John Skelton Quotes

I saye, thou madde Marche hare,
I wondre howe ye dare
Open your janglyng jawes
To prech in any clawes,
Lyke pratynge poppyng dawes,
Agaynst her excellence,
Agaynst her reverence,
Agaynst her preemynence,
Agaynst her magnifycence,
That never dyde offence.

The kynges courte
Shulde have the excellence;
But Hampton Court
Hath the preemynence!

At Branxton More and Flodden hylles,
Our Englysh bowes, our Englysh bylles,
Agaynst you gave so sharpe a shower,
That of Scotland ye lost the flower.

She is the violet,
The daisy delectable,
The columbine commendable,
The jelofer amiable;
For this most goodly flower,
This blossom of fresh colour,
So Jupiter me succour,
She flourisheth new and new
In beauty and virtue.

Stedfast of thought,
Wele made, wele wrought;
Far may be sought
Erst that ye can fynde
So courteise, so kynde
As mirry Margarete,
This midsomer flowre,
Jentyll as fawcoun
Or hawke of the towre.

Maide, wydowe, or wyffe.

How olde proverbys says,
That byrd ys not honest
That fylythe hys owne nest.

When I remember again How my Philip was slain, Never half the pain Was between you twain, Pyramus and Thisbe, As then befell to me. I wept and I wailed, The tearės down hailed, But nothing it availed To call Philip again Whom Gib, our cat, hath slain.

Ye cobble and ye clout
Holy scripture so about,
That people are in great dout
And feare leest they be out
Of all good Christen order.
Thus all thyng ye disorder
Thorowe out every border.

What dreamest thou, drunkard, drowsy pate?
Thy lust and liking is from thee gone;
Thou blinkard blowboll, thou wakest too late.

With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly,
Her demeaning.

Contynually I shall remember
The mery moneth of September,
With the ix day of the same,
For then began our myrth and game.
So that now I have devysed,
And in my mynde I have comprised,
Of the prowde Scot, kynge Jemmy,
To write some lytell tragedy,
For no maner consyderacyon
Of any sorowfull lamentacyon,
But for the specyall consolacyon
Of all our royall Englysh nacyon.

O noble Chaucer, whos pullisshyd eloquence
Oure Englysshe rude so fresshely hath set out,
That bounde ar we with all deu reverence,
With all our strength that we can brynge about,
To owe to yow our servyce, and more if we mowte!
But what sholde I say? Ye wote what I entende,
Whiche glad am to please and loth to offende

He knew what is what.

Twyt, Scot, go kepe thy den.
Mell nat with Englyshe men.
Thou dyd nothyng but barke
At the castell of Warke.