The Penguin Book of English Verse
Page 11
Ther is no rose of swych vertu
As is the rose that bare Jesu.
Ther is no rose of swych vertu
As is the rose that bar Jesu;
5
Alleluya.
For in this rose conteynyd was
Heven and erthe in lytyl space,
Res miranda.
Be that rose we may weel see
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That he is God in personys thre,
Pari forma.
The aungelys sungyn the sheperdes to:
‘Gloria in excelcis Deo.’
Gaudeamus.
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Leve we al this wordly merthe,
And folwe we this joyful berthe;
Transeamus.
1500JOHN SKELTON from Phyllyp Sparowe
Whan I remembre agayn
How mi Philyp was slayn,
Never halfe the payne
Was betwene you twayne,
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Pyramus and Thesbe,
As than befell to me.
I wept and I wayled,
The tearys downe hayled,
But nothynge it avayled
10
To call Phylyp agayne
Whom Gyb our cat hath slayne.
(…)
It had a velvet cap
And wold syt upon my lap
And seke after small wormes
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And somtyme white bred-crommes;
And many tymes and ofte
Betwene my brestes softe
It wolde lye and rest –
It was propre and prest.
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Somtyme he wolde gaspe
Whan he sawe a waspe;
A fly or a gnat,
He wold flye at that;
And prytely he wolde pant
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Whan he saw an ant;
Lord, how he wolde pry
After the butterfly!
Lord, how he wolde hop
After the gressop!
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And whan I sayd, ‘Phyp, Phyp,’
Than he wold lepe and skyp,
And take me by the lyp.
Alas, it wyll me slo,
That Phillyp is gone me fro!
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Si in i qui ta tes
Alas, I was evyll at ease!
De pro fun dis cla ma vi,
Whan I sawe my sparowe dye!
(…)
For it wold come and go,
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And fly so to and fro;
And on me it wolde lepe
Whan I was aslepe,
And his fethers shake,
Wherewith he wolde make
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Me often for to wake,
And for to take him in
Upon my naked skyn,
God wot, we thought no syn.
What though he crept so lowe?
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It was no hurt, I trowe.
He dyd nothynge, perde,
But syt upon my kne.
Phyllyp, though he were nyse,
In him it was no vyse;
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Phyllyp had leve to go
To pyke my lytell too;
Phillip myght be bolde
And do what he wolde;
Phillip wolde seke and take
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All the flees blake
That he coulde there espye
With his wanton eye.
(… )
… Vengeaunce I aske and crye,
By way of exclamacyon,
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On all the hole nacyon
Of cattes wylde and tame;
God send them sorowe and shame!
That cat specyally
That slew so cruelly
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My lytell prety sparowe
That I brought up at Carowe.
O cat of carlyshe kynde,
The fynde was in thy mynde
Whan thou my byrde untwynde!
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I wold thou haddest ben blynde!
The leopardes savage,
The lyons in theyr rage,
Myght catche the in theyr pawes,
And gnawe the in theyr jawes!
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The serpents of Lybany
Myght stynge the venymously!
The dragones with their tonges
Might poyson thy lyver and longes!
The mantycors of the montaynes
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Myght fede them on thy braynes!
Melanchates, that hounde
That plucked Actaeon to the grounde,
Gave hym his mortall wounde,
Chaunged to a dere,
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The story doth appere –
Was chaunged to an harte:
So thou, foule cat that thou arte,
The selfe same hounde
Myght the confounde,
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That his owne lorde bote,
Myght byte asondre thy throte!
Of Inde the gredy grypes
Myght tere out all thy trypes!
Of Arcady the beares
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Might plucke awaye thyne eares!
The wylde wolfe Lycaon
Byte asondre thy backe-bone!
Of Ethna the brennynge hyll
That day and night brenneth styl,
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Set in thy tayle a blase
That all the world may gase
And wonder upon the.
From Occyan the great se
Unto the Iles of Orchady,
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From Tyllbery fery
To the playne of Salysbery!
So trayterously my byrde to kyll
That never ought the evyll wyll!
Was never byrde in cage
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More gentle of corage
In doynge his homage
Unto his soverayne.
Alas, I say agayne,
Deth hath departed us twayne:
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The false cat hath the slayne!
Farewell, Phyllyp, adew:
Our Lorde thy soule reskew!
Farewell without restore,
Farewell for evermore!
ROBERT HENRYSON from The Testament of Cresseid
‘O ladyis fair of Troy and Grece, attend
My miserie, quhilk nane may comprehend,
My frivoll fortoun, my infelicitie,
My greit mischeif, quhilk na man can amend.
5
Be war in tyme, approchis neir the end,
And in your mynd ane mirrour mak of me:
As I am now, peradventure that ye
For all your micht may cum to that same end,
Or ellis war, gif ony war may be.
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‘Nocht is your fairnes bot ane faiding flour,
Nocht is your famous laud and hie honour
Bot wind inflat in uther mennis eiris;
Your roising reid to rotting sail retour;
Exempill mak of me in your memour,
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Quhilk of sic thingis wofull witnes beiris.
All welth in eird, away as wind it weiris;
Be war thairfoir, approchis neir the hour:
Fortoun is fikkill quhen scho beginnis and steiris!’
Thus chydand with hir drerie destenye,
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Weiping scho woik the nicht fra end to end;
Bot all in vane – hir dule, hir cairfull cry,
Micht not remeid nor yit hir murning mend.
Ane lipper lady rais and till hir wend,
And said: ‘Quhy spurnis thow aganis the wall
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To sla thyself and mend nathing at all?
‘Sen thy weiping dowbillis bot thy wo,
I counsall the mak vertew of ane neid;
Go leir to clap thy clapper to and fro,
And leif efter the law of lipper leid.’
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Thair was na buit, bot fur
th with thame scho yeid
Fra place to place, quhill cauld and hounger sair
Compellit hir to be ane rank beggair.
That samin tyme, of Troy the garnisoun,
Quhilk had to chiftane worthie Troylus,
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Throw jeopardie of weir had strikken doun
Knichtis of Grece in number mervellous;
With greit tryumphe and laude victorious
Agane to Troy richt royallie thay raid
The way quhair Cresseid with the lipper baid.
40
Seing that companie, all with ane stevin
Thay gaif ane cry, and schuik coppis gude speid;
Said: ‘Worthie lordis, for Goddis lufe of hevin,
To us lipper part of your almous deid!’
Than to thair cry nobill Troylus tuik heid,
45
Having pietie, neir by the place can pas
Quhair Cresseid sat, not witting quhat scho was.
Than upon him scho kest up baith hir ene –
And with ane blenk it come into his thocht
That he sumtime hir face befoir had sene.
50
Bot scho was in sic plye he knew hir nocht;
Yit than hir luik into his mynd it brocht
The sweit visage and amorous blenking
Of fair Cresseid, sumtyme his awin darling.
Na wonder was, suppois in mynd that he
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Tuik hir figure sa sone – and lo, now quhy:
The idole of ane thing in cace may be
Sa deip imprentit in the fantasy
That it deludis the wittis outwardly,
And sa appeiris in forme and lyke estait
60
Within the mynd as it was figurait.
Ane spark of lufe than till his hart culd spring
And kendlit all his bodie in ane fyre:
With hait fewir, ane sweit and trimbling
Him tuik, quhill he was reddie to expyre;
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To beir his scheild his breist began to tyre;
Within ane quhyle he changit mony hew,
And nevertheless not ane ane uther knew.
For knichtlie pietie and memoriall
Of fair Cresseid, ane gyrdill can he tak,
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Ane purs of gold, and mony gay jowall,
And in the skirt of Cresseid doun can swak;
Than raid away and not ane word he spak,
Pensive in hart, quhill he come to the toun,
And for greit cair oftsyis almaist fell doun.
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The lipper folk to Cresseid than can draw
To se the equall distributioun
Of the almous, bot quhen the gold thay saw,
Ilkane to uther prevelie can roun,
And said; ‘Yone lord hes mair affectioun,
80
However it be, unto yone lazarous
Than to us all; we knaw be his almous.’
‘Quhat lord is yone,’ quod scho, ‘have ye na feill,
Hes done to us so greit humanitie?’
‘Yes,’ quod a lipper man, ‘I knaw him weill;
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Schir Troylus it is, gentill and fre.’
Quhen Cresseid understude that it was he,
Stiffer than steill thair stert ane bitter stound
Throwout hir hart, and fell doun to the ground.
Quhen scho ovircome, with siching sair and sad,
90
With mony cairfull cry and cald ochane:
‘Now is my breist with stormie stoundis stad,
Wrappit in wo, ane wretch full will of wane!’
Than swounit scho oft or scho culd refrane,
And ever in hir swouning cryit scho thus;
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‘O fals Cresseid and trew knicht Troylus!
‘Thy lufe, thy lawtie, and thy gentilnes
I countit small in my prosperitie,
Sa elevait I was in wantones,
And clam upon the fickill quheill sa hie.
100
All faith and lufe I promissit to the
Was in the self fickill and frivolous:
O fals Cresseid and trew knicht Troilus!
‘For lufe of me thow keipt gude continence,
Honest and chaist in conversatioun;
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Of all wemen protectour and defence
Thou was, and helpit thair opinioun;
My mynd in fleschelie foull affectioun
Was inclynit to lustis lecherous:
Fy, fals Cresseid! O trew knicht Troylus!
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‘Lovers be war and tak gude heid about
Quhome that ye lufe, for quhome ye suffer paine.
I lat yow wit, thair is richt few thairout
Quhome ye may traist to have trew lufe agane;
Preif quhen ye will, your labour is in vaine.
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Thairfoir I reid ye tak thame as ye find,
For thay ar sad as widdercok in wind.
‘Becaus I knaw the greit unstabilnes,
Brukkill as glas, into my self, I say,
Traisting in uther als greit unfaithfulnes,
120
Als unconstant, and als untrew of fay –
Thocht sum be trew, I wait richt few ar thay;
Quha findis treuth, lat him his lady ruse!
Nane but myself as now I will accuse.’
Quhen this was said, with paper scho sat doun,
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And on this maneir maid hir testament:
‘Heir I beteiche my corps and carioun
With wormis and with taidis to be rent;
My cop and clapper, and myne ornament,
And all my gold the lipper folk sall have
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Quhen I am deid, to burie me in grave.
‘This royall ring set with this rubie reid,
Quhilk Troylus in drowrie to me send,
To him agane I leif it quhen I am deid,
To mak my cairfull deid unto him kend.
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Thus I conclude schortlie, and mak ane end:
My spreit I leif to Diane, quhair scho dwellis,
To walk with hir in waist woddis and wellis.
‘O Diomeid, thou hes baith broche and belt
Quhilk Troylus gave me in takning
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Of his trew lufe!’ and with that word scho swelt.
And sone ane lipper man tuik of the ring,