|
Tell you I chyll,
If that ye wyll
A whyle be styll,
Of a comely gyll
That dwelt on a hyll;
But she is not gryll,
For she is somwhat sage
And well worne in age,
For her vysage
It would aswage
A mannes courage.
Her lothely lere
Is nothynge clere,
but ugly of chere,
Droupy and drowsy,
Scurvy and lowsy;
Her face all bowsy,
Comely crynklyd,
Woundersly wrynklyd,
Lyke a rost pygges eare,
Brystled wyth here.
Her lewde lyppes twayne,
They slaver, men sayne,
Lyke a ropy rayne,
A gummy glayre.
She is ugly fayre:
Her nose somdele hoked
And camously croked,
Never stoppynge
But ever droppynge;
Her skynne lose and slacke,
Grained lyke a sacke;
With a croked backe.
Her eyen gowndy
Are full unsowndy,
For they are blered;
And she gray hered;
Jawed lyke a jetty;
A man would have pytty
To se how she is gumbed,
Fyngered and thumbed,
Gently joynted,
Gresed and annoynted
Up to the knockels:
The bones of her huckels
Lyke as they were with buckels
Togyther made fast.
Her youth is farre past;
Foted lyke a plane,
Legged lyke a crane;
And yet she wyll jet,
Lyke a jolly fet
In her furred flocket,
And graye russet rocket,
With symper the cocket.
Her huke of Lyncole grene,
It had ben hers, I wene,
More then fourty yere;
And so doth it apere,
For the grene bare thredes
Loke lyke sere wedes,
Wyddered lyke hay,
The woll worne away.
And yet I dare saye
She thynketh herselfe gaye
Upon the holy daye,
Whan she doth her aray,
And gyrdeth in her gytes
Stytched and pranked with pletes;
Her kyrtell Brystow red,
With clothes upon her hed
The wey a sowe of led,
Wrythen in wonder wyse
After the Sarasyns gyse,
With a whym wham,
Knyt with a trym tram,
Upon her brayne pan,
Lyke an Egyptian,
Capped about:
Whan she goeth out
Herselfe for to shewe,
She dryveth downe the dewe
Wyth a payre of heles
As brode as two wheles.
She hobles as a gose
With her blanket hose
Over the falowe,
Her shone smered wyth talowe,
Gresed upon dyrt
That baudeth her skyrt.
Primus passus
And this comely dame,
I understande, her name
Is Elynour Rummynge,
At home in her wonnynge;
And, as men say,
She dwelt in Sothray,
In a certayne stede
Bysyde Lederhede.
She is a tonnysh gyb;
The devyll and she be syb.
But to make up my tale,
She breweth noppy ale,
And maketh therof port sale
To travellars, to tynkers,
To sweters, to swynkers,
And all good ale drynkers,
That wyll nothynge spare,
But drynke tyll they stare
And brynge themselfe bare,
With, ‘Now away the mare,
And let us sley care!’
As wyse as an hare!
Come who so wyll
To Elynour on the hyll,
Wyth, ‘Fyll the cup, fyll!’
And syt there by styll,
Erly and late.
Thyther cometh Kate,
Cysly, and Sare,
With theyr legges bare,
And also theyr fete
Hardely full unswete;
Wyth theyr heles dagged,
Theyr kyrtelles all to jagged,
Theyr smockes all to ragged,
Wyth tytters and tatters,
Brynge dyshes and platters,
Wyth all theyr myght runnynge
To Elynour Rummynge,
To have of her tunnynge.
She leneth them on the same,
And thus begynneth the game.
Some wenches come unlased,
Some huswyves come unbrased,
Wyth theyr naked pappes,
That flyppes and flappes,
It wygges and it wagges
Lyke tawny saffron bagges;
A sorte of foule drabbes
All scurvy with scabbes.
Some be flybytten,
Some skewed as a kytten;
Some wyth a sho clout
Bynde theyr heddes about;
Some have no herelace,
Theyr lockes about theyr face,
Theyr tresses untrust,
All full of unlust;
Some loke strawry,
Some cawry mawry;
Full untydy tegges,
Lyke rotten egges.
Suche a lewde sorte
To Elynour resorte
From tyde to tyde.
Abyde, abyde,
And to you shall be tolde
How hyr ale is solde
To mawte and to molde.
Secundus passus
Some have no mony
That thyder commy,
For theyr ale to pay;
That is a shreud aray!
Elynour swered, ‘Nay,
Ye shall not beare away
Myne ale for nought,
By Hym that me bought!’
With, ‘Hey, dogge, hay,
Have these hogges away!’
With, ‘Get me a staffe,
That swyne eate my draffe!
Stryke the hogges with a clubbe,
They have dronke up my swyllynge tubbe!’
For, be there never so much prese,
These swyne go to the hye dese,
The sowe with her pygges;
The bore his tayle wrygges,
His rumpe also he frygges
Agaynst the hye benche.
With, ‘Fo, ther is a stenche!
Gather up, thou wenche.
Seest thou not what is fall?
Take up dyrt and all,
And bere out of the hall.’
God gyve it yll prevynge,
Clenly as yvell chevynge!
But let us turne playne,
There we lefte agayne.
For, as yll a patch as that,
The hennes ron in the mashfat;
For they go to roust,
Streyght over the ale joust,
And donge, whan it commes,
In the ale tunnes.
Than Elynour taketh
The mashe bolle, and shaketh
The hennes donge away,
And skommeth it into a tray
Whereas the yeest is,
With her maungy fystis.
And somtyme she blennes
The donge of her hennes
And the ale togyther;
And sayeth, ‘Gossyp, come hyther,
This ale shal be thycker,
And flowre the more quycker;
For I may tell you,
I lerned it of a Jewe,
Whan I began to brewe,
And I have founde it trew.
Drinke it now whyle it is new;
And ye may it broke,
It shall make you loke
Yonger than ye be
Yeres two or thre,
For ye may prove it by me;
‘Behold,’ she sayd, ‘and se
How bryght I am of ble!
Ich am not cast away,
That can my husband say,
Whan we kys and play
In lust and in lykyng.
He calleth me his whytyng,
His mullyng and his mytyng,
His nobbes and his conny,
His swetyng and his honny,
With, ‘Bas, my prety bonny,
Thou are worth good and monny.’
This make I my falyre fonny,
Tyll that he dreme and dronny;
For, after all our sport,
Than wyll he rout and snort;
Than swetely togyther we ly,
As two pygges in a sty.’
To cease me semeth best,
And of this tale to rest,
And for to leve this letter,
Because it is no better,
And because it is no swetter,
We wyll no farther rymeOf it at this tyme.
But we wyll turne playne
Where we left agayne.
Tertius passus
Instede of coyne and monny,
Some brynge her a conny,
And some a pot with honny,
Some a salt, and some a spone,
Some theyr hose, some theyr shone;
Some ranne a good trot
With a skellet or a pot;
Some fyll theyr pot full
Of good Lemster woll.
An huswyfe of trust
Whan she is athrust,
Suche a webbe can spyn,
Her thryfte is full thyn.
Some go streyght thyder,
Be it slaty or slyder;
They holde the hye waye,
They care not what men saye!
Be that as be maye;
Some lothe to be espyde,
Start in at the backe syde,
Over the hedge and pale,
And all for the good ale.
Some renne tyll they swete,
Brynge wyth them malte or whete,
And dame Elynour entrete
To byrle them of the best.
Than cometh another gest;
She swered by the Rode of Rest,
Her lyppes are so drye,
Without drynke she must dye;
Therefore, ‘Fyll it by and by
And have here a pecke of ry.’
Anone cometh another,
As drye as the other,
And wyth her doth brynge
Mele, salt, or other thynge,
Her hernest gyrdle, her weddynge rynge,
To pay for her scot
As cometh to her lot.
Som bryngeth her husbandes hood,
Because the ale is good;
Another brought her his cap
To offer to the ale tap,
Wyth flaxe and wyth towe;
And some brought sowre dowe:
Wyth, ‘Hey,’ and wyth, ‘Howe,
Syt we downe arowe
And drynke tyll we blowe,
And pype tyrly tyrlowe!’
Some layde to pledge
Theyr hatchet and theyr wedge,
Theyr hekell and theyr rele,
Theyr rocke, theyr spynnyng whele.
And some went so narrowe
They layde to pledge theyr wharrowe,
Theyr rybskyn and theyr spyndell,
Theyr nedell and theyr thymbell:
Here was scant thryft
Whan they made suche shyft.
Theyr thrust was so great,
They asked never for mete
But, ‘Drynke,’ styll ‘Drynke,
And let the cat wynke!
Let us washe our gommes
From the drye crommes!’
Quartus passus
Some for very nede
Layde downe a skeyne of threde,
And some skeyne of yarne.
Some brought from the barne
Both benes and pease;
Small chaffer doth ease
Sometyme, now and than.
Another there was that ran
With a good brasse pan –
Her colour was full wan –
She ran in all the hast
Unbrased and unlast,
Tawny, swart, and sallowe,
Lyke a cake of tallowe;
I swere by all hallowe
It was stale to take
The devyll in a brake.
And than came haltyng Jone
And brought a gambone
Of bakon that was resty;
But, Lorde, as she was testy,
Angry as a waspy!
She began to yane and gaspy,
And bad Elynour go bet,
And fyll in good met;
It was dere that was far fet!
Another brought a spycke
Of a bacon flycke;
Her tonge was very quycke,
But she spake somewhat thycke,
Her felowe dyd stammer and stut,
But she was a foule slut,
For her mouth fomyd
And her bely groned:
Jone sayne she had eaten a fyest.
‘By Christ,’ sayde she, ‘thou lyest.
I have as swete a breth
As thou, wyth shamful deth!’
Than Elynour sayde, ‘Ye calletes,
I shall breke your palettes,
Wythout ye now cease!’
And so was made the peace.
Than thyder came dronken Ales;
And she was full of tales,
Of tydynges in Wales,
And of Sainct James in Gales,
And of the Portyngales;
Wyth, ‘Lo, gossyp, iwys,
Thus and thus it is,
There hath ben greate war
Betwene Temple Bar
And the Crosse in Chepe
And there came an hepe
Of mylstones in a route.’
She spake thus in her snout,
Snevelyng in her nose,
As though she had the pose:
‘Lo, here is an olde typpet,
And ye wyll gyve me a syppet
Of your stale ale,
God sende you good sale!’
And, as she was drynkynge,
She fyll in a wynkynge
Wyth a barlyhood;
She pyst where she stood.
Than began she to wepe,
And forthwyth fell on slepe.
Elynour toke her up,
And blessed her wyth a cup
Of newe ale in cornes.
And founde therin no thornes,
But supped it up at ones,
She founde therin no bones.
Quintus passus
Nowe in cometh another rabell;
Fyrst one wyth a ladell,
Another wyth a cradell,
And wyth a syde-sadell;
And there began a fabell,
A clatterynge and a babell
Of folys fylly
that had a fole wyth Wylly,
With, ‘Jast you, and, gup, gylly,
She coulde not lye stylly!’
Than came in a genet,
And sware by Sainct Benet,
‘I dranke not this sennet
A draught to my pay.
Elynour, I the pray,
Of thyne ale let us assay,
And have here a pylche of gray;
I were skynnes of conny,
That causeth I loke so donny.’
Another than dyd hyche her,
And brought a pottel pycher,
A tonnell, and a bottell,
But she had lost the stoppell.
She cut of her sho sole,
And stopped therwyth the hole.
Amonge all the blommer,
Another brought a skommer,
A fryenge pan, and a slyce.
Elynour made the pryce
For god ale eche whyt.
Than sterte in mad Kyt,
That had lyttel wyt;
She semed somedele seke,
And brought a peny cheke
To dame Elynour,
For a draught of her lycour.
Than Margery Mylkeducke
Her kyrtell she did uptucke
An ynche above her kne,
Her legges that ye myght se;
But they were sturdy and stubbed,
Myghty pestels and clubbed,
As fayre and as whyte
As the fote of a kyte:
She was somwhat foule,
Crokenebbed lyke an oule;
And yet she brought her fees,
A cantell of Essex chese
Was well a fote thycke,
Full of maggottes quycke;
It was huge and greate,
And myghty stronge meate
For the devyll to eate;
It was tart and punyete.
Another sorte of sluttes:
Some brought walnuttes,
Some apples, some peres,
Some brought theyr clyppynge sheres,
Some brought this and that,
Some brought I wote nere what,
Some brought theyr husbandes hat,
Some podynges and lynkes,
Some trypes that stynkes.
But of all this thronge
One came them amonge,
She semed halfe a leche,
And began to preche
Of the Tewsday in the weke
Whan the mare doth keke;
Of the vertue of an unset leke;
Of her husbandes breke.
Wyth the feders of a quale
She could to Burdeou sayle;
And wyth good ale barme
She could make a charme
To helpe wythall a stytch;
She semed to be a wytch.
Another brought two goslynges,
That were noughty froslynges;
She brought them in a wallet;
She was a cumly callet.
The goslenges were untyde;
Elynour began to chyde,
‘They be wretchockes thou hast brought,They are shyre shakyng nought!’
Sextus passus
Maude Ruggy thyther skypped:
She was ugly hypped,
And ugly thycke lypped,
Lyke an onyon syded,
Lyke tan ledder hyded.
She had her so guyded
Betwene the cup and the wall,
That she was therewythall
Into a palsey fall;
Wyth that her hed shaked,
And her handes quaked.
Ones hed wold have aked
To se her naked.
She dranke so of the dregges,
The dropsy was in her legges;
Her face glystryng lyke glas;
All foggy fat she was
She had also the gout
In all her joyntes about;
Her breth was soure and stale,
And smelled all of ale.
Suche a bedfellaw
Wold make one cast his craw.
But yet, for all that
She dranke on the mash fat.
There came an old rybybe;
She halted of a kybe,
And had broken her shyn
At the threshold comyng in,
And fell so wyde open
That one myght se her token.
The devyll thereon be wroken!
What nede all this be spoken?
She yelled lyke a calfe!
‘Ryse up, on Gods halfe,’
Said Elynour Rummyng,
‘I beshrew the for thy cummyng!’
And as she at her did pluck,
‘Quake, quake,’ sayd the duck
In that lampatrams lap.
Wyth, ‘Fy, cover thy shap
Wyth sum flyp flap,
God gyve it yll hap!’
Sayd Elynour ‘For shame!’
Lyke an honest dame.
Up she stert, halfe lame,
And skantly could go
For payne and for wo.
In came another dant,
Wyth a gose and a gant.
She had a wyde wesant
She was nothynge plesant;
Necked lyke an olyfant;
It was a bullyfant,
A gredy cormerant.
Another brought her garlyke hedes;
Another brought her bedes
Of jet or of cole,
To offer to the ale pole.
Some brought a wymble,
Some brought a thymble,
Some brought a sylke lace,
Some brought a pyncase,
Some her husbandes gowne,
Some a pyllowe of downe,
Some of the napery;
And all this shyfte they make
For the good ale sake.
‘A strawe,’ sayde Bele, ‘stande utter
For we have egges and butter,
And of pygeons a payre.’
Than sterte forth a fysgygge
And she brought a bore pygge.
The fleshe therof was ranke,
And her brethe strongly stanke,
Yet, or she went, she dranke,
And gat her great thanke,
Of Elynour for her ware,
That she thyther bare
To pay for her share.
Now truly, to my thynkynge,
This is a solempne drinkynge.
Septimus passus
‘Soft,’ quod one, hyght Sybbyl,
‘And let me wyth you bybyll.’
She sat down in the place,
With a sory face
Wheywormed about;
Garnyshed was her snout
Wyth here and there puscull,
Lyke a scabbyd muscull.
‘This ale,’ sayde she, ‘is noppy;
Let us syppe and soppy,
And not spyll a droppy,
For so mote I hoppy,
It coleth well my croppy.’
‘Dame Elynour,’ sayde she,
‘Have here is for me,
A clout of London pynnes.’
And wyth that she begynnes
The pot to her plucke,
And dranke a good lucke.
She swynged up a quarte
At ones for her parte.
Her paunche was so puffed,
And so wyth ale stuffed,
Had she not hyed apace,
She had defoyled the place.
Than began the sporte
Amonge that dronken sorte.
‘Dame Elynoure,’ sayde they,
‘Lende here a cocke of hey,
To make all thynge cleane;
Ye wote well what we meane.’
But, syr, among all
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;
She was not halfe so wyse
As she was pevysshe nyse.
She sayde never a worde,
But rose from the borde,
And called for our dame,
Elynour by name.
We supposed, iwys,
That she rose to pys;
But the very grounde
Was for to compounde
Wyth Elynour in the spence,
To pay for her expence.
‘I have no penny nor grote
To pay, sayde she, God wote,
For washyng of my trote;
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,
Neyther gelt nor pawne.
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 gyve it yll hayle,
For my fyngers ytche.
I have wrytten to my mytche
Of this mad mummynge
Of Elynour Rummynge.
Thus endeth the gest
Of this worthy fest.
Quod Skelton, Laureat.
LAUREATI SKELTONIDIS IN DESPECTU MALIGNANTIUM DISTICHON
Quamvis insanis, quamvis marcescis inanis,
Invide, cantamus, hec loca plena jocis.
Bien men souvient.
Omnes feminas, quæ vel nimis bibule sunt, vel que sordida
labe squaloris, aut qua spurca feditatis macula, aut verbosa
loquacitate notantur, poeta invitat ad audiendum hunc libellum, &c.
Ebria, squalida, sordida femina, prodiga verbis,
Huc currat, properet, veniat! Sua gesta libellus
Iste volutabit: Pean sua plectra sonando
Materiam risus cantabit carmine rauco.
Finis.
Quod Skelton, Laureat.
|
