Donum Leaureati Distichon contra Golliardum Garnesche et Scribam ejus
Tu, Garnesche, fatuus, fatuus tuus est mage scriba:
Qui sapuit puer, insanit vir, versus in hydram.
Skelton Laureate, Defender, against Lusty Garnesche, Well-be-seen Christopher, Challenger
Garnesche, gorgon, ghastly grime,
I have received your second rime.
Though ye can skill of large and long,
Ye sing alway the cuckoo song:
Ye rail, ye rhyme, with " Hey, dog, hey!"
Your churlish chanting is all one lay.
Ye, sir, rail all in deformity!
Ye have not read the property
Of Nature's work─ùs, how they be
Mixed with some incommodity,
As proveth well in his Rhetorics old
Cicero with his tongue of gold.
That Nature wrought in you and me,
Irrevocable is her decree;
Waywardly wrought she hath in thee,
Behold thyself, and thou mayst see;
Thou shalt behold nowhere a worse,
Thy mirror may be the devil's arse.
With " Knave, sir knave, and knave again!"
To call me knave thou takest great pain:
The proudest knave yet of us twain
Within thy skin he shall remain;
The starkest knave, and least good can,
Thou art called of every man;
The court, the country, village and town,
Saith from thy toe unto thy crown
Of all proud knaves thou bearest the bell,
Loathsome as Lucifer, lowest in hell.
On that side, on this side thou doth gaz─ù,
And thinkest thyself Sir Pierre de Breze,
Thy caitiff's carcass coarse and crazy,
Much of thy manners I can blaz─ù.
Of Lombardy George Ardeson,
Thou would have scored his habergeon;
That gentle George the Januay,
Ye would have enticed his trull away:
Such pageants with your friends ye play
With treachery ye them betray.
Garnesche, ye got of George with gawdry
Crimson velvet for your bawdry.
Ye have a fantasy to Fenchurch Street,
With Lombards' lemans for to meet,
With " Buss me, butting, pretty Cis!"
Your loathsome lips love well to kiss,
Slavering like a slimy snail —
I would ye had kissed her on the tail!
Also not far from Budg─ù Row,
Ye pressed pertly to pluck a crow:
Ye lost your hold, unbend your bow,
Ye won nothing there but a mow;
Ye won nothing there but a scorn;
She would not of it thou had sworn.
She said ye were coloured with coal-dust;
To dally with you she had no lust.
She said your breath stank like a brock,
With " Gup, Sir Guy," ye got a mock!
She swear with her ye should not deal,
For ye were smery, like a seal,
And ye were hairy, like a calf;
She prayed you walk, on Godd─ùs half!
And thus there ye lost your prey —
Get ye another where ye may.
Disparage ye mine ancestry?
Ye are disposed for to lie:
I say, thou fell and foul flesh-fly,
In this debate I thee ascry.
Thou claimest thee gentle, thou art a cur;
Heralds they know thy coat armour:
Though thou be a gentleman born,
Yet gentleness in thee is threadbare worn;
Heralds from honour may thee divorce,
For harlots haunt thine hateful corse.
Ye bear out brothels like a bawd,
And get thereby a slender laud
Between the tappet and the wall —
Fusty bawdias! I say not all.
Of harlots to use such an haras,
Ye breed moths in cloth of Arras.
What aileth thee, ribald, on me to rave?
A king to me mine habit gave:
At Oxford, the university,
Advanced I was to that degree;
By whole consent of their senate
I was made poet laureate.
To call me lorel ye are too lewd:
Lith and listen, all beshrewd!
Of the Muses nine, Calliope
Hath 'pointed me to rail on thee.
It 'seemeth not thy pilled pate
Against a poet laureate
To take upon thee for to scrive:
It 'comes thee better for to drive
A dung-cart or a tumbrel
Than with my poems for to mell.
The honour of England I learned to spell,
In dignity royal that doth excel.
Note and mark well this parcel:
I gave him drink of the sugared well
Of Helicon's waters crystalline,
Acquainting him with the Muses nine.
It 'cometh thee well me to remord
That creanser was to thy sovereign lord!
It pleaseth that noble prince royall
Me as his master for to call
In his learning primordial.
Avaunt, ribald, thy tongue reclaim!
Me to beknave thou art to blame.
Thy tongue untaught, with poison infect,
Without thou leave thou shalt be checked,
And taken up in such a frame
That all the world will spy your shame.
Avaunt, avaunt, thou sluggish . . .
And say poets no dis[honour]
It is for no bawdy knave
The dignity laureate for to have.
Thou callest me scalled, thou callest me mad:
Though thou be pilled, thou art not sad.
Thou art frantic and lackest wit
To rail with me that thee can hit.
Though it be now full-tide with thee,
Yet there may fall such casualty,
Ere thou be ware, that in a throw
Thou mayest fall down and ebb full low.
Wherefore in wealth beware of woe,
For wealth will soon depart thee fro.
To know thyself if thou lack grace,
Learn or be lewd, I shrew thy face!
Thou sayest I called thee a peacock:
Thou lyest, I called thee a woodcock;
For thou hast a long snout,
A seemly nose and a stout,
Pricked like an unicorn:
I would some man's back ink-horn
Were thy nose spectacle-case,
It would garnish well thy face.
Thou deemest my railing overthwart:
I rail to thee such as thou art.
If thou were acquainted with all
The famous poets satirical,
As Persius and Juvenal,
Horace and noble Martial,
If they were living this day,
Of thee wot I what they would say.
They would thee write, all with one stevin,
The foulest sloven under heaven,
Proud, peevish, lither, and lewd,
Malapert, meddler, nothing well-thewed,
Busy, brainless, to brawl and brag,
Witless, wayward, Sir Wrig-wrag,
Disdainous, double, full of deceit,
Lying, spying by subtlety and sleight,
Fleering, flattering, false, and fickle,
Scornful and mocking over too mickle.
My time, I trow, I should but lese
To write to thee of tragedies,
It is not meet for such a knave.
But now my process for to save,
Inordinate pride will have a fall.
Presumptuous pride is all thine hope:
God guard thee, Garnesche, from the rope!
Stop a tide, and be well ware
Ye be not caught in an hempen snare.
Harken thereto, ye Harvy Hafter,
Pride goeth before and shame cometh after.
Thou writest, I should let thee go play:
Go play thee, Garnesche, garnished gay.
I care not what thou write or say,
I cannot let thee the knave to play,
To dance the hay or run the ray:
Thy fond face can me not fray!
Take this for that, bear this in mind,
Of thy lewdness more is behind;
A ream of paper will not hold
Of thy lewdness that may be told.
My study might be better spent;
But for to serve the king's intent,
His noble pleasure and commandment.
Scribble thou, scribble thou, rail or write,
Write what thou wilt, I shall thee requite!
Tu, Garnesche, fatuus, fatuus tuus est mage scriba:
Qui sapuit puer, insanit vir, versus in hydram.
Skelton Laureate, Defender, against Lusty Garnesche, Well-be-seen Christopher, Challenger
Garnesche, gorgon, ghastly grime,
I have received your second rime.
Though ye can skill of large and long,
Ye sing alway the cuckoo song:
Ye rail, ye rhyme, with " Hey, dog, hey!"
Your churlish chanting is all one lay.
Ye, sir, rail all in deformity!
Ye have not read the property
Of Nature's work─ùs, how they be
Mixed with some incommodity,
As proveth well in his Rhetorics old
Cicero with his tongue of gold.
That Nature wrought in you and me,
Irrevocable is her decree;
Waywardly wrought she hath in thee,
Behold thyself, and thou mayst see;
Thou shalt behold nowhere a worse,
Thy mirror may be the devil's arse.
With " Knave, sir knave, and knave again!"
To call me knave thou takest great pain:
The proudest knave yet of us twain
Within thy skin he shall remain;
The starkest knave, and least good can,
Thou art called of every man;
The court, the country, village and town,
Saith from thy toe unto thy crown
Of all proud knaves thou bearest the bell,
Loathsome as Lucifer, lowest in hell.
On that side, on this side thou doth gaz─ù,
And thinkest thyself Sir Pierre de Breze,
Thy caitiff's carcass coarse and crazy,
Much of thy manners I can blaz─ù.
Of Lombardy George Ardeson,
Thou would have scored his habergeon;
That gentle George the Januay,
Ye would have enticed his trull away:
Such pageants with your friends ye play
With treachery ye them betray.
Garnesche, ye got of George with gawdry
Crimson velvet for your bawdry.
Ye have a fantasy to Fenchurch Street,
With Lombards' lemans for to meet,
With " Buss me, butting, pretty Cis!"
Your loathsome lips love well to kiss,
Slavering like a slimy snail —
I would ye had kissed her on the tail!
Also not far from Budg─ù Row,
Ye pressed pertly to pluck a crow:
Ye lost your hold, unbend your bow,
Ye won nothing there but a mow;
Ye won nothing there but a scorn;
She would not of it thou had sworn.
She said ye were coloured with coal-dust;
To dally with you she had no lust.
She said your breath stank like a brock,
With " Gup, Sir Guy," ye got a mock!
She swear with her ye should not deal,
For ye were smery, like a seal,
And ye were hairy, like a calf;
She prayed you walk, on Godd─ùs half!
And thus there ye lost your prey —
Get ye another where ye may.
Disparage ye mine ancestry?
Ye are disposed for to lie:
I say, thou fell and foul flesh-fly,
In this debate I thee ascry.
Thou claimest thee gentle, thou art a cur;
Heralds they know thy coat armour:
Though thou be a gentleman born,
Yet gentleness in thee is threadbare worn;
Heralds from honour may thee divorce,
For harlots haunt thine hateful corse.
Ye bear out brothels like a bawd,
And get thereby a slender laud
Between the tappet and the wall —
Fusty bawdias! I say not all.
Of harlots to use such an haras,
Ye breed moths in cloth of Arras.
What aileth thee, ribald, on me to rave?
A king to me mine habit gave:
At Oxford, the university,
Advanced I was to that degree;
By whole consent of their senate
I was made poet laureate.
To call me lorel ye are too lewd:
Lith and listen, all beshrewd!
Of the Muses nine, Calliope
Hath 'pointed me to rail on thee.
It 'seemeth not thy pilled pate
Against a poet laureate
To take upon thee for to scrive:
It 'comes thee better for to drive
A dung-cart or a tumbrel
Than with my poems for to mell.
The honour of England I learned to spell,
In dignity royal that doth excel.
Note and mark well this parcel:
I gave him drink of the sugared well
Of Helicon's waters crystalline,
Acquainting him with the Muses nine.
It 'cometh thee well me to remord
That creanser was to thy sovereign lord!
It pleaseth that noble prince royall
Me as his master for to call
In his learning primordial.
Avaunt, ribald, thy tongue reclaim!
Me to beknave thou art to blame.
Thy tongue untaught, with poison infect,
Without thou leave thou shalt be checked,
And taken up in such a frame
That all the world will spy your shame.
Avaunt, avaunt, thou sluggish . . .
And say poets no dis[honour]
It is for no bawdy knave
The dignity laureate for to have.
Thou callest me scalled, thou callest me mad:
Though thou be pilled, thou art not sad.
Thou art frantic and lackest wit
To rail with me that thee can hit.
Though it be now full-tide with thee,
Yet there may fall such casualty,
Ere thou be ware, that in a throw
Thou mayest fall down and ebb full low.
Wherefore in wealth beware of woe,
For wealth will soon depart thee fro.
To know thyself if thou lack grace,
Learn or be lewd, I shrew thy face!
Thou sayest I called thee a peacock:
Thou lyest, I called thee a woodcock;
For thou hast a long snout,
A seemly nose and a stout,
Pricked like an unicorn:
I would some man's back ink-horn
Were thy nose spectacle-case,
It would garnish well thy face.
Thou deemest my railing overthwart:
I rail to thee such as thou art.
If thou were acquainted with all
The famous poets satirical,
As Persius and Juvenal,
Horace and noble Martial,
If they were living this day,
Of thee wot I what they would say.
They would thee write, all with one stevin,
The foulest sloven under heaven,
Proud, peevish, lither, and lewd,
Malapert, meddler, nothing well-thewed,
Busy, brainless, to brawl and brag,
Witless, wayward, Sir Wrig-wrag,
Disdainous, double, full of deceit,
Lying, spying by subtlety and sleight,
Fleering, flattering, false, and fickle,
Scornful and mocking over too mickle.
My time, I trow, I should but lese
To write to thee of tragedies,
It is not meet for such a knave.
But now my process for to save,
Inordinate pride will have a fall.
Presumptuous pride is all thine hope:
God guard thee, Garnesche, from the rope!
Stop a tide, and be well ware
Ye be not caught in an hempen snare.
Harken thereto, ye Harvy Hafter,
Pride goeth before and shame cometh after.
Thou writest, I should let thee go play:
Go play thee, Garnesche, garnished gay.
I care not what thou write or say,
I cannot let thee the knave to play,
To dance the hay or run the ray:
Thy fond face can me not fray!
Take this for that, bear this in mind,
Of thy lewdness more is behind;
A ream of paper will not hold
Of thy lewdness that may be told.
My study might be better spent;
But for to serve the king's intent,
His noble pleasure and commandment.
Scribble thou, scribble thou, rail or write,
Write what thou wilt, I shall thee requite!
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