John Skelton Quotes

If ye have reed de hyperdulia,
Than ye know what betokeneth dulia:
Than shall ye fynde it fyrme and stable,
And to our faithe moche agreable,
To worshyppe ymages of sayntes.

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

The wolfe from the dore.

He knew what is what.

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

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.

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.

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.

Thou hast to lytell myght
Agaynst Englande to fyght.

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

By hoke ne by croke.

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

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.

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

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