Septimus passus.
Soft quod one high Sibbil
And let me with you bib••ill
She sate downe in the place
With a sorye face
Whey wormed aboute
Pithy pleasaunt and profitable workes of maister Skelton, Poete Laureate. Nowe collected and newly published. Anno 1568
About this Item
- Title
- Pithy pleasaunt and profitable workes of maister Skelton, Poete Laureate. Nowe collected and newly published. Anno 1568
- Author
- Skelton, John, 1460?-1529.
- Publication
- Imprinted at London :: In Fletestreate, neare vnto saint Dunstones churche by Thomas Marshe,
- [1568]
- Rights/Permissions
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- Cite this Item
-
"Pithy pleasaunt and profitable workes of maister Skelton, Poete Laureate. Nowe collected and newly published. Anno 1568." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A12291.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed April 30, 2024.
Pages
Page [unnumbered]
Garnished was her snoute
With here and there a puscul
Lyke a scabbed muscull
This ale sayde she is noppy
Let vs sippe and soppy
And not spil a droppy
For so mote I hoppye
It coleth well my coppy
Dame Elinoure sayde she
Haue here is for me
A cloute of London pinnes
And with that she beginnes
The pot to her plucke
And dranke a good lucke
She swinge vp a quarte
At ones for her part
Her paunche was so puffed
And so with ale stuffed
Had she not hyed a pace
She had defoyled the place
Than began the sport
Amonge, that dronken fort
Dame Elynoure sayde they
Lende here a cocke of hay
To make all thynge cleane
Ye wote well what we meane
But syr amonge all
That sate in that hall
Page [unnumbered]
There was a pricke me deintie
Sate lyke a saintye
And began to paintye
As thoughe she woulde fainty
She made it as koy
As a lege demoy
She was not halfe so wise
As she was peuysh nyse
She sayde neuer a worde
But rose from the borde
And called for oure dame
Elynoure by name
We supposed I wys
That she rose to pisse
But the verye grounde
Was for to compounde
With Elynour in the spence
To paye for her expence
I haue no penny nor grote
To pay sayd she, god wot
For washinge of my throte
But my bedes of amber
Bere them to your chaumber
Then Elynour dyd them hide
Wythin her beddes syde
But some than sat righte sad
That nothynge had
There of theyr one
Page [unnumbered]
Neyther gelt nor pawne
Suche were there mennye
That had not a pennye
But whan they should walke
Were fayne with a chalke
To score on the balke
Or score on the tayle
God geue it yll hayle
For my fyngers ytche
I haue written to mych
Of this mad mummyng
Of Elynoure Rummynge
Thus endeth the gest
Of this worthye felt.
Quod Skelton Laureat.