Notices of Skelton from Various Sources

From the imperfect copy of A C. Mery Talys, small fol., printed by JohnRastell. (See Singer’s reprint, p. 55.)

Prefixed to Pithy pleasaunt and profitable workes of maister Skelton,Poete Laureate. Nowe collected and newly published. Anno 1568. 12mo.

“If slouth and tract of time(That wears eche thing away)Should rust and canker worthy artes,Good works would soen decay.If suche as present areForgoeth the people past,Our selues should soen in silence slepe,And loes renom at last.No soyll nor land so rudeBut som odd men can shoe:Than should the learned pas unknowne,Whoes pen & skill did floe?God sheeld our slouth wear sutch,Or world so simple nowe,That knowledge scaept without reward,Who sercheth vertue throwe,And paints forth vyce aright,And blames abues of men,And shoes what lief desarues rebuke,And who the prayes of pen.You see howe forrayn realmsAduance their poets all;And ours are drowned in the dust,Or flong against the wall.In Fraunce did Marrot raigne;And neighbour thear vntoWas Petrark, marching full with Dantte,Who erst did wonders do;Among the noble GrekesWas Homere full of skill;And where that Ouid norisht wasThe soyll did florish stillWith letters hie of style;But Virgill wan the fraes,And past them all for deep engyen,And made them all to gaesUpon the bookes he made:Thus eche of them, you see,Wan prayse and fame, and honor had,Eche one in their degree.I pray you, then, my friendes,Disdaine not for to veweThe workes and sugred verses fineOf our raer poetes newe;Whoes barborus language ruedPerhaps ye may mislike;But blame them not that ruedly playesIf they the ball do strike,Nor skorne not mother tunge,O babes of Englishe breed!I haue of other language seen,And you at full may reedFine verses trimly wrought,And coutcht in comly sort;But neuer I nor you, I troe,In sentence plaine and shortDid yet beholde with eye,In any forraine tonge,A higher verse, a staetlyer style,That may be read or song,Than is this daye indeedeOur Englishe verse and ryme,The grace wherof doth touch yᵉ gods,And reatch the cloudes somtime.Thorow earth and waters deepeThe pen by skill doth passe,And featly nyps the worldes abuse,And shoes vs in a glasseThe vertu and the viceOf eury wyght alyue:The hony combe that bee doth makeIs not so sweete in hyueAs are the golden leuesThat drops from poets head,Which doth surmount our common talkeAs farre as dros doth lead:The flowre is sifted cleane,The bran is cast aside,And so good corne is knowen from chaffe,And each fine graine is spide.Peers Plowman was full plaine,And Chausers spreet was great;Earle Surry had a goodly vayne;Lord Vaus the marke did beat,And Phaer did hit the prickeIn thinges he did translate,And Edwards had a special gift;And diuers men of lateHath helpt our Englishe toung,That first was baes and brute:—Ohe, shall I leaue out Skeltons name,The blossome of my frute,The tree wheron indeedMy branchis all might groe?Nay, Skelton wore the lawrell wreath,And past in schoels, ye knoe;A poet for his arte,Whoes iudgment suer was hie,And had great practies of the pen,His works they will not lie;His terms to taunts did lean,His talke was as he wraet,Full quick of witte, right sharp of words,And skilfull of the staet;Of reason riep and good,And to the haetfull mynd,That did disdain his doings still,A skornar of his kynd;Most pleasant euery way,As poets ought to be,And seldom out of princis grace,And great with eche degre.Thus haue you heard at fullWhat Skelton was indeed;A further knowledge shall you haue,If you his bookes do reed.I haue of meer good willTheas verses written heer,To honour vertue as I ought,And make his fame apeer,That whan the garland gayOf lawrel leaues but laet:Small is my pain, great is his prayes,That thus sutch honour gaet.

Skeltonus grauidam reddebat forte puellam,Insigni forma quæ peperit puerum.Illico multorum fama hæc pervenit ad aures,Esse patrem nato sacrificum puero.Skeltonum facti non pœnitet aut pudet; ædesAd sacras festo sed venit ipse die:Pulpita conscendit facturus verba popello;Inque hæc prorupit dicta vir ille bonus;Quid vos, O scurræ, capit admiratio tanta?Non sunt eunuchi, credite, sacrifici:O stolidi, vitulum num me genuisse putatis?Non genui vitulum, sed lepidum puerum;Sique meis verbis non creditis, en puer, inquit;Atque e suggesto protulit, ac abiit.”

From A Treatise Against Jvdicial Astrologie. Dedicated to the RightHonorable Sir Thomas Egerton Knight, Lord Keeper of the Great Seale,and one of her Maiesties most honorable priuie Councell. Written byJohn Chamber, one of the Prebendaries of her Maiesties free Chappell ofWindsor, and Fellow of Eaton College. 1601. 4to.