John Skelton - Colyn Cloute lyrics

Quis consurget mecum adversus malignantes ? aut quis stabit mecum adversus operantes iniqui- tatem ? Nemo, Domine ! W H A T can it auayle To dryue forth a snayle, Or to make a sayle Of an herynges tayle ; To ryme or to rayle, To wryte or to indyte, Eyther for delyte Or elles for despyte ; Or bokes to compyle Of dyuers maner style, Vyce to reuyle And synne to exyle ; To teche or to preche, As reason wyll reche ? Say this, and say that, His hed is so fat, He wotteth neuer what Nor wherof he speketh ; He cryeth and he creketh, He pryeth and he peketh, He chydes and he chatters, He prates and he patters, He clytters and he clatters, He medles and he smatters, He gloses and he flatters ; Or yf he speake playne, Than he lacketh brayne, He is but a fole ; Let hym go to scole, On a thre foted stole That he may downe syt, For he lacketh wyt ; And yf that he hyt The nayle on the hede, It standeth in no stede ; The deuyll, they say, is dede, The deuell is dede. It may well so be, Or els they wolde se Otherwyse, and fle From worldly vanyte, And foule couetousnesse, And other wretchednesse, Fyckell falsenesse, Varyablenesse, With vnstablenesse. And if ye stande in doubte Who brought this ryme aboute, My name is Colyn Cloute. I purpose to shake oute All my connyng bagge, Lyke a clerkely hagge ; For though my ryme be ragged, Tattered and iagged, Rudely rayne beaten, Rusty and moughte eaten, If ye take well therwith, It hath in it some pyth. For, as farre as I can se, It is wronge with eche degre : For the temporalte Accuseth the spiritualte ; The spirituall agayne Dothe grudge and complayne Vpon the temporall men : Thus eche of other blother The tone agayng the tother : Alas, they make me shoder ! For in hoder moder The Churche is put in faute ; The prelates ben so haut, They say, and loke so hy, As though they wolde fly Aboue the sterry skye. Laye men say indede How they take no hede Theyr sely shepe to fede, But plucke away and pull The fleces of theyr wull, Vnethes they leue a locke Of wull amonges theyr flocke ; And as for theyr connynge, A glommynge and a mummynge, And make therof a iape ; They gaspe and they gape All to haue promocyon, There is theyr deuocyon, With money, if it wyll hap, To catche the forked cap : Forsothe they are so lewd To say so, all beshrewd ! What trow ye they say more Of the bysshoppes lore ? How in matters they be rawe, They lumber forth the lawe, To herken Jacke and Gyll, Whan they put vp a byll, And iudge it as they wyll, For other mennes skyll, Expoundyng out theyr clauses, And leue theyr owne causes : In theyr prouynciall cure They make but lytell sure, And meddels very lyght In the Churches ryght ; But ire and venire, And solfa so alamyre, That the premenyre Is lyke to be set a fyre In theyr iurisdictions Through temporall afflictions : Men say they haue prescriptions Agaynst spirituall contradictions, Accomptynge them as fyctions. And whyles the heedes do this, The remenaunt is amys Of the clergy all, Bothe great and small. I wot neuer how they warke, But thus the people barke ;# And surely thus they say, Bysshoppes, if they may, Small houses wolde kepe, But slumbre forth and slepe, And a**ay to crepe Within the noble walles Of the kynges halles, To fat theyr bodyes full, Theyr soules lene and dull, And haue full lytell care How euyll theyr shepe fare. The temporalyte say playne, How bysshoppes dysdayne Sermons for to make, Or suche laboure to take ; And for to say trouth, A great parte is for slouth, But the greattest parte Is for they haue but small arte And ryght sklender connyng Within theyr heedes wonnyng. But this reason they take How they are able to make With theyr golde and treasure Clerkes out of measure, And yet that is a pleasure. How be it some there be, Almost two or thre, Of that dygnyte, Full worshypfull clerkes, As appereth by theyr werkes, Lyke Aaron and Ure, The wolfe from the dore To werryn and to kepe From theyr goostly shepe, And theyr spirituall lammes Sequestred from rammes And from the berded gotes With theyr heery cotes ; Set nought by golde ne grotes, Theyr names if I durst tell. But they are loth to mell, And loth to hang the bell Aboute the cattes necke, For drede to haue a checke ; They ar fayne to play deuz decke, They ar made for the becke. How be it they are good men, Moche herted lyke an hen : Theyr lessons forgotten they haue That Becket them gaue : Thomas manum mittit ad fortia, Spernit damna, spernit opprobria, Nulla Thomam frangit injuria. But nowe euery spirituall father, Men say, they had rather Spende moche of theyr share Than to be combred with care : Spende ! nay, nay, but spare ; For let se who that dare Sho the mockysshe mare ; They make her wynche and keke, But it is not worth a leke : Boldnesse is to seke The Churche for to defend. Take me as I intende, For lothe I am to offende In this that I haue pende : I tell you as men say ; Amende whan ye may, For, usque ad montem Sare,# Men say ye can not appare ; For some say ye hunte in parkes, And hauke on hobby larkes, And other wanton warkes, Whan the nyght darkes. What hath lay men to do The gray gose for to sho ? Lyke houndes of hell, They crye and they yell, Howe that ye sell The grace of the Holy Gost : Thus they make theyr bost Through owte euery cost, Howe some of you do eate In Lenton season fleshe mete, Fesauntes, partryche, and cranes ; Men call you therfore prophanes ; Ye pycke no shrympes nor pranes, Saltfysshe, stocfysshe, nor heryng, It is not for your werynge ; Nor in holy Lenton season Ye wyll netheyr benes ne peason, But ye loke to be let lose To a pygge or to a gose, Your gorge not endewed Without a capon stewed, Or a stewed co*ke, To knowe whate ys a clocke Vnder her surfled smocke, And her wanton wodico*ke. And how whan ye gyue orders In your prouinciall borders, As at Sitientes, Some are insufficientes, Some parum sapientes Some nihil intelligentes, Some valde negligentes, Some nullum sensum habentes, But bestiall and vntaught ; But whan thei haue ones caught Dominus vobiscum by the hede, Than renne they in euery stede, God wot, with dronken nolles ; Yet take they cure of soules, And woteth neuer what thei rede, Paternoster, Ave, nor Crede ; Construe not worth a whystle Nether Gospell nor Pystle ; Theyr mattyns madly sayde, Nothynge deuoutly prayde ; Theyr lernynge is so small, Theyr prymes and houres fall And lepe out of theyr lyppes Lyke sawdust or drye chyppes. I speke not nowe of all, But the moost parte in generall. Of suche vagabundus Speketh totus mundus ; Howe some synge Lætabundus At euery ale stake, With, welcome hake and make ! By the brede that God brake, I am sory for your sake. I speke not of the good wyfe, But of theyr apostles lyfe ; Cum ipsis vel illis Qui manent in villis Est uxor vel ancilla, Welcome Jacke and Gylla ! My prety Petronylla, And you wyll be stylla, You shall haue your wylla. Of suche Paternoster pekes All the worlde spekes. In you the faute is supposed, For that they are not apposed By iust examinacyon In connyng and conuersacyon ; They haue none instructyon To make a true constructyon : A preest without a letter, Without his vertue be gretter, Doutlesse were moche better Vpon hym for to take A mattocke or a rake. Alas, for very shame ! Some can not declyne their name ; Some can not scarsly rede, And yet he wyll not drede For to kepe a cure, And in nothyng is sure ; This Dominus vobiscum, As wyse as Tom a thrum, A chaplayne of trust Layth all in the dust. Thus I, Colyn Cloute, As I go aboute, And wandrynge as I walke, I here the people talke. Men say, for syluer and golde Myters are bought and solde ; There shall no clergy appose A myter nor a crose, But a full purse : A strawe for Goddes curse ! What are they the worse ? For a symonyake Is but a hermoniake ; And no more ye make Of symony, men say, But a chyldes play. Ouer this, the foresayd laye Reporte howe the Pope may An holy anker call Out of the stony wall, And hym a bysshopp make, If he on hym dare take To kepe so harde a rule, To ryde vpon a mule With golde all betrapped, In purple and paule belapped ; Some hatted and some capped, Rychely and warme bewrapped, God wot to theyr great paynes, In rotchettes of fyne Raynes, Whyte as morowes mylke ; Theyr tabertes of fyne silke, Theyr styrops of myxt gold begared ; There may no cost be spared ; Theyr moyles golde dothe eate, Theyr neyghbours dye for meate. What care they though Gil sweate, Or Jacke of the Noke ? The pore people they yoke With sommons and citacyons And excommunycacyons, About churches and market : The bysshop on his carpet At home full softe dothe syt. This is a farly fyt, To here the people iangle, Howe warely they wrangle : Alas, why do ye not handle And them all to-mangle ? Full falsely on you they lye, And shamefully you ascrye, And say as vntruely, As the bu*terflye A man myght saye in mocke Ware the# wetherco*ke Of the steple of Poules ; And thus they hurte theyr soules In sclaunderyng you for truthe : Alas, it is great ruthe ! Some say ye syt in trones, Lyke prynces aquilonis, And shryne your rotten bones With perles and precyous stones ; But how the commons grones, And the people mones For prestes and for lones Lent and neuer payd, But from day to day delayde, The commune welth decayde, Men say ye are tonge tayde, And therof speke nothynge Byt dyssymulyng and glosyng. Wherfore men be supposyng The ye gyue shrewd counsell Agaynst the commune well, By poollynge and pyllage In cytyes and vyllage, By taxyng and tollage, Ye make monkes to haue the culerage For couerynge of an olde cottage, That commytted is a collage In the charter of dottage, Tenure par seruyce de sottage, And not par seruyce de socage, After olde seygnyours, And the lerning of Lytelton tenours : Ye haue so ouerthwarted, That good lawes are subuerted, And good reason peruerted. Relygous men are fayne For to tourne agayne In secula seculorum, And to forsake theyr corum, And vagabundare per forum, And take a fyne meritorum, Contra regulam morum, Aut blacke monachorum, Aut canonicorum, Aut Bernardinorum, Aut crucifixorum, And to synge from place to place, Lyke apostataas. And the selfe same game Begone ys now with shame Amongest the sely nonnes : My lady nowe she ronnes, Dame Sybly our abbesse, Dame Dorothe and lady Besse, Dame Sare our pryoresse, Out of theyr cloyster and quere With an heuy chere, Must cast vp theyr blacke vayles, And set vp theyr f**e sayles, To catche wynde with their ventales— What, Colyne, there thou shales ! Yet thus with yll hayles The lay fee people rayles. And all the fawte they lay On you, prelates, and say Ye do them wrong and no ryght To put them thus to flyght ; No matyns at mydnyght, Boke and chalys gone quyte ; And plucke awaye the leedes Evyn ouer theyr heedes, And sell away theyr belles, And all that they haue elles : Thus the people telles, Rayles lyke rebelles, Redys shrewdly and spelles, And with foundacyons melles, And talkys lyke tytyuelles, How ye brake the dedes wylles, Turne monasteris into water milles, Of an abbay ye make a graunge ; Your workes, they saye, are straunge ; So that theyr founders soules Haue lost theyr beade rolles, The mony for theyr ma**es Spent amonge wanton la**es ; The Diriges are forgotten ; Theyr founders lye theyr rotten, But where theyr soules dwell, Therwith I wyll not mell. What coulde the Turke do more With all his false lore, Turke, Sarazyn, or Jew ? I reporte me to you, O mercyfull Jesu, You supporte and rescue, My style for to dyrecte, It may take some effecte ! For I abhorre to wryte Howe the lay fee dyspyte You prelates, that of ryght Shulde be lanternes of lyght. Ye lyue, they say, in delyte, Drowned in deliciis, In gloria et divitiis, In admirabili honore, In gloria, et splendore Fulgurantis hastæ, Viventes parum caste : Yet swete meate hath soure sauce, For after gloria, laus, Chryst by cruelte Was nayled vpon a tre ; He payed a bytter pencyon For mannes redemcyon, He dranke eysell and gall To redeme vs withall ; But swete ypocras ye drynke, With, Let the cat wynke ! Iche wot what yche other thynk ; Howe be it per a**imile Some men thynke that ye Shall haue penalte For your iniquyte. Nota what I say, And bere it well away ; If it please not theologys, It is good for astrologys ; For Ptholome tolde me The sonne somtyme to be In Ariete, Ascendent a degre,# Whan Scorpion descendynge, Was so then pretendynge A fatall fall of one That shuld syt on a trone, And rule all thynges alone. Your teth whet on this bone Amongest you euerychone, And let Collyn Cloute haue none # Maner of cause to mone : Lay salue to your owne sore, For els, as I sayd before, After gloria, laus, May come a soure sauce ; Sory therfore am I, But trouth can neuer lye. With language thus poluted Holy Churche is bruted And shamfully confuted. My penne nowe wyll I sharpe, And wrest vp my harpe With sharpe twynkyng trebelles, Agaynst all suche rebelles That laboure to confounde And bryng the Churche to the grounde ; As ye may dayly se How the lay fee Of one affynyte Consent and agre Agaynst the Churche to be, And the dygnyte Of the bysshoppes see. And eyther ye be to bad, Or els they ar mad Of this to reporte : But, vnder your supporte, Tyll my dyenge day I shall bothe wryte and say, And ye shall do the same, Howe they are to blame You thus to dyffame : For it maketh me sad Howe that people are glad The Churche to depraue ; And some there are that raue, Presumynge on theyr wyt, Whan there is neuer a whyt, To mayntayne argumentes Agaynst the sacramentes. Some make epylogacyon Of hyghe predestynacyon ; And of resydeuacyon They make interpretacyon Of an aquarde facyon ; And of the prescience Of dyuyne essence ; And what ipostacis Of Christes manhode is. Suche logyke men wyll chop, And in theyr fury hop, When the good ale sop Dothe daunce in theyr fore top ; Bothe women and men, Suche ye may well knowe and ken, That agaynst preesthode Theyr malyce sprede abrode, Raylynge haynously And dysdaynously Of preestly dygnytes, But theyr malygnytes. And some haue a smacke Of Luthers sacke, And a brennyng sparke Of Luthers warke, And are somewhat suspecte In Luthers secte ; And some of them barke, Clatter and carpe Of that heresy arte Called Wicleuista, The deuelysshe dogmatista ; And some be Hussyans, And some be Arryans, And some be Pollegians, And make moche varyans Bytwene the clergye And the temporaltye, Howe the Church# hath to mykel, And they haue to lytell, And bryng in materialites And qualyfyed qualytes ; Of pluralytes, Of tryalytes, And of tot quottes, They commune lyke sottes, As commeth to theyr lottes ; Of prebendaries and deanes, Howe some of them gleanes And gathereth vp the store For to catche more and more ; Of persons and vycaryes They make many outcryes ; They cannot kepe theyr wyues From them for theyr lyues ; And thus the loselles stryues, And lewdely sayes by Christ Agaynst the sely preest. Alas, and well away, What ayles them thus to say ? They mought be better aduysed Then to be so dysgysed : But they haue enterprysed, And shamfully surmysed, Howe prelacy is solde and bought, And come vp of nought ; And where the prelates be Come of lowe degre, And set in maieste And spirituall dyngnyte, Farwell benygnyte, Farwell symplicite, Farwell humylyte, Farwell good charyte ! Ye are so puffed wyth pryde, That no man may abyde Your hygh and lordely lokes : Ye cast vp then your bokes, And vertue is forgotten ; For then ye wyll be wroken Of euery lyght quarell, And call a lorde a iauell, A knyght a knaue ye make ; Ye bost, ye face, ye crake, And vpon you ye take To rule bothe kynge and kayser ; And yf ye may haue layser, Ye wyll brynge all to nought, And that is all your thought : For the lordes temporall, Theyr rule is very small, Almost nothyng at all. Men saye howe ye appall The noble blode royall : In ernest and in game, Ye are the lesse to blame, For lordes of noble blode, If they well vnderstode How connyng myght them auaunce, They wold pype you another daunce : But noble men borne To lerne they haue scorne, But hunt and blowe an horne, Lepe ouer lakes and dykes, Set nothyng by polytykes ; Therfore ye kepe them bace, And mocke them to theyr face : This is a pyteous case, To you that ouer the whele Grete lordes must crouche and knele, And breke theyr hose at the kne, As dayly men may se, And to remembraunce call, Fortune so turneth the ball And ruleth so ouer all, That honoure hath a great fall. Shall I tell you more ? ye, shall. I am loth to tell all ; But the communalte yow call Ydolles of Babylon, De terra Zabulon De terra Neptalym ; For ye loue to go trym, Brought vp of poore estate, With pryde inordinate, Sodaynly vpstarte From the donge carte, The mattocke and the shule, To reygne and to rule ; And haue no grace to thynke Howe ye were wonte to drynke Of a lether bottell With a knauysshe stoppell, Whan mamockes was your meate, With moldy brede to eate ; Ye cowde none other gete To chewe and to gnawe, To fyll therwith your mawe ; Loggyng in fayre strawe, Couchyng your drousy heddes Somtyme in lousy beddes. Alas, this is out of mynde ! Ye growe nowe out of kynde : Many one ye haue vntwynde, And made the commons blynde. But qui se existimat stare, Let hym well beware Lest that his fote slyp, And haue suche a tryp, And falle in suche dekay, That all the worlde may say, Come downe, in the deuyll way ! Yet, ouer all that, Of bysshops they chat, That though ye round your hear An ynche aboue your ear, And haue aures patentes And parum intendentes, And your tonsors be croppyd, Your eares they be stopped ; For maister Adulator, And doctour Assentator, And Blandior blandiris, With Mentior mentiris, They folowe your desyres, And so they blere your eyes, That ye can not espye How the male dothe wrye. Alas, for Goddes wyll, Why syt ye, prelates, styll, And suffre all this yll ? Ye bysshops of estates Shulde open the brode gates Of your spirituall charge, And com forthe at large, Lyke lanternes of lyght, In the peoples syght, In pullpettes awtentyke, For the wele publyke Of preesthode in this case ; And alwayes to chase Suche maner of sysmatykes And halfe heretykes, That wolde intoxicate, That wolde conquinate, That wolde contaminate, And that wolde vyolate, And that wolde derogate, And that wolde abrogate The Churchis hygh estates, After this maner rates, The which shulde be Both franke and free, And haue theyr lyberte, As of antiquyte It was ratefyed, And also gratifyed, By holy synodalles And bulles papalles, As it is res certa Conteyned in Magna Charta. But maister Damyan, Or some other man, That clerkely is and can Well scrypture expounde And hys textes grounde, His benefyce worthe ten pounde, Or skante worth twenty marke, And yet a noble clerke, He must do this werke ; As I knowe a parte, Some maisters of arte, Some doctours of lawe, Some lernde in other sawe, As in dyuynyte, That hath no dygnyte But the pore degre Of the vnyuersyte ; Or els frere Frederycke, Or els frere Dominike, Or frere Hugulinus, Or frere Augustinus, Or frere Carmelus, That gostly can heale vs ; Or els yf we may Get a frere graye, Or els of the order Vpon Grenewyche border, Called Obseruance, Or a frere of Fraunce ; Or else the poore Scot, It must come to his lot To shote forthe his shot ; Or of Babuell besyde Bery, To postell vpon a kyry, That wolde it shulde be noted Howe scripture shulde be coted, And so clerkley promoted ; And yet the frere doted. But men sey your awtoryte, And your noble se, And your dygnyte, Shulde be imprynted better Then all the freres letter ; For if ye wolde take payne To preche a worde or twayne, Though it were neuer so playne, With clauses two or thre, So as they myght be Compendyously conueyde, These wordes shuld be more weyd, And better perceyued, And thankfullerlye receyued, And better shulde remayne Amonge the people playne, That wold your wordes retayne And reherce them agayne, Than a thousand thousande other, That blaber, barke, and blother, And make a Walshmans hose Of the texte and of the glose. For protestatyon made, That I wyll not wade Farther in this broke, Nor farther for to loke In deuysynge of this boke, But answere that I may For my selfe alway, Eyther an*logice Or els categorice, So that in diuinite Doctors that lerned be, Nor bachelers of that faculte That hath taken degre In the vniversite, Shall not be obiecte at by me. But doctour Bullatus, Parum litteratus, Dominus doctoratus At the brode gatus, Doctour Daupatus, And bacheler bacheleratus, Dronken as a mouse, At the ale house, Taketh his pyllyon and his cap At the good ale tap, For lacke of good wyne ; As wyse as Robyn swyne, Vnder a notaryes sygne Was made a dyuyne ; As wyse as Waltoms calfe, Must preche, a Goddes halfe, In the pulpyt solempnely ; More mete in the pyllory, For, by saynt Hyllary, He can nothyng smatter Of logyke nor scole matter, Neyther syllogisare, Nor enthymemare, Nor knoweth his elenkes, Nor his predicamens ; And yet he wyll mell To amend the gospell, And wyll preche and tell What they do in hell ; And he dare not well neuen What they do in heuen, Nor how farre Temple barre is From the seuen starrys. Nowe wyll I go And tell of other mo, Semper protestando De non impugnando The foure ordores of fryers, Though some of them be lyers ; As Lymyters at large Wyll charge and dyscharge ; As many a frere, God wote, Preches for his grote, Flatterynge for a newe cote And for to haue his fees ; Some to gather chese ; Loth they are to lese Eyther corne or malte ; Somtyme meale and salte, Somtyme a bacon flycke, That is thre fyngers thycke Of larde and of greace, Theyr couent to encreace. I put you out of doute, This can not be rought aboutw But they theyr tonges fyle, And make a plesaunt style To Margery and to Maude, Howe they haue no fraude ; And somtyme they prouoke Bothe Gyll and Jacke at Noke Their dewtyes to withdrawe, That they ought by the lawe Theyr curates to content In open tyme and in Lent : God wot, they take great payne To flatter and to fayne ; But it is an olde sayd sawe, That nede hath no lawe. Some walke aboute in melottes, In gray russet and heery cotes ; Some wyl neyther golde ne grotes ; Some plucke a partrych in remotes, And by the barres of her tayle Wyll knowe a rauen from a rayle, A quayle, the raile, and the olde rauen Sed libera nos a malo ! Amen. And by Dudum, theyr Clementine, Agaynst curates they repyne ; And say propreli they ar sacerdotes, To shryue, a**oyle, and reles Dame Margeries soule out of hell : But when the freare fell in the well, He coud not syng himselfe therout But by the helpe of Christyan Clout. Another Clementyne also,# How frere Fabian, with other mo, Exivit de Paradiso ; Whan they agayn theder shal come, De hoc petimus consilium : And through all the world they go With Dirige and Placebo. But nowe my mynd ye vnderstand, For they must take in hande To prech, and to withstande Al maner of abiectioons ; For bysshops haue protections, They say, to do corrections, But they haue no affections To take the sayd dyrections ; In such maner of cases, Men say, they bere no faces To occupye suche places, To sowe the sede of graces : Theyr hertes are so faynted, And they be so attaynted With coueytous and ambycyon, And other superstycyon, That they be deef and dum, And play scylens and glum, Can say nothynge but mum. They occupye them so With syngyng Placebo, They wyll no farther go : They had leuer to please, And take their worldly ease, Than to take on hande Worsshepfully to withstande Such temporall warre and bate, As nowe is made of late Agaynst holy Church estate, Or to mayntayne good quarelles. The lay men call them barrelles Full of glotony And of hypocrysy, That counterfaytes and payntes As they were very sayntes : In matters that them lyke They shewe them polytyke, Pretendyng grauyte And sygnyoryte, With all solempnyte, For theyr indempnyte ; For they wyll haue no losse Of a peny nor of a crosse Of theyr predyall landes, That cometh to theyr handes, And as farre as they dare set, All is fysshe that cometh to net : Buyldyng royally Theyr mancyons curyously, With turrettes and with toures, With halles and with boures, Stretchynge to the starres, With gla**e wyndowes and barres ; Hangynge aboute the walles Clothes of golde and palles, Arras of ryche aray, Fresshe as flours in May ; Wyth dame Dyana naked ; Howe lusty Venus quaked, And howe Cupyde shaked His darte, and bent his bowe For to shote a crowe At her tyrly tyrlowe ; And howe Parys of Troy Daunced a lege de moy, Made lusty sporte and ioy With dame Helyn the quene ; With suche storyes bydene Their chambres well besene ; With triumphes of Cesar, And of Pompeyus war, Of renowne and of fame By them to get a name : Nowe all the worlde stares, How they ryde in goodly chares, Conueyed by olyphantes, With lauryat garlantes, And by vnycornes With their semely hornes ; Vpon these beestes rydynge, Naked boyes strydynge, With wanton wenches winkyng. Nowe truly, to my thynkynge, That is a speculacyon And a mete meditacyon For prelates of estate, Their courage to abate From worldly wantonnesse, Theyr chambres thus to dresse With suche parfetnesse And all suche holynesse ; How be it they let downe fall Their churches cathedrall. Squyre, knyght, and lorde, Thus the Churche remorde ; With all temporall people They rune agaynst the steple, Thus talkynge and tellyng How some of you are mellyng ; Yet softe and fayre for swellyng, Beware of a quenes yellyng. It is a besy thyng For one man to rule a kyng Alone and make rekenyng, To gouerne ouer all And rule a realme royall By one mannes verrey wyt ; Fortune may chaunce to flyt, And whan he weneth to syt, Yet may he mysse the quysshon : For I rede a preposycyon, Cum regibus amicare, Et omnibus dominari, Et supra te pravare ; Wherfore he hathe good vre That can hymselfe a**ure Howe fortune wyll endure. For the communalte dothe reporte That they haue great wonder That ye kepe them so vnder ; Yet they meruayle so moche lesse, For ye play so at the chesse, As they suppose and gesse, That some of you but late Hath played so checkemate With lordes of great estate, After suche a rate, That they shall mell nor make, Nor vpon them take, For kynge nor kayser sake, But at the playsure of one That ruleth the roste alone. Helas, I say, Helas ! Howe may this come to pa**e, That a man shall here a ma**e, And not so hardy on his hede, To loke on God in forme of brede, But that the parysshe clerke There vpon must herke, And graunt hym at his askyng For to se the sacryng ? And howe may this accorde, No man to our souerayne lorde So hardy to make sute, Nor yet to execute His commaundement, Without the a**ent Of our presydent, Nor to expresse to his person, Without your consentatyon Graunt hym his lycence To preas to his presence, Nor to speke to hym secretly, Openly nor preuyly, Without his presydent be by, Or els his substytute Whom he wyll depute ? Neyther erle ne duke Permytted ? by saynt Luke, And by swete saynt Marke, This is a wonderous warke ! That the people talke this, Somewhat there is amysse : The deuil cannot stop their mouthes, But they wyl talke of such vncouthes, All that euer they ken Agaynst all spirituall men. Whether it be wrong or ryght, Or els for dyspyght, Or howe euer it hap, Theyr tonges thus do clap, And through suche detractyon They put you to your actyon ; And whether they say trewly As they may abyde therby, Or els that they do lye, Ye knowe better then I. But nowe debetis scire, And groundly audire, In your convenire, Of this premenire, Or els in the myre They saye they wyll you cast ; Therfore stande sure and fast. Stande sure, and take good fotyng, And let be all your motyng, Your gasyng and your totyng, And your parcyall promotyng Of those that stande in your grace ; But olde seruantes ye chase, And put them out of theyr place. Make ye no murmuracyon, Though I wryte after this facion ; Though I, Colin Cloute, Among the hole route Of you that clerkes be, Take nowe vpon me Thus copyously to wryte, I do it for no despyte. Wherfore take no dysdayne At my style rude and playne ; For I rebuke no man That vertuous is : why than Wreke ye your anger on me ? For those that vertuous be Haue no cause to say That I speke out of the way. Of no good bysshop speke I, Nor good preest I escrye, Good frere, nor good chanon, Good nonne, nor good canon, Good monke, nor good clercke, Nor yette of no good werke : But my recountyng is Of them that do amys, In speking and rebellyng, In hynderyng and dysauaylyng Holy Churche, our mother, One agaynst another ; To vse suche despytyng Is all my hole wrytyng ; To hynder no man, As nere I can, For no man haue I named : Wherfore sholde I be blamed ? Ye ought to be ashamed, Agaynst me to be gramed, And can tell no cause why, But that I wryte trewly. Then yf any there be Of hygh or lowe degre Of the spiritualte, Or of the temporalte That dothe thynke or wene That his conscyence be not clene, And feleth hymselfe sycke, Or touched on the quycke, Suche grace God them sende Themselfe to amende, For I wyll not pretende Any man to offende. Wherfore, as thynketh me, Great ydeottes they be, And lytell grace they haue, This treatyse to depraue ; Nor wyll here no prechyng, Nor no vertuous techyng, Nor wyll haue no resytyng Of any vertuous wrytyng ; Wyll knowe none intellygence To refourme theyr neglygence, But lyue styll out of of facyon, To theyr owne dampnacyon. To do shame they haue no shame, But they wold no man shulde them blame : They haue an euyl name, But yet they wyll occupy the same. With them the worde of God Is counted for no rod ; They counte it for a raylyng, That nothyng is auaylyng ; The prechers with euyll hayling : Shall they daunt vs prelates, That be theyr prymates ? Not so hardy on theyr pates ! Herke, howe the losell prates, With a wyde wesaunt ! Auaunt, syr Guy of Gaunt ! Auaunt, lewde preest, auaunt ! Auaunt, syr doctour Deuyas ! Prate of thy matyns and thy ma**e, And let our maters pa**e : Howe darest thou, dauco*ke, mell ? Howe darest thou, losell, Allygate the gospell Agaynst vs of the counsell ? Auaunt to the deuyll of hell ! Take hym, wardeyne of the Flete, Set hym fast by the fete ! I say, lyeutenaunt of the Toure, Make this lurdeyne for to loure ; Lodge hym in Lytell Ease, Fede hym with beanes and pease ! The Kynges Benche or Marshalsy, Haue hym thyder by and by ! The vyllayne precheth openly, And declareth our vyllany ; And of our fre symplenesse He sayes that we are rechelesse, And full of wylfulnesse, Shameles and mercylesse, Incorrigible and insaciate ; And after this rate Agaynst vs dothe prate. At Poules Crosse or els where, Openly at Westmynstere, And Saynt Mary Spyttell, They set not by vs a whystell : At the Austen fryers They count vs for lyers : And at Saynt Thomas of Akers They carpe vs lyke crakers, Howe we wyll rule al at wyll Without good reason or skyll ; And say how that we be Full of parcyalyte ; And howe at a pronge We tourne ryght into wronge, Delay causes so longe That ryght no man can fonge ; They say many matters be born By the ryght of a rambes horne. Is not this a samfull scorne, To be teared thus and torne. How may we thys indure ? Wherfore we make you sure, Ye prechers shall be yawde ; And some shall be sawde, As noble Isaias, The holy prophet, was ; And some of you shall dye, Lyke holy Jeremy ; Some hanged, some slayne, Some beaten to the brayne ; And we wyll rule and rayne, And our matters mayntayne Who dare say there agayne, Or who dare dysdayne At our pleasure and wyll : For, be it good or be it yll, As it is, it shall be styll, For all master doctour of Cyuyll, Or of Diuine, or doctour Dryuyll, Let hym cough, rough, or sneuyll ; Renne God, renne deuyll, Renne who may renne best, And let take all the rest ! We set not a nut shell The way to heuen or to hell. Lo, this is the gyse now a dayes ! It is to drede, men sayes, Lest they be Saduces, As they be sayd sayne Whiche determyned playne We shulde not ryse agayne At dredefull domis day ; And so it semeth they play, Whiche hate to be corrected Whan they be infected, Nor wyll suffre this boke By hoke ne by croke Prynted for to be, For that no man shulde se Nor rede in any scrolles Of theyr dronken nolles, Nor of theyr noddy polles, Nor of theyr sely soules, Nor of some wytles pates Of dyuers great estates, As well as other men. Now to withdrawe my pen, And now a whyle to rest, Me semeth it for the best. The forecastell of my shyp Shall glyde, and smothely slyp Out of the wawes wod Of the stormy flod ; Shote anker, and lye at rode, And sayle not farre abrode, Tyll the cost be clere, And the lode starre appere : My shyp nowe wyll I stere Towarde the porte salu Of our Sauyour Jesu, Suche grace that he vs sende, To rectyfye and amende Thynges that are amys, Whan that his pleasure is. Amen ! In opere imperfecto, In opere semper perfecto, Et in opere plusquam perfecto ! Colinus Cloutus, quanquam mea carmina multis Sordesc*nt stultis, sed puevinate sunt rare cultis, Pue vinatis altisem divino flamine flatis. Unde meâ refert tanto minus, invida quamvis Lingua nocere parat, quia, quanquam rustica canto, Undique cantabor tamen et celebrabor ubique, Inclita dum maneat gens Anglica. Laurus honoris, Quondam regnorum regina et gloria regum, Heu, modo marcescit, tabescit, languida torpet ! Ah pudet, ah miseret ! vetor hic ego pandere plura Pro gemitu et lacrimis : præstet peto præmia pæna.**