John Skelton Quotes

By hoke ne by croke.

He knew what is what.

In the spight of his teeth.

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

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

Thy myrrour may be the devyllys ars.

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

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.

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.

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.

Maide, wydowe, or wyffe.

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.

PLA ce bo! Who is there, who? Di le xi! Dame Margery, Fa, re, my, my. Wherefore and why, why? For the soul of Philip Sparrow That was late slain at Carrow, Among the Nunnės Black. For that sweet soulės sake, And for all sparrows' souls, Set in our bead-rolls, Pater noster qui, With an Ave Mari, And with the corner of a Creed, The more shall be your meed.

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.

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