
In the ale tunnes.
Than Elynour taketh
The mashe bolle and shaketh
The hennes donge awaye,
And skommeth it into a tray
Whereas the yeest is,
With her maungy fystis.
And somtyme she blennes
The donge of her hennes
And the ale togyder,
And sayth, gossyp, come hyder,
This ale shal be thycker
And floure the more quycker;
For, I may tell you,
I lerned it of a Jewe
Whan I began to brewe,
And I have found it trew.
Drinke now whyle it is new;
And ye may it broke,
It shall make you loke
Yonger than ye be
Yeres two or thre,
For ye may prove it by me.
Behold, she sayd, and se
How bright I am of ble!
Ich am not cast away,
That can my husband say,
Whan we kys and play
In lust and in lykyng.
He calleth me his whytyng,
His mullyng and his mytyng,
His nobbes and his conny,
His swetyng and his honny,
With, bas, my prety bonny,
Thou art worth good and monny.
This make I my falyre fonny,
Tyll that he dreme and dronny,
For after all our sport,
Than wyll he rout and snort;
Thus swete togither we ly,
As two pygges in a sty.
To cease me semeth best,
And of this tale to rest,
And for to leve this letter
Bicause it is no better;
And bicause it is no swetter,
We wyll no farther ryme
Of it at this tyme,
But we wyll turne playne
Where we left agayne.
Tertius Passus

In stede of coyne and monny,
Some brought her a conny,
And some a pot with honny,
Some a salt, and some a spone,
Some their hose, some their shone;
Some ranne a good trot
With a skellet or a pot;
Some fyll theyr pot full
Of good Lemster woll:
An huswyfe of trust,
Whan she is athrust,
Suche a webbe can spyn
Her thryfte is full thyn.
Some go streyght thyder,
Be it slaty or slyder,
They holde the hye waye
They care not what men saye.
Be that as be maye,
Some lothe to be espyde,
Some start in at the backe syde,
Over the hedge and pale,
And all for the good ale.
Some renne tyll they swete,
Brynge with them malte or whete,
And Dame Elynour entrete
To byrle them of the best.
Than cometh another gest,
She swereth by the Rode of Rest,
Her lyppes are so drye
Without drynke she must dye;
Therefore fyll it by and by
And have here a pecke of ry.
Anone cometh another,
As drye as the other,
And with her doth brynge
Mele, salte, or other thynge,
Her hernest gyrdle, her weddynge rynge,
To pay for her scot
As cometh to her lot.
Some bryngeth her husbanis hood
Bycause the ale is good;
Another brought her his cap
To offer to the ale tap,
With flaxe and with towe,
And some brought sowre dowe;
With, Hey and with howe,
Syt we downe arowe
And drynke tyll we blowe
And pype tyrly-tyrlowe!
Some layde to pledge
Theyr hatchet and theyr wedge,
Theyr hekell and theyr rele,
Theyr rocke, theyr spynnyng whele;
And some went so narrowe
They layde to pledge theyr wharrowe,
Theyr rybskyn and theyr spyndell,
Theyr nedell and theyr thymbell;
Here was scant thryft
Whan they made suche shyft.
Theyr thrust was so great
They asked never for mete
But, Drynke, still drynke,
And let the cat wynke!
Let us wasshe our gommes
From the drye crommes!
Quartus Passus

Some for very nede
Layde downe a skeyne of threde
And some a skeyne of yarne;
Some brought from the barne
Both benes and pease:
Small chaffer doth ease
Sometyme, now and than.
Another there was that ran
With a good brasse pan,
Her colour was full wan,
She ran in all the hast
Unbrased and unlast,
Tawny, swart and sallowe
Lyke a cake of tallowe;
I swere by all hallowe
It was a stale to take
The devyll in a brake.
And than come haltyng Jone
And brought a gambone
Of bakon that was resty,
But, Lord, that she was testy,
Angry as a waspy;
She began to yane and gaspy
And bad Elynour go bet,
And fyll in good met:
It was dere that was far fet.
Another brought a spycke
Of a bacon flycke,
Her tonge was very quycke,
But she spake somwhat thycke.
Her felowe dyd stammer and stut,
But she was a foule slut
For her mouth fomyd
And her bely groned:
Jone sayde she had eten a fyest.
By Chryst, sayde she, thou lyest;
I have as swete a breth
As thou, with shamefull deth!
Than Elynour sayde, Ye calettes,
I shall breke your palettes,
Wythout ye now cease,
And so was made the peace.
Than thydder came dronken Ales
And she was full of tales,
Of tydynges in Wales
And saynte James in Gales,
And of the Portyngales.
With, Lo, gossyp, i wys,
Thus and thus it is,
There hath ben greate war
Betwene Temple Bar
And the Crosse in Chepe,
And thyder came an hepe
Of mylstones in a route.
She spake this in her snout,
Snevelyng in her nose
As though she had the pose.
Lo, here is an olde typpet,
And ye wyll gyve me a syppet
Of your stale ale,
God sende you good sale!
And as she was drynkynge,
She fell in a wynkynge
With a barly hood--
She pyst where she stood.
Than began she to wepe,
And forthwith fell on slepe.
Elynour toke her up,
And blessed her with a cup
Of newe ale in cornes;
Ales founde therin no thornes,
But supped it up at ones,
She founde therein no bones.
Quintus Passus

Nowe in cometh another rabell:
First one with a ladell,
Another with a cradell
And with a syde sadell;
And there began a fabell,
A clatterynge and a babell
Of a foles fylly
That had a fole with Wylly,
With, Jast you, and gup, gylly,
She coulde not lye stylly.
Then came in a genet,
And sware by Saynt Benet,
I dranke not this sennet
A draught to my pay.
Elynour, I the pray,
Of thyne ale let us assaye,
And have here a pylche of graye;
I were skynnes of conny
That causeth I loke so donny.
Another than dyd hyche her,
And brought a pottell pycher,
A tonnell, and a bottell;
But she had lost the stoppell--
She cut of her sho-sole
And stopped therewith the hole.
Amonge all the blommer,
Another brought a skommer,
A fryenge pan and a slyce;
Elynour made the pryce
For god ale eche whyt.
Than sterte in mad Kyt,
That had lytell wyt;
She semed somdele seke,
And brought a peny cheke
To Dame Elynour
For a draught of her lycour.
Than Margery Mylke-Ducke
Her kyrtell she dyd uptucke
An ynche above her kne,
Her legges that ye myght se;
But they were sturdy and stubbed,
Myghty pestels and clubbed,
As fayre and as whyte
As the fote of a kyte.
She was somwhat foule,
Croke nebbed lyke an oule,
And yet she brought her fees,
A cantell of Essex chese
Was well a fote thycke,
Full of magottes quycke;
It was huge and greate,
And myghty stronge meate
For the devyll to eate;
It was tart and punyete.
Another sorte of sluttes:
Some brought walnuttes,
Some apples, some peres,
Some brought theyr clyppyng sheres,
Some brought this and that,
Some brought I wote nere what,
Some brought theyr husbands hat,
Some podynges and lynkes,
Some trypes that stynkes.
But of all this thronge
One came them amonge,
She semed halfe a leche,
And began to preche
Of the Tewsday in the weke
Whan the mare doth keke,
Of the vertue of an unset leke
And of her husbandes breke.
With the feders of a quale
She could to Burdews sayle;
And with good ale barme
She could make a charme
To helpe withall a stytch:
She seemed to be a wytch.
Another brought two goslynges
That were noughty froslynges;
She brought them in a wallet--
She was a cumly callet.
The goslenges were untyde;
Elynor began to chyde,
They be wretchockes thou hast brought,
They are shyre shakyng nought.
Sextus Passus

Maude Ruggy thyther skypped:
She was ugly hypped,
And ugly thycke-lypped,
Like an onyon syded,
Lyke tan ledder hyded.
She had her so guyded
Betwene the cup and the wall
That she was there withall
Into a palsey fall;
With that her hed shaked,
And her handes quaked;
Ones hed wold have aked
To se her naked;
She dranke so of the dregges
The dropsy was in her legges,
Her face glystryng lyke glas,
All foggy fat she was.
She had also the gout
In all her joyntes about;
Her breth was soure and stale
And smelled all of ale:
Such a bedfellaw
Wold make one cast his craw;
But yet for all that
She dranke on the mash fat.
There came an old rybybe:
She halted of a kybe,
And had broken her shyn
At the threshold comyng in,
And fell so wyde open
That one might se her token,
They devyll thereon be wroken!
What nede all this be spoken?
She yelled lyke a calfe.
Ryse up, on Gods halfe,
Sayd Elynour Rummyng,
I beshrew the for thy cummyng.
And as she at her dyd pluck,
Quake, quake, sayd the duck
In that lampatrams lap.
With, fy, cover thy shap
With sum flyp-flap,
God gyve it yll hap!
Sayd Elynour, for shame!
Lyke an honest dame.
Up she stert, halfe lame,
And skantly could go
For payne and for wo.
In came another dant,
With a gose and a gant;
She had a wyde wesant,
She was nothynge plesant:
Necked lyke an olyfant;
It was a bullyfant,
A gredy cormerant.
Another brought her garlyke heddes;
Another brought her bedes
Of jet or of cole
To offer to the ale-pole;
Some brought a wymble,
Some brought a thymble,
Some brought a sylke lace,
Some brought a pyncase,
Some her husbanes gowne,
Some a pyllowe of downe,
Some of the napery;
And all this shyfte they make
For the good ale sake.
A strawe, sayde Bele, stande utter,
For we have egges and butter,
And of pygeons a payre.
Than sterte forth a fysgygge
And she brought a bore pygge;
The flesshe therof was ranke,
And her brethe strongely stanke;
Yet or she went, she dranke,
And gat her great thanke
Of Elynour for her ware
That she thyder bare
To pay for her share.
Nowe truly, to my thynkynge,
This is a solempne drynkynge.
Septimus Passus

Soft, quod one hyght Sybbyll,
And let me with you bybyll.
She sat downe in the place,
With a sory face
Whey wormed about;
Garnysshed was her snout
With here and there a puscull,
Lyke a scabbyd muscull.
This ale, sayd she, is noppy;
Let us syppe and soppy
And not spyll a droppy,
For so mote I hoppy,
It coleth well my croppy.
Dame Elynour, sayde she,
Have here is for me,
A clout of London pynnes.
And with that she begynnes
The pot to her plucke,
And dranke a good lucke--
She swynged up a quarte
At ones for her parte--
Her paunche was so puffed
And so with ale stuffed,
Had she not hyed apace,
She had defoyled the place.
Than began the sporte
Amonge that dronken sorte:
Dame Elynour, sayde they,
Lende here a cocke of hey
To make all thynge cleane,
Ye wote well what we meane.
But, syr, amonge all
That sate in that hall,
There was a prycke me denty
Sat lyke a seynty
And began to paynty
As though she wolde faynty.
She made it as koye
As a lege moy;
She was not halfe so wyse
As she was pevysshe nyse.
She sayde never a worde,
But rose from the borde
And called for our dame,
Elynour by name.
We supposed, iwys,
That she rose to pys;
But the very grounde
Was for to compound
With Elynour in the spence
To paye for her expence.
I have no penny or grote
To paye, sayde she, God wote,
For wasshyng of my throte
But my bedes of amber;
Bere them to your chamber.
Than Elynour dyd them hyde
Within her beddes syde.
But some than sate ryght sad
That nothynge had
There of their awne,
Neyther gelt nor pawne.
Suche were there menny
That had not penny;
But whan they shulde walke,
Were fayne with a chalke
To score on the balke
Or score on the tayle.
God gyve it yll hayle,
For my fyngers ytche!
I have wrytten to mytche
Of this mad mummynge
Of Elynour Rummynge.
Thus endeth the gest
Of this worthy fest.

LAUREATI SKELTONIDIS IN DESPECTU MALIGNANTIUM DISTICHON.

Quamvis insanis, quamvis marcescis inanis,
Invide, cantamus: haec loca plena jocis.
Bien m'en souvient.

Omnes foeminas, quae vel nimis bibulae sunt, vel quae sordida labe squaloris, aut qua spurca foeditatis macula,