Poeta Skelton Laureatus Libellum Suum Metrice Alloquitur

Ad dominum properato meum, mea pagina, Percy,Qui Northumbrorum jura paterna gerit;Ad nutum celebris tu prona repone leonisQuæque suo patri tristia justa cano.Ast ubi perlegit, dubiam sub mente volutetFortunam, cuncta quæ malefida rotat.Qui leo sit felix, et Nestoris occupet annos;Ad libitum, cujus ipse paratus ero.

I wayle, I wepe, I sobbe, I sigh ful soreThe dedely fate, the dolefulle destenyOf hym that is gone, alas, without restore,Of the bloud royall descending nobelly;Whose lordshyp doutles was slayne lamentablyThorow treson, again him compassed and wrought,Trew to his prince in word, in dede, and thought.

Of heuenly poems, O Clyo, calde by nameIn the colege of Musis goddes hystoriall,Adres thé to me, whiche am both halt and lameIn elect vteraunce to make memoryall!To thé for souccour, to thé for helpe I call,Mine homely rudnes and dryghnes to expellWith the freshe waters of Elyconys well.

Of noble actes aunciently enroldeOf famous pryncis and lordes of astate,By thy report ar wont to be extold,Regestringe trewly euery formare date;Of thy bountie after the vsuall rateKyndell in me suche plenty of thy nobles,These sorowfulle dites that I may shew expres.

In sesons past, who hath herde or seneOf formar writyng by any presidenteThat vilane hastarddis in their furious tene,Fulfylled with malice of froward entente,Confetered togeder of commonn concenteFalsly to slee theyr moste singuler good lord?It may be regestrede of shamefull recorde.

So noble a man, so valiaunt lord and knyght,Fulfilled with honor, as all the world doth ken;At his commaundement which had both day and nyghtKnyghtes and squyers, at euery season whenHe calde vpon them, as meniall houshold men:Were not these commons vncurteis karlis of kindTo slo their owne lord? God was not in their mynd.

And were not they to blame, I say, also,That were aboute him, his owne seruants of trust,To suffre him slayn of his mortall fo?Fled away from hym, let hym ly in the dust;They bode not till the reckenyng were discust:What shuld I flatter? what shuld I glose or paint?Fy, fy for shame, their hartes were to faint.

In England and Fraunce which gretly was redouted,Of whom both Flaunders and Scotland stode in drede,To whom great estates obeyed and lowted,A mayny of rude villayns made hym for to blede;Unkyndly they slew him, that holp them oft at nede:He was their bulwark, their paues, and their wall,Yet shamfully they slew hym; that shame mot them befal!

I say, ye comoners, why wer ye so stark mad?What frantyk frensy fyll in your brayne?Where was your wit and reson ye should haue had?What wilful foly made yow to ryse agayneYour naturall lord? alas, I can not fayne:Ye armyd you with will, and left your wit behynd;Well may you be called comones most vnkynd.

He was your chefteyne, your shelde, your chef defence,Redy to assyst you in euery time of nede;Your worshyp depended of his excellence:Alas, ye mad men, to far ye did excede;Your hap was vnhappy, to ill was your spede:What moued you againe him to war or to fyght?What alyde you to sle your lord again all ryght?

The ground of his quarel was for his souerain lord,The well concerning of all the hole lande,Demandyng suche duties as nedes most acordTo the ryght of his prince, which shold not be withstand;For whose cause ye slew him with your owne hand:But had his noble men done wel that day,Ye had not bene able to haue sayd hym nay.

But ther was fals packing, or els I am begylde;How be it the mater was euydent and playne,For if they had occupied their spere and their shilde,This noble man doutles had not bene slayne.But men say they wer lynked with a double chaine,And held with the comones vnder a cloke,Which kindeled the wild fyr that made al this smoke.

The commons renyed ther taxes to pay,Of them demaunded and asked by the kynge;With one voice importune they plainly sayd nay;They buskt them on a bushment themselfe in baile to bring,Againe the kyngs plesure to wrestle or to wring;Bluntly as bestis with boste and with cryeThey sayd they forsed not, nor carede not to dy.

The nobelnes of the north, this valiant lord and knight,As man that was innocent of trechery or traine,Presed forth boldly to withstand the myght,And, lyke marciall Hector, he faught them agayne,Vygorously vpon them with might and with maine,Trustyng in noble men that were with him there;But al they fled from hym for falshode or fere.

Barones, knyghtes, squiers, one and all,Together with seruauntes of his famuly,Turned their backis, and let their master fal,Of whos [life] they counted not a flye;Take vp whose wold, for ther they let him ly.Alas, his gold, his fee, his annual rentUpon suche a sort was ille bestowd and spent!

He was enuirond aboute on euery sydeWith his enemyes, that wer starke mad and wode;Yet while he stode he gaue them woundes wyde:Allas for ruth! what thoughe his mynd wer gode,His corage manly, yet ther he shed his blode:Al left alone, alas, he foughte in vayne!For cruelly among them ther he was slayne.

Alas for pite! that Percy thus was spylt,The famous Erle of Northumberland;Of knyghtly prowes the sword, pomel, and hylt,The myghty lyon doutted by se and lande;O dolorus chaunce of Fortunes froward hande!What man, remembryng howe shamfully he was slaine,From bitter weping himself can restrain?

O cruell Mars, thou dedly god of war!O dolorous tewisday, dedicate to thy name,When thou shoke thy sworde so noble a man to mar!O ground vngracious, vnhappy be thy fame,Which wert endyed with rede bloud of the sameMost noble erle! O foule mysuryd ground,Whereon he gat his finall dedely wounde!

O Atropos, of the fatall systers iiiGoddes most cruel vnto the lyfe of man,All merciles, in thé is no pite!O homicide, which sleest all that thou can,So forcibly vpon this erle thou ran,That with thy sword, enharpit of mortall drede,Thou kit asonder his perfight vitall threde!

My wordes vnpullysht be, nakide and playne,Of aureat poems they want ellumynynge;But by them to knowlege ye may attayneOf this lordes dethe and of his murdrynge;Which whils he lyued had fuyson of euery thing,Of knights, of squyers, chyf lord of toure and towne,Tyl fykkell Fortune began on hym to frowne:

Paregall to dukes, with kynges he might compare,Surmountinge in honor al erlis he did excede;To all countreis aboute hym reporte me I dare;Lyke to Eneas benigne in worde and dede,Valiant as Hector in euery marciall nede,Prouydent, discrete, circumspect, and wyse,Tyll the chaunce ran agayne hym of Fortunes duble dyse.

What nedeth me for to extoll his fameWith my rude pen enkankered all with rust,Whose noble actes show worshiply his name,Transendyng far myne homly Muse, that musteYet somwhat wright supprised with herty lust,Truly reportyng his right noble estate,Immortally whiche is immaculate?

His noble blode neuer destayned was,Trew to his prince for to defend his ryght,Doblenes hatyng fals maters to compas,Treytory and treason he banysht out of syght,With truth to medle was al his holl delyght,As all his countrey can testyfy the same:To sle suche a lorde, alas, it was great shame!

If the hole quere of the Musis nyneIn me all onely wer set and comprysed,Enbrethed with the blast of influence deuyne,As perfytly as could be thought or deuised;To me also allthough it were promisedOf laureat Phebus holy the eloquence,All were to lytell for his magnificence.

O yonge lyon, but tender yet of age,Grow and encrese, remembre thyn estate;God thé assyst unto thyn herytage,And geue thé grace to be more fortunate!Agayn rebellyones arme thé to make debate;And, as the lyone, whiche is of bestes kynge,Unto thy subiectes be curteis and benygne.

I pray God sende thé prosperous lyfe and long,Stable thy mynde constant to be and fast,Ryght to mayntayn, and to resyst all wronge:All flateryng faytors abhor and from thé cast;Of foule detraction God kepe thé from the blast!Let double delyng in thé haue no place,And be not lyght of credence in no case.

With heuy chere, with dolorous hart and mynd,Eche man may sorow in his inward thoughtThis lordes death, whose pere is hard to fynd,Algife Englond and Fraunce were thorow saught.Al kynges, all princes, al dukes, well they ought,Both temporall and spiritual, for to complayneThis noble man, that crewelly was slayne:

More specially barons, and those knygtes bold,And al other gentilmen with him enterteynedIn fee, as menyall men of his housold,Whom he as lord worshyply mainteyned;To sorowful weping they ought to be constreined,As oft as they call to theyr remembraunceOf ther good lord the fate and dedely chaunce.

O perlese Prince of heuen emperyall!That with one word formed al thing of noughte;Heuen, hell, and erthe obey unto thy call;Which to thy resemblaunce wondersly hast wroughtAll mankynd, whom thou full dere hast bought,With thy bloud precious our finaunce thou did pay,And vs redemed from the fendys pray;

To thé pray we, as Prince incomparable,As thou art of mercy and pyte the well,Thou bring unto thy joye eterminableThe soull of this lorde from all daunger of hell,In endles blys with thé to byde and dwellIn thy palace aboue the orient,Where thou art Lord and God omnipotent.

O quene of mercy, O lady full of grace,Mayden most pure, and Goddes moder dere,To sorowful hartes chef comfort and solace,Of all women O flowre withouten pere!Pray to thy Son aboue the sterris clere,He to vouchesaf, by thy mediacion,To pardon thy seruaunt, and brynge to saluacion.

In joy triumphaunt the heuenly yerarchy,With all the hole sorte of that glorious place,His soull mot receyue into theyr company,Thorow bounty of Hym that formed all solace;Wel of pite, of mercy, and of grace,The Father, the Sonn, and the Holy Ghost,In Trinitate one God of myghtes moste!

Non sapit, humanis qui certam ponere rebusSpem cupit: est hominum raraque ficta fides.

Accipe nunc demum, doctor celeberrime Rukshaw,Carmina, de calamo quæ cecidere meo;Et quanquam placidis non sunt modulata camenis,Sunt tamen ex nostro pectore prompta pio.

Tetrastichon, &c.] Follows the elegy on the Earl of