Argumentum

Crassantes nimium, nimium sterilesque labruscas,Vinea quas Domini Sabaot non sustinet ultraLaxius expandi, nostra est resecare voluntas.

Alma parens O Cantabrigensis,Cur lacrymaris? Esto, tui sintDegeneres hi filioli, sedNon ob inertes, O pia mater,Insciolos vel decolor esto.Progenies non nobilis omnis,Quam tua forsan mamma fovebat.Tu tamen esto Palladis almæGloria pollens plena Minervæ,Dum radiabunt astra polorum:Jamque valeto, meque foveto,Namque tibi quondam carus alumnus eram.

A lytell ragge of rethorike,A lesse lumpe of logyke,A pece or a patche of philosophy,Than forthwith by and byThey tumble so in theology,Drowned in dregges of diuinite,That they iuge them selfe able to beDoctours of the chayre in the UyntreAt the Thre Cranes,To magnifye their names:But madly it frames,For all that they preche and techeIs farther than their wytte wyll reche.Thus by demeryttes of their abusyon,Finally they fall to carefull confusyon,To beare a fagot, or to be enflamed:Thus are they vndone and vtterly shamed.

ErgoLicet non enclitice,Tamen enthymematice,Notandum imprimis,Ut ne quid nimis.Tantum pro primo.

To the honour of our blessed lady,And her most blessed baby,I purpose for to reply

Agaynst this horryble heresyOf these yong heretikes, that stynke vnbrent,Whom I nowe sommon and content,That leudly haue their tyme spent,

In their study abhomynable,Our glorious lady to disable,And heynously on her to bableWith langage detestable;With your lyppes pollutedAgaynst her grace disputed,Whiche is the most clere christallOf all pure clennesse virgynall,That our Sauyour bare,Whiche vs redemed from care.

I saye, thou madde Marche hare,I wondre howe ye dareOpen your ianglyng iawes,To preche in any clawes,Lyke pratynge poppyng dawes,Agaynst her excellence,Agaynst her reuerence,Agaynst her preemynence,Agaynst her magnifycence,That neuer dyde offence.

Ye heretykes recrayed,Wotte ye what ye sayedOf Mary, mother and mayed?With baudrie at her ye brayed;With baudy wordes vnmeteYour tonges were to flete;Your sermon was nat swete;Ye were nothyng discrete;Ye were in a dronken hete.Lyke heretykes confettred,

Ye count your selfe wele lettred:Your lernyng is starke nought,For shamefully ye haue wrought,And to shame your selfe haue brought.

Bycause ye her mysnamed,And wolde haue her defamed,Your madnesse she attamed;For ye were worldly shamed,At Poules crosse openly,All men can testifye;

There, lyke a sorte of sottes,Ye were fayne to beare fagottes;At the feest of her concepcionYe suffred suche correction.Sive per æquivocum,Sive per univocum,Sive sic, sive nat so,Ye are brought to, Lo, lo, lo!

Se where the heretykes go,Wytlesse wandring to and fro!With, Te he, ta ha, bo ho, bo ho!And suche wondringes many mo.Helas, ye wreches, ye may be wo!Ye may syng wele away,And curse bothe nyght and day,Whan ye were bredde and borne,

And whan ye were preestes shorne,Thus to be laughed to skorne,Thus tattred and thus torne,Thorowe your owne foly,To be blowen with the flyeOf horryble heresy.Fayne ye were to reny,And mercy for to crye,Or be brende by and by,Confessyng howe ye dyde lyeIn prechyng shamefully.Your selfe thus ye discuredAs clerkes vnassured,With ignorance obscured:

Ye are vnhappely vred.In your dialeticallAnd principles silogisticall,If ye to remembrance callHowe syllogisariNon est ex particulari

Neque negativis,Recte concludere si vis,Et cætera id genus,Ye coude nat corde tenus,Nor answere verbo tenus,Whan prelacy you opposed;Your hertes than were hosed,

Your relacions reposed;And yet ye supposedRespondere ad quantum,But ye were confuse tantum,Surrendring your supposycions,For there ye myst your quosshons.Wolde God, for your owne ease,

That wyse HarpocratesHad your mouthes stopped,And your tonges cropped,

Whan ye logyke chopped,And in the pulpete hopped,And folysshly there fopped,And porisshly forthe poppedYour sysmaticate sawesAgaynst Goddes lawes,And shewed your selfe dawes!

Ye argued argumentes,As it were vpon the elenkes,De rebus apparentibusEt non existentibus;And ye wolde appere wyse,But ye were folysshe nyse:Yet be meanes of that vyseYe dyde prouoke and tyse,Oftnar than ones or twyse,Many a good manAnd many a good woman,By way of their deuocionTo helpe you to promocion,Whose charite wele regardedCan nat be vnrewarded.

I saye it for no sedicion,But vnder pacient tuicyon,It is halfe a supersticyonTo gyue you exhibycionTo mainteyne with your skoles,And to proue your selfe suche foles.Some of you had ten pounde,Therwith for to be foundeAt the vnyuersyte,Employed whiche myght haue beMoche better other wayes.

But, as the man sayes,The blynde eteth many a flye:What may be ment hereby,Ye may soone make constructionWith right lytell instruction;For it is an auncyent brute,

Suche apple tre, suche frute.What shulde I prosecute,Or more of this to clatter?Retourne we to our matter.

Ye soored ouer hyeIn the ierarchyOf Iouenyans heresy,Your names to magnifye,Among the scabbed skyes

Of Wycliffes flesshe flyes;Ye strynged so Luthers lute,That ye dawns all in a suteThe heritykes ragged ray,That bringes you out of the wayOf holy churches lay;Ye shayle inter enigmataAnd inter paradigmata,Marked in your cradelsTo beare fagottes for babyls.And yet some men say,Howe ye are this day,And be nowe as yll,And so ye wyll be styll,As ye were before.What shulde I recken more?

Men haue you in suspicionHowe ye haue small contrycionOf that ye haue myswrought:For, if it were well sought,One of you there wasThat laughed whan he dyd pasWith his fagot in processyon;He counted it for no correction,But with scornefull affectionToke it for a sporte,His heresy to supporte;Whereat a thousande gased,As people halfe amased,And thought in hym smale graceHis foly so to face.Some iuged in this caseYour penaunce toke no place,Your penaunce was to lyght;

And thought, if ye had right,Ye shulde take further payneTo resorte agayneTo places where ye haue preched,And your lollardy lernyng teched,And there to make relacionIn open predycacion,And knowlege your offenceBefore open audyence,Howe falsely ye had surmysed,And deuyllysshely deuysedThe people to seduce,And chase them thorowe the museOf your noughty counsell,To hunt them into hell,With blowyng out your hornes,Full of mockysshe scornes,With chatyng and rechatyng,And your busy pratyng:Of the gospell and the pystels

Ye pyke out many thystels,And bremely with your bristelsYe cobble and ye cloutHoly Scripture so about,That people are in great doutAnd feare leest they be outOf all good Christen order.Thus all thyng ye disorderThorowe out euery border.

It had ben moche betterYe had neuer lerned letter,For your ignorance is gretter,I make you fast and sure,Than all your lytterature.Ye are but lydder logici,But moche worse isagogici,For ye haue enduced a secteWith heresy all infecte;Wherfore ye are well checte,And by holy churche correcte,And in maner as abiecte,For euermore suspecte,And banysshed in effectFrom all honest company,Bycause ye haue eaten a flye,To your great vyllony,That neuer more may dye.

Come forthe, ye popeholy,Full of melancoly;Your madde ipocrisy,And your idiosy,And your vayne glorie,Haue made you eate the flye,Pufte full of heresy,To preche it idolatry,Who so dothe magnifye

That glorious mayde Mary;That glorious mayde and mother,So was there neuer anotherBut that princesse alone,To whom we are bounde echoneThe ymage of her graceTo reuerence in euery place.

I saye, ye braynlesse beestes,Why iangle you suche iestes,In your diuyniteOf Luthers affynite,To the people of lay fee,Raylyng in your ragesTo worshyppe none ymages,Nor do pylgrymages?I saye, ye deuyllysshe pages,Full of suche dottages,Count ye your selfe good clerkes,And snapper in suche werkes?

Saynt Gregorie and saynt Ambrose,Ye haue reed them, I suppose,Saynt Jerome and saynt Austen,With other many holy men,Saynt Thomas de Aquyno,With other doctours many mo,Whiche de latria do trete;They saye howe latria is an honour grete,Belongyng to the Deite:To this ye nedes must agre.But, I trowe, your selfe ye ouerseWhat longeth to Christes humanyte.

If ye haue reed de hyperdulia,Than ye knowe what betokeneth dulia:Than shall ye fynde it fyrme and stable,And to our faithe moche agreable,To worshyppe ymages of sayntes.Wherfore make ye no mo restrayntes,But mende your myndes that are mased;Or els doutlesse ye shalbe blased,And be brent at a stake,If further busynesse that ye make.

Therfore I vyse you to forsakeOf heresy the deuyllysshe scoles,And crye Godmercy, lyke frantyke foles.

Audite, viri Ismaelitæ, non dico Israelitæ;Audite, inquam, viri Madianitæ, Ascalonitæ;Ammonitæ, Gabaonitæ, audite verba quæ loquar.

Opus evangelii est cibus perfectorum;Sed quia non estis de genere bonorum,Qui caterisatis categorias cacodæmoniorum,

ErgoEt reliqua vestra problemata, schemata,Dilemmata, sinto anathemata!Ineluctabile argumentum est.

Why fall ye at debateWith Skelton laureate,Reputyng hym vnableTo gainsay replycableOpinyons detestableOf heresy execrable?

Ye saye that poetryMaye nat flye so hyeIn theology,Nor analogy,Nor philology,Nor philosophy,To answere or replyAgaynst suche heresy.Wherfore by and byNowe consequentlyI call to this rekenyng

Dauyd, that royall kyng,Whom Hieronymus,That doctour glorious,Dothe bothe write and callPoete of poetes all,And prophete princypall.

This may nat be remorded,For it is wele recordedIn his pystell ad Paulinum,Presbyterum divinum,Where worde for worde ye mayRede what Jerome there dothe say.