Poetry. John Skelton. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: John Skelton
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href="#ulink_cd35d49a-0fa8-5f80-bc56-057ba5afd208">[199] cruelly] MS. “cruell” (yet Percy gives “cruelly”).

       Table of Contents

       Accipe nunc demum, doctor celeberrime Rukshaw,

       Carmina, de calamo quæ cecidere[212] meo;

       Et quanquam[213] placidis non sunt modulata camenis,[214]

       Sunt tamen ex nostro pectore prompta pio.

       Vale feliciter, virorum laudatissime.

      [212] cecidere] Marshe’s ed. and MS. “occidere.”

      [213] quanquam] Marshe’s ed. and MS. “quaqua.”

      [214] camenis] So MS. Marshe’s ed. “carmenis.”

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      Of all nacyons vnder the heuyn,

      These frantyke foolys I hate most of all;

      For though they stumble in the synnys seuyn,

      This peuysh proud, thys prendergest,

      When he is well, yet can he not rest.

      A swete suger lofe and sowre bayardys bun

      Be sumdele lyke in forme and shap,

      The one for a duke, the other for dun, 10

      A maunchet for morell theron to snap.

      Hys hart is to hy to haue any hap;

      But for in his gamut carp that he can,

      Lo, Jak wold be a jentylman!

      Wyth, Hey, troly, loly, lo, whip here, Jak,

      Alumbek sodyldym syllorym ben!

      Curyowsly he can both counter and knak

      Of Martyn Swart and all hys mery men.

      Lord, how Perkyn is proud of hys pohen!

      But ask wher he fyndyth among hys monacordys 20

      An holy water clarke a ruler of lordys.

      He can not fynd it in rule nor in space:

      He solfyth to haute, hys trybyll is to hy;

      He braggyth of his byrth, that borne was full bace;

      Hys musyk withoute mesure, to sharp is hys my;

      He trymmyth in hys tenor to counter pyrdewy;

      His dyscant is besy, it is withoute a mene;

      To fat is hys fantsy, hys wyt is to lene.

      He lumbryth on a lewde lewte, Roty bully joyse,

      Rumbyll downe, tumbyll downe, hey go, now, now! 30

      He fumblyth in hys fyngeryng an vgly good noyse,

      It semyth the sobbyng of an old sow:

      He wold be made moch of, and he wyst how;

      Wele sped in spyndels and turnyng of tauellys;

      A bungler, a brawler, a pyker of quarellys.

      Comely he clappyth a payre of clauycordys;

      He whystelyth so swetely, he makyth me to swete;

      His descant is dasshed full of dyscordes;

      A red angry man, but easy to intrete:

      An vssher of the hall fayn wold I get, 40

      To poynte this proude page a place and a rome,

      For Jak wold be a jentylman, that late was a grome.

      Jak wold jet, and yet Jyll sayd nay;

      He counteth in his countenaunce to checke with the best:

      A malaperte medler that pryeth for his pray,

      In a dysh dare he rush at the rypest;

      Dremyng in dumpys to wrangyll and to wrest:

      He fyndeth a proporcyon in his prycke songe,

      To drynk at a draught a larg and a long.

      Nay, iape not with hym, he is no small fole, 50

      It is a solemnpne syre and a solayne;

      For lordes and ladyes lerne at his scole;

      He techyth them