Poetry. John Skelton

about;

      Garnyshed was her snout

      Wyth here and there a puscull,

      Lyke a scabbyd muscull.

      This ale, sayde she, is noppy;

      Let vs syppe and soppy,

      And not spyll a droppy,

      For so mote I hoppy, 560

      It coleth well my croppy.[535]

      Dame Elynoure, sayde she,

      Haue here is for me,

      A cloute of London pynnes;

      And wyth that she begynnes

      The pot to her plucke,

      And dranke a good lucke;

      She swynged[536] vp a quarte

      At ones for her parte;

      Her paunche was so puffed, 570

      And so wyth ale stuffed,

      Had she not hyed apace,

      She had defoyled the place.

      Than began the sporte

      Amonge that dronken sorte:

      Dame Eleynour, sayde they,

      Lende here a cocke of hey,

      To make all thynge cleane;

      Ye wote well what we meane.

      But, syr, among all 580

      That sat in that hall,

      There was a pryckemedenty,

      Sat lyke a seynty,

      And began to paynty,

      As thoughe she would faynty;

      She made it as koy

      As a lege de moy;[537]

      She was not halfe so wyse

      As she was peuysshe nyse.

      She sayde neuer a worde, 590

      But rose from the borde,

      And called for our dame,

      Elynour by name.

      We supposed, I wys,

      That she rose to pys;

      But the very grounde

      Was for to compounde

      Wyth Elynour in the spence,

      To pay for her expence:

      I haue no penny nor grote 600

      To pay, sayde she, God wote,

      For washyng of my throte;

      But my bedes of amber

      Bere them to your chamber.

      Then Elynour dyd them hyde

      Wythin her beddes syde.

      But some than sat ryght sad

      That nothynge had

      There of theyr awne,[538]

      Neyther gelt nor pawne; 610

      Suche were there menny

      That had not a penny,

      But, whan they should walke,

      Were fayne wyth a chalke

      To score on the balke,

      Or score on the tayle:

      God gyue it yll hayle!

      For my fyngers[539] ytche;

      I haue wrytten to mytche

      Of this mad mummynge 620

      Of Elynour Rummynge.

      Thus endeth the gest

      Of this worthy fest.

      Quod Skelton, Laureat.