Dyssymulacyon.
How do ye maister ye loke so soberly
As I be saued at the dredefull daye
It is a perilous vyce this enuy
Alas a connynge man ne dwelle maye
In no place well but foles with fraye
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
-
To the extent possible under law, the Text Creation Partnership has waived all copyright and related or neighboring rights to this keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above, according to the terms of the CC0 1.0 Public Domain Dedication (http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/). This waiver does not extend to any page images or other supplementary files associated with this work, which may be protected by copyright or other license restrictions. Please go to http://www.textcreationpartnership.org/ for more information.
- Link to this Item
-
http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A12291.0001.001
- 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 June 3, 2024.
Pages
Page [unnumbered]
But as for that conninge hath no foo
Saue him that noughte can scripture saith soo.
I knowe your vertue and your lytterkture
By that lytell conninge that I haue
Ye be maligned sore I you ensure
But ye haue crafte yourselfe alwaie to saue
It is grete skorne to se a misproude knaue
With a clerke that conning is to prate
Let them go, lowse them in the deuilles date
For all be it that this longe not to me
Yet on my backe I bere suche lewde delyng
Right now I spake with one I trowe I se
But what a strawe I maye not tell all thing
By god I saie there is grete herte brenning
Betwene the personne ye wote of Iou
Alas I coulde not dele so with an yew
I wold eche man were as playne as I
It is a worlde I saye to here of some
I hate this fayninge fye vpon it fye
A man can not wote where to become
I wis I coulde tell but humlery home
I dare not speke we be so layde awaite
For all our courte is full of desceite
Now by saint fraūcys that holy man & frere
Page [unnumbered]
I hate this wayes agayne you that they take
Where I as you I wolde ryde them full nere
And by my trouthe but yf an ende they make
Yet wyll I saye some wordes for your sake
That shall them angre I holde thereon a grote
For some shall wene be hanged by the throte.
I haue a stoppynge oyster in my poke
Truste me and yf it come to a nede
But I am lothe for to reyse a smoke
Yf ye could be otherwyse agrede
And so I wolde it were so god me spede
For this maye brede to a confusyon
Without god make a good conclusyon.
Naye se where yonder stondeth the feder man
A flaterynge knaue & false he is god wote
The dreuill stondeth to herken and he can
It were more thryfte he bought him a new cote
It will not be, his purse is not on flote
All that he woreth it is borowed ware
His wytte is thynne his hode is threde bare.
More could I saye but what this is ynowe
A dewe till soone we shall speke more of this
Ye muste be ruled as I shall tell you howe
Amendes maye be of that is now a mys
And I am your syr so haue I blys
Page [unnumbered]
In euery poynte that I can do or saye
Gyue me your honde farewell & haue good daye