PRIMUS PASSUB.

And this comely dame
I vnderstande her name
Is Elynoure Rumminge
At home in her wonnyng
And as men say
She dwelt in Sothray
In a certaine stede
By syde Lederhede
She is a tonnishe gyb

The deuell and she be sib.
But to make vp my tale
She brueth noppy ale

And maketh therof poorte sale
To trauellers, to tinkers
To sweters, to swinkers
And all good ale drynkers
That wyll nothinge spare
But dryncke tyll they stare
And bringe them selfe bare
With now away the mare
And let vs sley care
As wise as an hare
Come who so wil

To Elinour on the hil
With fil the cup fill

And sit there by still
Earelye and late

Thither commeth Kate

Cislye and Sare

With theyr legges bare

And also theyr fete
Hardely full vnswete
With their heles dagged

Theyr kyrtelles all to iagged
Theyr smockes all to ragged
With titters and tatters
Brynge dyshes and platters
With all theyr mighte runnyng
To Elynoure Rummynge
To haue of her tunninge
She leaneth them of the same
And thus beginneth the game

Some wenches come vnbrased
Wyth theyr naked pappes
That flippes and flappes
It wygges and it wagges
Lyke tawny saffron bagges
A sorte of foul drabbes
All scuruy with scabbes
Some be flye bytten
Some skewed as a kytten
Some with a sho cloute
Bynde their heades aboute
Some have no herelace

Theyr lockes about their face
Theyr tresses untruste
All full of vnluste

Some looke strawrye
Some cawrye mawrye
Full untidye tegges
Lyke rotten egges
Such a lewde sorte
To Elynoure resorte

From tyde to tyde
Abyde abyde

And to you shall be toulde
Howe her ale is soulde
To mawte and to molde.

HERE AFTER FOLOW ETTH

A LITLE BOKE OF PHILIP SPAROW,

COMPILED BY MASTER SKELTON, POET LAUREATE.

PLA Ce bo

Who is there who

Di le xi,

Dame Margery

Fa re my my

Wherfore and why why

For the soule of Philip Sparow
That was late slaine at Carow
Amonge the nunnes blake

For that sweet soules sake

And for al Sparowes soules
Set in our bead roules

Pater noster qui

With an Aue maria

And with the corner of a creed
The more shal be your meed.

WHAN I remembre agayne
How my Philip was slaine
Neuer halfe the paine

Was betwene you twayne

Pyramus and Thesbe
As than befell to me
I wept and I wayled
The teares down hayled
But nothing it auailed
To call Philip agayne

Whom Gib our cat hath slayne.
Gib I say our cat
Worrowed her on that
Which I loued beste
It cannot be exprest
My sorowful heavynes
But al without redres
For within that stound
Half slumbryng in a sounde
I fell downe to the ground
Unneth I kest mine eyes
Toward the cloudy skyes
But when I did behold
My Sparow dead and cold
No creature but that wold
Haue rewed vpon me
To behold and see

What heauines did me pange
Wherwith my handes I wrange
That my senowes cracked
As though I had ben racked
So payned and so strained
That no life welnye remained
I sighed and I sobbed
For that I was robbed
Of my Sparowes life
Ó mayden, widow and wife

Of what estate ye be
Of hye or low degre

Great sorow then ye might se
And learne to wepe at me
Such paynes did me freat
That mine harte did beat
My visage pale and dead
Wanne, and blue as lead
The panges of hateful death

Wel nye stopped my breathe.

Heu heu me

That I am woe for thee

Ad dominum cum tribularer clamavi

Of God nothing els craue I

BUT Philips soule to kepe
From the marees deepe
Of Acherontes wel
This is a floud of hel
And from the greate Pluto
The prince of endles woe
And from foule Alecto
With visage blacke and blo
And from Medusa that mare
That lyke a feende doth stare
And from Megeras eddes
From rufflinge of Philips fethers
And from her firy sparklinges
From burning of his winges
And from the smokes soure
Of Proserpinas boure

And from the dennes darke
Wher Cerberus doth barke