Phyllyp Sparowe

Pla ce bo,Who is there, who?Di le xi,Dame Margery;Fa, re, my, my,Wherfore and why, why?For the sowle of Philip Sparowe,That was late slayn at Carowe,Among the Nones Blake,For that swete soules sake,And for all sparowes soules,Set in our bederolles,Pater noster qui,With an Ave Mari,And with the corner of a Crede,The more shalbe your mede.Whan I remembre agaynHow mi Philyp was slayn,Neuer halfe the payneWas betwene you twayne,Pyramus and Thesbe,As than befell to me:I wept and I wayled,The tearys downe hayled;But nothynge it auayledTo call Phylyp agayne,Whom Gyb our cat hath slayne.Gib, I saye, our catWorrowyd her on thatWhich I loued best:It can not be exprestMy sorowfull heuynesse,But all without redresse;For within that stounde,Halfe slumbrynge, in a soundeI fell downe to the grounde.Vnneth I kest myne eyesTowarde the cloudy skyes:But whan I dyd beholdeMy sparow dead and colde,No creatuer but that woldeHaue rewed vpon me,To behold and seWhat heuynesse dyd me pange;Wherewith my handes I wrange,That my senaws cracked,As though I had ben racked,So payned and so strayned,That no lyfe wellnye remayned.I syghed and I sobbed,For that I was robbedOf my sparowes lyfe.O mayden, wydow, and wyfe,Of what estate ye be,Of hye or lowe degre,Great sorowe than ye myght se,And lerne to wepe at me!Such paynes dyd me frete,That myne hert dyd bete,My vysage pale and dead,Wanne, and blewe as lead;The panges of hatefull deathWellnye had stopped my breath.Heu, heu, me,That I am wo for thé!Ad Dominum, cum tribularer, clamavi:Of God nothynge els craue IBut Phyllypes soule to kepeFrom the marees deepeOf Acherontes well,That is a flode of hell;And from the great Pluto,The prynce of endles wo;And from foule Alecto,With vysage blacke and blo;And from Medusa, that mare,That lyke a fende doth stare;And from Megeras edders,For rufflynge of Phillips fethers,And from her fyry sparklynges,For burnynge of his wynges;And from the smokes sowreOf Proserpinas bowre;And from the dennes darke,Wher Cerberus doth barke,Whom Theseus dyd afraye,Whom Hercules dyd outraye,As famous poetes say;From that hell hounde,That lyeth in cheynes bounde,With gastly hedes thre,To Jupyter pray weThat Phyllyp preserued may be!Amen, say ye with me!Do mi nus,Helpe nowe, swete Jesus!Levavi oculos meos in montes:Wolde God I had Zenophontes,Or Socrates the wyse,To shew me their deuyse,Moderatly to takeThis sorow that I makeFor Phyllip Sparowes sake!So feruently I shake,I fele my body quake;So vrgently I am broughtInto carefull thought.Like Andromach, Hectors wyfe,Was wery of her lyfe,Whan she had lost her ioye,Noble Hector of Troye;In lyke maner alsoEncreaseth my dedly wo,For my sparowe is go.It was so prety a fole,It wold syt on a stole,And lerned after my scoleFor to kepe his cut,With, Phyllyp, kepe your cut!It had a veluet cap,And wold syt vpon my lap,And seke after small wormes,And somtyme white bred crommes;And many tymes and ofteBetwene my brestes softeIt wolde lye and rest;It was propre and prest.Somtyme he wolde gaspeWhan he sawe a waspe;A fly or a gnat,He wolde flye at that;And prytely he wold pantWhan he saw an ant;Lord, how he wolde pryAfter the butterfly!Lorde, how he wolde hopAfter the gressop!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!Si in i qui ta tes,Alas, I was euyll at ease!De pro fun dis cla ma vi,Whan I sawe my sparowe dye!Nowe, after my dome,Dame Sulpicia at Rome,Whose name regystred wasFor euer in tables of bras,Because that she dyd pasIn poesy to endyte,And eloquently to wryte,Though she wolde pretendeMy sparowe to commende,I trowe she coude not amendeReportynge the vertues allOf my sparowe royall.For it wold come and go,And fly so to and fro;And on me it wolde lepeWhan I was aslepe,And his fethers shake,Wherewith he wolde makeMe often for to wake,And for to take him inVpon my naked skyn;God wot, we thought no syn:What though he crept so lowe?It was no hurt, I trowe,He dyd nothynge perdeBut syt vpon my kne:Phyllyp, though he were nyse,In him it was no vyse;Phyllyp had leue to goTo pyke my lytell too;Phillip myght be boldeAnd do what he wolde;Phillip wolde seke and takeAll the flees blakeThat he coulde there espyeWith his wanton eye.O pe ra,La, soll, fa, fa,Confitebor tibi, Domine, in toto corde meo.Alas, I wold ryde and goA thousand myle of grounde!If any such might be found,It were worth an hundreth poundOf kynge Cresus golde,Or of Attalus the olde,The ryche prynce of Pargame,Who so lyst the story to se.Cadmus, that his syster sought,And he shold be boughtFor golde and fee,He shuld ouer the see,To wete if he coulde bryngeAny of the ofsprynge,Or any of the blode.But whoso vnderstodeOf Medeas arte,I wolde I had a parteOf her crafty magyke!My sparowe than shuld be quyckeWith a charme or twayne,And playe with me agayne.But all this is in vayneThus for to complayne.I toke my sampler ones,Of purpose, for the nones,To sowe with stytchis of sylkeMy sparow whyte as mylke,That by representacyonOf his image and facyon,To me it myght importeSome pleasure and comforteFor my solas and sporte:But whan I was sowing his beke,Methought, my sparow did speke,And opened his prety byll,Saynge, Mayd, ye are in wyllAgayne me for to kyll,Ye prycke me in the head!With that my nedle waxed red,Methought, of Phyllyps blode;Myne hear ryght vpstode,And was in suche a fray,My speche was taken away.I kest downe that there was,And sayd, Alas, alas,How commeth this to pas?My fyngers, dead and colde,Coude not my sampler holde;My nedle and thredeI threwe away for drede.The best now that I maye,Is for his soule to pray:A porta inferi,Good Lorde, haue mercyVpon my sparowes soule,Wryten in my bederoule!Au di vi vo cem,Japhet, Cam, and Sem,Ma gni fi cat,Shewe me the ryght pathTo the hylles of Armony,Wherfore the birdes yet cryOf your fathers bote,That was sometyme aflote,And nowe they lye and rote;Let some poetes wryteDeucalyons flode it hyght:But as verely as ye beThe naturall sonnes threOf Noe the patryarke,That made that great arke,Wherin he had apes and owles,Beestes, byrdes, and foules,That if ye can fyndeAny of my sparowes kynde,God sende the soule good rest!I wolde haue yet a nestAs prety and as prestAs my sparowe was.But my sparowe dyd pasAll sparowes of the wodeThat were syns Noes flode,Was neuer none so good;Kynge Phylyp of MacedonyHad no such Phylyp as I,No, no, syr, hardely.That vengeaunce I aske and crye,By way of exclamacyon,On all the hole nacyonOf cattes wylde and tame;God send them sorowe and shame!That cat specyallyThat slew so cruellyMy lytell prety sparoweThat I brought vp at Carowe.O cat of carlyshe kynde,The fynde was in thy myndeWhan thou my byrde vntwynde!I wold thou haddest ben blynde!The leopardes sauage,The lyons in theyr rage,Myght catche thé in theyr pawes,And gnawe thé in theyr iawes!The serpentes of LybanyMyght stynge thé venymously!The dragones with their tongesMight poyson thy lyuer and longes!The mantycors of the montaynesMyght fede them on thy braynes!Melanchates, that houndeThat plucked Acteon to the grounde,Gaue hym his mortall wounde,Chaunged to a dere,The story doth appere,Was chaunged to an harte:So thou, foule cat that thou arte,The selfe same houndeMyght thé confounde,That his owne lord bote,Myght byte asondre thy throte!Of Inde the gredy grypesMyght tere out all thy trypes!Of Arcady the bearesMight plucke awaye thyne eares!The wylde wolfe LycaonByte asondre thy backe bone!Of Ethna the brennynge hyll,That day and night brenneth styl,Set in thy tayle a blase,That all the world may gaseAnd wonder vpon thé,From Occyan the greate seVnto the Iles of Orchady,From Tyllbery feryTo the playne of Salysbery!So trayterously my byrde to kyllThat neuer ought thé euyll wyll!Was neuer byrde in cageMore gentle of corageIn doynge his homageVnto his souerayne.Alas, I say agayne,Deth hath departed vs twayne!The false cat hath thé slayne:Farewell, Phyllyp, adew!Our Lorde thy soule reskew!Farewell without restore,Farewell for euermore!And it were a Jewe,It wolde make one rew,To se my sorow new.These vylanous false cattesWere made for myse and rattes,And not for byrdes smale.Alas, my face waxeth pale,Tellynge this pyteyus tale,How my byrde so fayre,That was wont to repayre,And go in at my spayre,And crepe in at my goreOf my gowne before,Flyckerynge with his wynges!Alas, my hert it stynges,Remembrynge prety thynges!Alas, myne hert it slethMy Phyllyppes dolefull deth,Whan I remembre it,How pretely it wolde syt,Many tymes and ofte,Vpon my fynger aloft!I played with him tyttell tattyll,And fed him with my spattyl,With his byll betwene my lippes;It was my prety Phyppes!Many a prety kusseHad I of his swete musse;And now the cause is thus,That he is slayne me fro,To my great payne and wo.Of fortune this the chaunceStandeth on varyaunce:Oft tyme after pleasaunceTrouble and greuaunce;No man can be sureAllway to haue pleasure:As well perceyue ye mayeHow my dysport and playFrom me was taken awayBy Gyb, our cat sauage,That in a furyous rageCaught Phyllyp by the head,And slew him there starke dead.Kyrie, eleison,Christe, eleison,Kyrie, eleison!For Phylyp Sparowes soule,Set in our bederolle,Let vs now whysperA Pater noster.Lauda, anima mea, Dominum!To wepe with me loke that ye come,All maner of byrdes in your kynd;Se none be left behynde.To mornynge loke that ye fallWith dolorous songes funerall,Some to synge, and some to say,Some to wepe, and some to pray,Euery byrde in his laye.The goldfynche, the wagtayle;The ianglynge iay to rayle,The fleckyd pye to chatterOf this dolorous mater;And robyn redbrest,He shall be the preestThe requiem masse to synge,Softly warbelynge,With helpe of the red sparow,And the chattrynge swallow,This herse for to halow;The larke with his longe to;The spynke, and the martynet also;The shouelar with his brode bek;The doterell, that folyshe pek,And also the mad coote,With a balde face to toote;The feldefare, and the snyte;The crowe, and the kyte;The rauyn, called Rolfe,His playne songe to solfe;The partryche, the quayle;The plouer with vs to wayle;The woodhacke, that syngeth churHorsly, as he had the mur;The lusty chauntyng nyghtyngale;The popyngay to tell her tale,That toteth oft in a glasse,Shal rede the Gospell at masse;The mauys with her whystellShal rede there the pystell.But with a large and a longeTo kepe iust playne songe,Our chaunters shalbe the cuckoue,The culuer, the stockedowue,With puwyt the lapwyng,The versycles shall syng.The bitter with his bumpe,The crane with his trumpe,The swan of Menander,The gose and the gander,The ducke and the drake,Shall watche at this wake;The pecocke so prowde,Bycause his voyce is lowde,And hath a glorious tayle,He shall syng the grayle;The owle, that is so foule,Must helpe vs to houle;The heron so gaunce,And the cormoraunce,With the fesaunte,And the gaglynge gaunte,And the churlysshe chowgh;The route and the kowgh;The barnacle, the bussarde,With the wilde mallarde;The dyuendop to slepe;The water hen to wepe;The puffin and the teleMoney they shall deleTo poore folke at large,That shall be theyr charge;The semewe and the tytmose;The wodcocke with the longe nose;The threstyl with her warblyng;The starlyng with her brablyng;The roke, with the osprayeThat putteth fysshes to a fraye;And the denty curlewe,With the turtyll most trew.At this PlaceboWe may not well forgoThe countrynge of the coe:The storke also,That maketh his nestIn chymneyes to rest;Within those wallesNo broken gallesMay there abydeOf cokoldry syde,Or els phylosophyMaketh a great lye.The estryge, that wyll eateAn horshowe so great,In the stede of meate,Such feruent heatHis stomake doth freat;He can not well fly,Nor synge tunably,Yet at a braydeHe hath well assaydeTo solfe aboue ela,Ga, lorell, fa, fa;Ne quandoMale cantando,The best that we can,To make hym our belman,And let hym ryng the bellys;He can do nothyng ellys.Chaunteclere, our coke,Must tell what is of the clockeBy the astrologyThat he hath naturallyConceyued and cought,And was neuer toughtBy AlbumazerThe astronomer,Nor by PtholomyPrince of astronomy,Nor yet by Haly;And yet he croweth daylyAnd nightly the tydesThat no man abydes,With Partlot his hen,Whom now and thenHee plucketh by the hedeWhan he doth her trede.The byrde of Araby,That potencyallyMay neuer dye,And yet there is noneBut one alone;A phenex it isThis herse that must blysWith armatycke gummesThat cost great summes,The way of thurifycationTo make a fumigation,Swete of reflary,And redolent of eyre,This corse for to senceWith greate reuerence,As patryarke or popeIn a blacke cope;Whyles he senseth [the herse],He shall synge the verse,Libera me,In de, la, soll, re,Softly bemoleFor my sparowes soule.Plinni sheweth allIn his story naturallWhat he doth fyndeOf the phenyx kynde;Of whose incyneracyonThere ryseth a new creacyonOf the same facyonWithout alteracyon,Sauyng that olde ageIs turned into corageOf fresshe youth agayne;This matter trew and playne,Playne matter indede,Who so lyst to rede.But for the egle doth flyeHyest in the skye,He shall be the sedeane,The quere to demeane,As prouost pryncypall,To teach them theyr ordynall;Also the noble fawcon,With the gerfawcon,The tarsell gentyll,They shall morne soft and styllIn theyr amysse of gray;The sacre with them shall sayDirige for Phyllyppes soule;The goshauke shall haue a roleThe queresters to controll;The lanners and the marlyonsShall stand in their morning gounes;The hobby and the musketteThe sensers and the crosse shall fet;The kestrell in all this warkeShall be holy water clarke.And now the darke cloudy nyghtChaseth away Phebus bryght,Taking his course toward the west,God sende my sparoes sole good rest!Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine!Fa, fa, fa, my, re, re,A por ta in fe ri,Fa, fa, fa, my, my.Credo videre bona Domini,I pray God, Phillip to heuen may fly!Domine, exaudi orationem meam!To heuen he shall, from heuen he cam!Do mi nus vo bis cum!Of al good praiers God send him sum!Oremus.Deus, cui proprium est misereri et parcere,On Phillips soule haue pyte!For he was a prety cocke,And came of a gentyll stocke,And wrapt in a maidenes smocke,And cherysshed full dayntely,Tyll cruell fate made him to dy:Alas, for dolefull desteny!But whereto shuld ILenger morne or crye?To Jupyter I call,Of heuen emperyall,That Phyllyp may flyAboue the starry sky,To treade the prety wren,That is our Ladyes hen:Amen, amen, amen!Yet one thynge is behynde,That now commeth to mynde;An epytaphe I wold haueFor Phyllyppes graue:But for I am a mayde,Tymerous, halfe afrayde,That neuer yet asaydeOf Elyconys well,Where the Muses dwell;Though I can rede and spell,Recounte, reporte, and tellOf the Tales of Caunterbury,Some sad storyes, some mery;As Palamon and Arcet,Duke Theseus, and Partelet;And of the Wyfe of Bath,That worketh moch scathWhan her tale is toldeAmonge huswyues bolde,How she controldeHer husbandes as she wolde,And them to despyseIn the homylyest wyse,Brynge other wyues in thoughtTheir husbandes to set at nought:And though that rede haue IOf Gawen and syr Guy,And tell can a great peceOf the Golden Flece,How Jason it wan,Lyke a valyaunt man;Of Arturs rounde table,With his knightes commendable,And dame Gaynour, his quene,Was somwhat wanton, I wene;How syr Launcelote de LakeMany a spere brakeFor his ladyes sake;Of Trystram, and kynge Marke,And al the hole warkeOf Bele Isold his wyfe,For whom was moch stryfe;Some say she was lyght,And made her husband knyghtOf the comyne hall,That cuckoldes men call;And of syr Lybius,Named Dysconius;Of Quater Fylz Amund,And how they were sommondeTo Rome, to Charlemayne,Vpon a great payne,And how they rode eche oneOn Bayarde Mountalbon;Men se hym now and thenIn the forest of Arden:What though I can frameThe storyes by nameOf Judas Machabeus,And of Cesar Julious;And of the loue betweneParis and Vyene;And of the duke Hannyball,That made the Romaynes allFordrede and to quake;How Scipion dyd wakeThe cytye of Cartage,Which by his vnmerciful rageHe bete downe to the grounde:And though I can expoundeOf Hector of Troye,That was all theyr ioye,Whom Achylles slew,Wherfore all Troy dyd rew;And of the loue so hoteThat made Troylus to doteVpon fayre Cressyde,And what they wrote and sayd,And of theyr wanton wyllesPandaer bare the byllesFrom one to the other;His maisters loue to further,Somtyme a presyous thyng,An ouche, or els a ryng;From her to hym agaynSomtyme a prety chayn,Or a bracelet of her here,Prayd Troylus for to wereThat token for her sake;How hartely he dyd it take,And moche therof dyd make;And all that was in vayne,For she dyd but fayne;The story telleth playne,He coulde not optayne,Though his father were a kyng,Yet there was a thyngThat made the male to wryng;She made hym to syngThe song of louers lay;Musyng nyght and day,Mournyng all alone,Comfort had he none,For she was quyte gone;Thus in conclusyon,She brought him in abusyon;In ernest and in gameShe was moch to blame;Disparaged is her fame,And blemysshed is her name,In maner half with shame;Troylus also hath lostOn her moch loue and cost,And now must kys the post;Pandara, that went betwene,Hath won nothing, I wene,But lyght for somer grene;Yet for a speciall laudHe is named Troylus baud,Of that name he is sureWhyles the world shall dure:Though I remembre the fableOf Penelope most stable,To her husband most trew,Yet long tyme she ne knewWhether he were on lyue or ded;Her wyt stood her in sted,That she was true and iustFor any bodely lustTo Ulixes her make,And neuer wold him forsake:Of Marcus MarcellusA proces I could tell vs;And of Anteocus;And of JosephusDe Antiquitatibus;And of Mardocheus,And of great Assuerus,And of Vesca his queene,Whom he forsoke with teene,And of Hester his other wyfe,With whom he ledd a plesaunt life;Of kyng Alexander;And of kyng Euander;And of Porcena the great,That made the Romayns to sweat:Though I haue enroldA thousand new and oldOf these historious tales,To fyll bougets and malesWith bokes that I haue red,Yet I am nothyng sped,And can but lytell skyllOf Ouyd or Virgyll,Or of Plutharke,Or Frauncys Petrarke,Alcheus or Sapho,Or such other poetes mo,As Linus and Homerus,Euphorion and Theocritus,Anacreon and Arion,Sophocles and Philemon,Pyndarus and Symonides,Philistion and Phorocides;These poetes of auncyente,They ar to diffuse for me:For, as I tofore haue sayd,I am but a yong mayd,And cannot in effectMy style as yet directWith Englysh wordes elect:Our naturall tong is rude,And hard to be enneudeWith pullysshed termes lusty;Our language is so rusty,So cankered, and so fullOf frowardes, and so dull,That if I wolde applyTo wryte ornatly,I wot not where to fyndTermes to serue my mynde.Gowers Englysh is olde,And of no value told;His mater is worth gold,And worthy to be enrold.In Chauser I am sped,His tales I haue red:His mater is delectable,Solacious, and commendable;His Englysh well alowed,So as it is enprowed,For as it is enployd,There is no Englysh voyd,At those dayes moch commended,And now men wold haue amendedHis Englysh, whereat they barke,And mar all they warke:Chaucer, that famus clerke,His termes were not darke,But plesaunt, easy, and playne;No worde he wrote in vayne.Also Johnn LydgateWryteth after an hyer rate;It is dyffuse to fyndeThe sentence of his mynde,Yet wryteth he in his kynd,No man that can amendThose maters that he hath pende;Yet some men fynde a faute,And say he wryteth to haute.Wherfore hold me excusedIf I haue not well perusedMyne Englyssh halfe abused;Though it be refused,In worth I shall it take,And fewer wordes make.But, for my sparowes sake,Yet as a woman may,My wyt I shall assayAn epytaphe to wryghtIn Latyne playne and lyght,Wherof the elegyFoloweth by and by:Flos volucrum formose, vale!Philippe, sub istoMarmore jam recubas,Qui mihi carus eras.Semper erunt nitidoRadiantia sidera cœlo;Impressusque meoPectore semper eris.Per me laurigerumBritonum Skeltonida vatemHæc cecinisse licetFicta sub imagine texta.Cujus eras volucris,Præstanti corpore virgo:Candida Nais erat,Formosior ista Joanna est;Docta Corinna fuit,Sed magis ista sapit.Bien men souient.