John Skelton Quotes

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.

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.

For the soul of Philip Sparrow,
That was late slain at Carrow
Among the Nunnes Black,
For that sweet soul’s sake
And for all sparrows’ souls
Set in our bead-rolls,
Pater noster qui
With an Ave Mari.

Far may be sought
Erst that ye can find
So courteous, so kind,
As Merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.

The honor of Englond I lernyd to spelle,
In dygnyte roiall that doth excelle.

Why come ye nat to court?
To whyche court?
To the kynges courte?
Or to Hampton Court?

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

Like Andromach, Hector's wife, Was weary of her life, When she had lost her joy, Noble Hector of Troy; In like manner alsó Increaseth my deadly woe, For my sparrow is go.

For though my ryme be ragged,
Tattered and jagged,
Rudely rayne beaten,
Rusty and moughte eaten,
It hath in it some pyth.

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.

O ye wretched Scottes,
Ye puaunt pyspottes,
It shalbe your lottes
To be knytte up with knottes
Of halters and ropes
About your traytours throtes.

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

Thy myrrour may be the devyllys ars.

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.

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.