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(i)Skelton Lauriate Defender Agenst Master Garnesche Chalenger, et cetera
Sithe ye have me chalyngyd, Master Garnesche,
Rudely revilyng me in the kynges noble hall,
Soche an odyr chalyngyr cowde me no man wysch,
But if it war Sir Tyrmagant that tyrnyd without nall;
For Syr Frollo de Franko was never halfe so talle.
But sey me now, Syr Satrapas, what autoryte ye have
In your chalenge, Syr Chystyn, to cale me knave?
What, have ye kythyd yow a knyght, Syr Dugles the dowty,
So currysly to beknave me in the kynges place?
Ye stronge sturdy stalyon, so sterne and stowty,
Ye bere yow bolde as Barabas, or Syr Terry of Trace;
Ye gyrne grymly with your gomys and with your grysly face.
But sey me yet, Syr Satropas, what auctoryte ye have
In your chalange, Syr Chesten, to calle me a knave?
Ye fowle, fers and felle, as Syr Ferumbras the ffreke,
Syr capten of Catywade, catacumbas of Cayre,
Thow ye be lusty as Syr Lybyus, launces to breke,
Yet your contenons oncomly, your face ys nat fayer:
For alle your proude prankyng, your pride may apayere.
But sey me yet, Syr Satrapas, wat auctoryte ye have
In your chalenge, Syr Chesten, to cal me a knave?
Of Mantryble the Bryge, Malchus the Murryon,
Nor blake Baltazar with hys basnet routh as a bere,
Nor Lycon, that lothly luske, in myn opynyon,
Nor no bore so brymly brystlyd ys with here,
As ye ar brystlyd on the bake for alle your gay gere.
But sey me yet, Syr Satrapas, what auctoryte ye have
In your chalenge, Syr Chesten, to calle me a knave?
Your wynde schakyn schankkes, your lothy legges,
Crokyd as a camoke, and as a kowe calfles,
Bryngges yow out of favyr with all femall teggys:
That mastres Punt put yow of, yt was nat alle causeles;
At Orwelle hyr havyn your anggre was laules.
But sey me yet, Syr Satrapas, what auctoryte ye have
In your chalenge, Syr Chesten, to calle me knave?
I sey, ye solem Sarson, alle blake ys your ble;
As a glede glowynge, your ien glyster as glasse,
Rowlynge in yower holow hede, ugly to see;
Your tethe teintyd with tawny; your semely snowte doth passe,
Howkyd as an hawkys beke, lyke Syr Topyas.
Boldly bend you to batell, and buske your selfe to save:
Chalenge your selfe for a fole, call me no more knave.
Be the kynges most noble commandment.
(ii)Skelton Lauryate Defender Agenst Master Garnesche Chalangar, with Gresy, Gorbelyd Godfrey et cetera
How may I your mokery mekely tollerate,
Your gronynge, your grontynge, your groinynge lyke a swyne?
Your pride ys alle to peviche, your porte importunate;
You mantycare, ye maltaperte, ye can bothe wins and whyne;
Your lothesum lere to loke on, lyke a gresyd bote dothe schyne.
Ye cappyd Cayface copious, your paltoke on your pate,
Thow ye prate lyke prowde Pylate, beware yet of chek mate.
Hole ys your brow that ye brake with Deurandall your awne sworde;
Why holde ye on yer cap, syr, then? Your pardone ys expyryd.
Ye hobble very homly before the kynges borde;
Ye countyr umwhyle to capcyously, and ar ye be dysiryd;
Your moth etyn mokkysh maneres, they be all to myryd.
Ye cappyd Cayface copyous, your paltoke on your pate,
Thow ye prate lyke prowde Pylate, beware of cheke mate.
O Gabionyte of Gabyone, why do ye gane and gaspe?
Huf, a galante, Garnesche, loke on your comly cors!
Lusty Garnysche, lyke a lowse, ye jet full lyke a jaspe;
As wytles as a wylde goos, ye haue but small remorrs
Me for to chalenge that of your chalennge makyth so lytyll fors.
Ye capyd Cayfas copyous, your paltoke on your pate,
Tho ye prate lyke prowde Pylate, beware of cheke mate.
Syr Gy, Syr Gawen, Syr Cayus, for and Syr Olyvere,
Pyramus, nor Priamus, nor Syr Pyrrus the prowde,
In Arturys auncyent actys nowhere ys provyd your pere;
The facyoun of your fysnamy the devyl in a clowde;
Your harte ys to hawte, I wys, yt wyll nat be alowde.
Ye capyd Cayfas copyus, your paltoke on your pate,
Thow ye prate lyke prowde Pylate, beware of cheke mate.
Ye grounde yow upon Godfrey, that grysly gargons face,
Your stondarde, Syr Olifranke, agenst me for to splay;
Baile, baile at yow bothe, frantyke folys! Follow on the chase!
Cum Garnyche, cum Godfrey, with as many as ye may!
I advyse yow beware of thys war, range yow in aray.
Ye cappyd Cayfas copyous, your paltoke on your pate,
Thow ye prate lyke prowde Pylate, beware of cheke mate.
Gup, gorbellyd Godfrey, gup, Garnysche, gaudy fole!
To turney or to tante with me ye ar to fare to seke:
For thes twayne whypslovens calle for a coke stole:
Thow mantycore, ye marmset, garnyshte lyke a Greke,
Wranglynge, waywyrde, wytles, wraw, and nothyng meke.
Ye cappyd Cayfas copyous, your paltoke on your pate,
Thow ye prate lyke prowde Pylate, beware of cheke mate.
Mirres vous y,
Loke nat to hy.
By the kynges most noble commaundment.
(iii)Skelton Lawryate Defender Ageynst Lusty Garnyche Welle Be Seyn Crysteovyr Chalannger, et cetera
I have your lewde letter receyvyd,
And well I have yt perseyvyd,
And your skrybe I have aspyed,
That your mad mynde contryvyd.
Savynge your usscheres rod,
I caste me nat to be od
With neythyr of yow tewyne:
Wherfore I wryght ageyne
How the favyr of your face
Is voyd of all good grace;
For alle your carpet cousshons,
Ye have knavyche condycyonns.
Gup, marmeset, jast ye morelle!
I am laureat, I am no lorelle.
Lewdely your tyme ye spende,
My lyvyng to reprehende;
And wyll never intende
Your awne lewdnes to amende:
Your Englysche lewdly ye sorte,
And falsly ye me reporte.
Garnyche, ye gape to wyde:
Yower knavery I wyll nat hyde,
For to aswage your pride.
Whan ye war yonger of age,
Ye war a kechyn page,
A dyshwasher, a dryvyll,
In the pott your nose dedde snevyll;
Ye fryed and ye broylyd,
Ye rostyd and ye boylyd,
Ye rostyd, lyke a fonne,
A gose with the fete uponne;
Ye slufferd up sowse
In my lady Brewsys howse.
Wherto xulde I wryght
Of soche a gresy knyght?
A bawdy dyscheclowte,
That bryngyth the worlde abowte
With haftynge and with polleynge,
With lyenge and controlleynge.
At Gynys when ye ware
But a slendyr spere,
Dekkyd lewdly in your gere,
For when ye dwelt there,
Ye had a knavysche cote
Was skantly worthe a grote;
In dud frese ye war schrynyd,
With better frese lynyd;
The outesyde every day,
Ye myght no better a way;
The insyde ye ded calle
Your best gowne festyvalle.
Your drapry ye ded wante,
The warde with yow was skante.
When ye kyst a shepys ie.
—— mastres Audelby,
—— gynys upon a gonge,
—— sat sumwhat to longe;
—— hyr husbandes hed,
—— malle of lede,
—— that ye ther prechyd,
To hyr love ye nowte rechyd.
Ye wolde have bassyd hyr bumme,
So that sche wolde have kum
On to your lowsy den;
But sche of all men
Had yow most in despyght,
Ye loste hyr favyr quyt!
Your pyllyd garleke hed
Cowde hocupy ther no stede;
She callyd yow Syr Gy of Gaunt,
Nosyd lyke an olyfaunt,
A pykes or a twybyll;
Sche seyd how ye ded brydell,
Moche lyke a dromadary;
Thus with yow sche ded wary,
With moche mater more
That I kepe in store.
Your brethe ys stronge and quike;
Ye ar an eldyr steke;
Ye wot what I thynke;
At bothe endes ye stynke;
Gret daunger for the kynge,
Whan hys grace ys fastynge,
Hys presens to aproche;
Yt ys to your reproche.
Yt fallyth for no swyne
Nor sowtters to drynke wyne,
Nor seche a nody polle
A pryste for to controlle.
Lytyll wyt in your scrybys nolle
That scrybblyd your fonde scrolle,
Upon hym for to take
Agennst me for to make,
Lyke a doctor dawpate,
A lauryate poyete for to rate.
Yower termys ar to grose,
To far from the porpose,
To contaminate
And to violate
The dygnyte lauryate.
Bolde bayarde, ye are to blynde,
And grow all oute of kynde,
To occupy so your mynde;
For reson can I non fynde
Nor good ryme in yower mater.
I wondyr that ye smatyr,
So for a knave to clatyr;
Ye wolde be callyd a maker,
And make moche lyke Jake Rakar;
Ye ar a comly crakar,
Ye lernyd of sum py bakar.
Caste up your curyows wrytyng,
And your dyrty endytyng,
And your spyghtfull despyghtyng,
For alle ys nat worthe a myteyng,
A makerell nor a wyteyng:
Had ye gonne with me to scole,
And occupyed no better your tole,
Ye xulde have kowththyd me a fole.
But now, gawdy, gresy Garnesche,
Your face I wyse to varnyshe
So suerly yt xall nat tarnishe.
Thow a Sarsens hed ye bere,
Row and full of lowsy here,
As hevery man wele seethe,
Ful of greet knavys tethe,
In a felde of grene peson
Ys ryme yet owte of reson;
Your wyt ys so geson,
Ye rayle all out of seson.
Your skyn scabbyd and scurvy,
Tawny, tannyd, and shurvy,
Now upon thys hete
Rankely whan ye swete,
Men sey ye wyll wax lowsy,
Drunkyn, drowpy, drowsy.
Your sworde ye swere, I wene,
So tranchaunt and so kene,
Xall kyt both wyght and grene:
Your foly ys to grett
The kynges colours to threte.
Your brethe yt ys so felle
And so puauntely dothe smelle
And so haynnously doth stynke,
That naythyr pump nor synke
Dothe savyr halfe so souer
Ageynst a stormy shouer.
O ladies of bryght colour,
Of bewte that beryth the flower,
When Garnyche cummyth yow amonge
With hys brethe so stronge,
Withowte ye have a confectioun
Agenst hys poysond infeccioun,
Els with hys stynkyng jawys
He wyl cause yow caste your crawes,
And make youer stomake seke
Ovyr the perke to pryk.
Now, Garnyche, garde thy gummys;
My serpentins and my gunnys
Agenst ye now I bynde;
Thy selfe therfore defende.
Thou tode, thow scorpyone,
Thow bawdy babyone,
Thow bere, thow brystlyd bore,
Thou Moryshe mantycore,
Thou rammysche, stynkyng gote,
Thou fowle, chorlyshe parote,
Thou gresly gargone glaymy,
Thou swety sloven seymy,
Thou murrioun, thow mawment,
Thou fals stynkyng serpent,
Thou mokkyshe marmoset,
I wyll nat dy in they det.
Tyburne thou me assynyd,
Where thou xulddst have bene shrynyd;
The nexte halter ther xall be
I bequeth yt hole to the.
Soche pelfry thou hast pachchyd,
And so thy selfe hovyr wachyd
That ther thou xuldyst be rachchyd,
If thow war metely machchyd.
Ye may wele be bedawyd,
Ye ar a fole owtelauyd;
And for to telle the gronde,
Pay Stokys hys fyve pownd.
I say, Syr Dalyrag,
Ye bere yow bold and brag
With othyr menys charge;
Ye kyt your clothe to large,
Soche pollyng pajaunttis ye pley,
To poynt yow fresche and gay.
And he that scryblyd your scrolles,
I rekyn yow in my rowllys,
For ij dronken sowllys.
Rede and lerne ye may,
How olde proverbys say,
That byrd ys nat honest
That fylythe hys owne nest.
Yf he wyst what sum wotte,
The flesche bastyng of his cote
Was sowyd with slendyr thre[de]:
God sende you wele good spede,
With Dominus vobiscum!
Good Latyn for Jake a Thrum,
Tyll more matyr may cum.
By the kynges most noble commaundment.
(iv)
Donum Laureati Disticon contra Goliardum Barnishe et Scribam Eius.
Tu, Garnische, fatuus, fatuus tuus est mage scriba:
Qui sapuit puer, insanyt vir, versus in hydram.
(v) Skelton Laureate Defendar Ageinst Lusty Garnyshe Well Be Seen Crystofer Chalangar, et cetera
Garnyshe, gargone, gastly, gryme,
I have receyvyd your secunde ryme.
Thowthe ye kan skylle of large and longe,
Ye syng allway the kukkowe songe.
Ye rayle, ye ryme, with ‘Hay, dog, hay!’
Your chorlyshe chauntyng ys all o lay.
Ye, syr, rayle all in deformite:
Ye have nat red the properte
Of naturys workys, how they be
Myxte with sum incommodite,
As provithe well, in hys rethorikys olde,
Cicero with hys tong of golde.
That nature wrowght in yow and me,
Irrevocable ys her decre;
Waywardly wrowght she hath in the,
Beholde thi selfe, and thou mayst se.
Thow xalte beholde no wher a warse;
They myrrour may be the devyllys ars.
Wyth, ‘Knave, syr, knave, and knave agenne’,
To cal me knaue thou takyst gret payne.
The prowdyst knave yet of us tewyne
Within thy skyn he xall remayne.
The starkest knave, and lest good kan,
Thou art callyd of every man.
The corte, the contre, wylage, and towne,
Sayth, from thy to unto thi croune,
Of all prowde knavys thow beryst the belle,
Lothsum as Lucifer lowest in helle.
On that syde, on thys syde thou dost gasy,
Thou thynkyst thy selfe Syr Pers de Brasy,
Thy caytyvys carkes, cours and crasy;
Moche of thy maneres I can blasy.
Of Lumbardy Gorge Hardyson,
Thow wolde have scoryd hys habarion;
That jentyll Jorge the Januay,
Ye wolde have trysyd hys trowle away:
Soche pajantes with your fryndes ye play,
With trechery ye them betray.
Garnyshe, ye gate of Gorge with gaudry
Crimsin velvet for your bawdry.
Ye have a fantasy to Fanchyrche strete,
With Lumbardes lemmanns for to mete,
With, ‘Bas me, buttyng, praty Cys’,
Yower lothesum lypps love well to kyse,
Slaveryng lyke a slymy snayle.
I wolde ye had kyst hyr on the tayle!
Also nat fare from Bowgy Row,
Ye pressyd pertely to pluk a crow:
Ye lost your holde, onbende your bow,
Ye wan nothyng there but a mow:
Ye wan nothyng there but a skorne;
Sche wolde nat of yt thow had sworne.
Sche seyd ye war coluryd with cole dust;
To daly with yow she had no lust.
Sche seyd your brethe stanke lyke a broke;
With, ‘Gup, Syr Gy’, ye gate a moke.
Sche sware with hyr ye xulde nat dele,
For ye war smery, lyke a sele,
And ye war herey, lyke a calfe;
Sche praiid yow walke, on Goddes halfe!
And thus there ye lost yower pray;
Get ye anothyr where ye may.
Dysparage ye myn auncetry?
Ye ar dysposyd for to ly.
I sey, thow felle and fowle flessh fly,
In thys debate I the askry.
Thow claimist the jentyll, thou art a curre;
Haroldis they know thy cote armur:
Thow thou be a jantyll man borne,
Yet jentylnes in the ys thred bare worne.
Haroldes from honor may the devors,
For harlottes hawnte thyn hatefull cors;
Ye bere out brothells lyke a bawde;
Ye get therby a slendyr laude
Betweyn the tappett and the walle;
Fusty bawdyas, I sey nat alle.
Of harlottes to use soche an harres,
Yt bredth mothys in clothe of Arres.
What eylythe the, rebawde, on me to rave?
A kynge to me myn habyte gave
At Oxforth, the universyte,
Avaunsid I was to that degre;
By hole consent of theyr senate,
I was made poete lawreate.
To cal me lorell ye ar to lewde;
Lythe and lystyn, all bechrewde!
Of the Musys nyne, Calliope
Hath pointyd me to rayle on the.
It semyth nat thy pyllyd pate
Agenst a poyet lawreat
To take upon the for to scryve:
It cumys the better for to dryve
A dong cart or a tumrelle
Than with my poems for to melle.
The honor of Englond I lernyd to spelle,
In dygnyte roialle that doth excelle.
Note and marke wyl thys parcele;
I yave hym drynke of the sugryd welle
Of Eliconys waters crystallyne,
Aqueintyng hym with the Musys nyne.
Yt commyth the wele me to remorde,
That creaunser was to thy sofreyne lorde;
It plesyth that noble prince roialle
Me as hys master for to calle
In hys lernyng primordialle.
Avaunt, rybawde, thi tung reclame!
Me to beknave thow art to blame;
Thy tong untawte, with poyson infecte,
Withowte thou leve thou shalt be chekt,
And takyn up in such a frame,
That all the warlde wyll spye your shame.
Avaunt, avaunt, thow slogysh ——
And sey poetis no dys ——
It ys for no bawdy knave
The dignite lawreat for to have.
Thow callyst me scallyd, thou callyst me mad;
Thow thou be pyllyd, thow ar nat sade.
Thow ar frantyke and lakkyst wyt,
To rayle with me that the can hyt.
Thowth it be now ful tyde with the,
Yet ther may falle soche caswelte,
Er thow beware, that in a throw
Thow mayst fale downe and ebbe full lowe:.
Wherfore, in welthe beware of woo,
For welthe wyll sone departe the froo.
To know thy selfe yf thow lake grace,
Lerne or be lewde, I shrow thy face.
Thow seyst I callyd the a pecok;
Thow liist, I callyd the a wodcoke;
For thow hast a long snowte,
A semly nose and a stowte,
Prickyd lyke an unicorne.
I wold sum manys bake ink horne
Wher thi nose spectacle case;
Yt wold garnyche wyll thy face.
Thow demyst my raylyng ovyrthwarthe;
I rayle to the soche as thow art.
If thow war aquentyd with all
The famous poettes saturicall,
As Persius and Juvynall,
Horace and noble Marciall,
If they wer lyveyng thys day,
Of the wote I what they wolde say;
They wolde the wryght, all with one stevyn,
The follest sloven ondyr heven,
Prowde, peviche, lyddyr, and lewde,
Malapert, medyllar, nothyng well thewde,
Besy, braynles, to bralle and brage,
Wytles, wayward, Syr Wryg wrag,
Dysdaynous, dowble, ful of dyseyte,
Liing, spying by suttelte and slyght,
Fleriing, flatyryng, fals, and fykkelle,
Scornefull and mokkyng over to mykkylle.
My tyme, I trow, I xulde but lese
To wryght to the of tragydese,
It ys nat mete for soche a knave.
But now, my proces for to save,
I have red, and rede I xall,
Inordynate pride wyll have a falle.
Presumptuous pride ys all thyn hope;
God garde the, Garnyche, from the rope!
Stop a tyd, and be welle ware
Ye be nat cawte in an hempen snare.
Harkyn herto, ye Harvy Haftar,
Pride gothe before and schame commyth after.
Thow wrythtyst I xulde let the go pley;
Go pley the, Garnyshe, garnysshyd gay!
I care nat what thow wryght or sey;
I cannat let the the knave to play,
To dauns the hay or rune the ray;
Thy fonde face can me nat fray.
Take thys for that, bere thys in mynde,
Of thy lewdenes more ys behynde;
A reme of papyr wyll nat holde
Of thi lewdenes that may be tolde.
My study myght be better spynt;
But for to serve the kynges entent,
Hys noble pleasure and commandemennt,
Scrybbyl thow, scrybyll thow, rayle or wryght,
Wryght what thow wylte, I xall the aquyte.
By the kyngys most noble commandemennt.
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