John Skelton

"There is nothynge that more dyspleaseth God, Than from theyr children to spare the rod."

"Gentle Paule, laie doune thy sweard, For Peter of Westminster hath shaven thy beard."

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

"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"

"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."

"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."

"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."

"Maide, wydowe, or wyffe."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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

"Thy myrrour may be the devyllys ars."

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

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

"In the spight of his teeth."

"He knew what is what."

"By hoke ne by croke."

"The wolfe from the dore."

"He ruleth all the roste."

"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!"

"Englande the flowre Of relucent honowre, In olde commemoration Most royall Englyssh nacion."

"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."

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

"Thou hast to lytell myght Agaynst Englande to fyght."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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

"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."

"What memory or reason is sufficient To remembre the myracles of this lady What tong can expresse / or pen is convenient It were a pleasaunt werke for the monke of Bury For Chaucer or Skelton / fathers of eloquens Or for religious Barkley to shewe theyr diligens"

"I praye mayster Iohn Skelton late created poete laureate in the unyversite of oxenforde to oversee and correcte this sayd booke. And taddresse and expowne where as shalle be founde faulte to theym that shall requyre it. For hym I knowe for suffycyent to expowne and englysshe every dyffyculte that is therin / For he hath late translated the epystlys of Tulle / and the boke of dyodorus syculus. and diverse other werkes oute of latyn in to englysshe not in rude and olde langage. but in polysshed and ornate termes craftely. as he that hath redde vyrgyle / ovyde. tullye. and all the other noble poetes and oratours / to me unknowen: And also he hath redde the ix. muses and understande theyr musicalle scyences. and to whom of theym eche scyence is appropred. I suppose he hath dronken of Elyons well."

"In one respect the Garlande of Laurell stands without a parallel: the history of literature affords no second example of a poet having deliberately written sixteen hundred lines in honour of himself."

"Nor can much be said for John Skelton (1460?–1529), not the last poet-laureate hardly to deserve the first part of his title, though his idiosyncratic doggerel breathed vigour, a crude humour, and—especially in his attacks on Wolsey (Speke, Parrot and Why Come Ye Nat Courte?, 1522–3)—a genuine savagery. ... But the man who could think of commending a lady with the pedestrian lines "How shall I report/All the goodly sort/Of her features clear/That hath none earthly peer?" ... was a very long way from true poetry."

"There is in your household that light and glory of English letters, Skelton, who is capable not only of stimulating your appetite for learning, but of satisfying your hunger well."

"This land gently nourishes the poets who are my attendants, among whom Skelton is rightly to be celebrated."