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Now after my dome, Dame Sulpicia at Rome, Whose name registred was For euer in tables of bras, Because shee did pas In poesy to endyte, And eloquently to write, Though she wold pretend My Sparow to commend, I trow she could not amende, Reporting the vertues al Of my Sparow royal.

For it would come and go,
And fle so to and fro,
And on me it wold leape
Whan I was asleape,
And his fethers shake,
Wher wyth hee wold make
Me often for to wake,
And for to take him in
Upon my naked skin

God wot we thought no syn;
What though he crept so low
It was no hurt I trow,
He did nothinge perdee
But syt vpon my knee;
Philip, though hee were nise,
In hym it was no vise,
Phillip had leaue to go
To pike my little too,
Phillip myght be bold,
And do what he wold;
Philip would seke and take
All the flees blake

That he could there espye

With his wanton eye,

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A THOUSAND mile of grounde If any such might be founde, It were worth an hundreth pounde Of kyng Cresus golde, Or of Artalus the old, The ryche prynce of Pargame, Who so list the story to see, Cadinus, that his sister sought, And he should be boughte; For gold and fee

He should ouer the see,

To wete, if he coulde bryng
Any of the sprynge,
Or any of the bloude,

But who so vnderstode

Of Medias arte,

I wold I had a parte

Of her crafty magike,

My Sparow than shoulde be quycke
Wyth a charme oy twaine,
And play with me agayne,
But al this is in vaine
Thus for to complaine.

I toke my sampler ones
Of purpose for the nones
To sow wyth stiches of silke
My Sparow white as mylke,
That by representacion
Of his image and facion,

To me it might importe
Some pleasure and comfort
For my solace and sporte;
But whan I was sowing his beke
Me thought my Sparow dyd speake
And open his prety bill,
Saying, maid ye are in wil
Again me for to kil,

Ye pricke me in the head,
With that my nedle ware red,
Me thought of Philyps bloude,
Mine here right vpstode,
And was in such a fraye
My speche was taken awaye,
I kest downe that there was,
And sayd, alas! alas
How commeth this to pas:
My fingers, dead and cold,
Could not my sampler hold;
My nedle and threde
I thrue awaye for drede:
The best now that I may
Is for his soule to pray.

A porta inferi,
Good Lord, haue mercie
Upon my Sparowes soule
Written in my bede roule.

Au di vi vo cem,
Japhet, Cam, and Sem,
Ma gni fi cat,

Shew me the right path

To the hilles of armonye
Wherfore the birdes yet cry,
Of your fathers bote
That was somtime a flote,
And now they lye and rote;
Let some poetes wryte
Deucalions floud it highte,
But as verely as ye be
The naturall sonnes three
Of Noe, the patriarke,
That made that great arke,
Wherin he had apes and owles,
Beastes, byrdes, and foules,
That if ye can fynde
Any of my Sparowes kynde,
God sende the soule good rest,
I woulde yet haue a nest
As prety and as prest
As my Sparow was;
But my Sparow dyd pas
All Sparowes of the wod
That were since Noes floud
Was neuer none so good;
King Philip of Macedony
Had no such Philip as I,
No, no, sir, hardely.

That vengeaunce I aske and cry
By way of exclamacion
On al the whole nacion

Of cattes wilde and tame,
God send them sorow and shame ;
That cat specially
That slew so cruelly
My litle prety Sparow
That I brought vp at Carow.

O cat of churlyshe kynde,
The feend was in thy minde,
Whan thou my byrd vntwynde
I wolde thou haddest ben blynd.

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So thou, foule cat that thou arte, The selfe same hounde

Might the confound,

That his own lord bote,

Mighte bite asunder thy throte.
Öf Inde, the gredy gripes
Might teare out all thy tripes;
Of Arcady, the beares
Might plucke awaye thine eares;
The wilde wolfe, Licaon,
Bite asondre thy backe bone.
Of Ethna, the brenning hyl,
That day and night brenneth styll,
Set in thy tayle a blase,
That al the world may gase
And wonder vpon thee,
From Occion, the greate sea,
Unto the Iles of Orchadye;
From Tilbery fery

To the playne of Salisberye;
So traiterously my bird to kyll,
That neuer ought the euill will;
Was never bird in cage
More gentil of corage
In doing his homage
Unto his soueraine.
Alas, I say agayne,

Death hath departed vs twayne,-
The false cat hath the slaine;
Fare well Phillip, adewe,
Our Lorde thy soule rescewe;
Farewell without restore,
Farewell for euermore!
And it were a Jew

It wold make one rew

To se my sorow new ;
These vilanus false cattes

Were made for mise and rattes,
And not for byrdes small;
Alas my face waxeth pale,
Telling this pyteous tale,
How my byrd so fayre,
That was wont to repayre,
And go in at myspayre,
And crepe in at my gor
Of my goune before,
Flickering with his winges,
Alas my hert it stynges,
Remembring prety thynges;
Alas myne hart it sleeth
My Philips doleful death
Whan I remembre it;
How pretely it would sit,

Many tymes and oft
Upon my finger aloft;

I played with him, tittel tattel,
And fed him with my spattell;
With his bil betwene my lips,
It was my prety Phips;
Many a prety kusse

Had 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 chaunce

Standeth at varyaunce,
Oft time after pleasaunce
Trouble and greuaunce;
No man can be sure
Alway to have pleasure,
As wel perceiue ye may
How my disport and playe
From me was taken awaye
By Gyb, our cat sauage,
That in furious rage
Caught Philip by the head,

And slue him there starke dead.

Kyrie eleyeson,

Christe eleyeson.

Kyrie eleyeson.

FOR Philip Sparowes soule,

Set in our bead roule.
Let us now whisper
A pater noster.

Lauda anima mea dominum.
To weep with me, loke that ye

come

All maner of byrds in your kynd,
See none be left behynd;
To morning loke that ye fawl
With dolorous songes funerall:
Some to sing, and some to say,
Some to weep, and some to praye,
Euery bird in his lay.

The goldfinch, the wagtaile,
The iangling jaye to rayle;
The flecked pye to chatter
Of this dolorous matter;
And robyn red breste
He shalbe the preest
The requiem masse to syng
Lofty warbeling;

With helpe of the red sparow,
And the chattering swallow
This hearse for to halow:
The larke with his long toc,
The spinke, and the martinet also;
The shouelar with his brode beck,
The doterell, that folish pecke;
And also the mad coote,
With a balde face to toote;
The felde fare and the snyte,
The crowe and the kyte:
The rauen called rolfe,
His playne songe to solfe;
The partryche, the quayle,
The plouer, wyth vs to wayle;
The wodhacke, that singeth churre
Horsly as hee had the murre;
The lusty chaunting nightingale,
The popingaye, to tel her tale,
That toteth oft in a glasse,
Shal rede the gospel at masse ;

The mauis, with her whistell,
She rede there the pistell.

But with a large and a longe
To kepe iust playne songe,
Our chaunters shalbe your cuck-

oue,

The culuer, the stockedoue,
With puwyt, the lapwing,
The versycles shal synge;
The bitter with his bumpe,
The crane with his trumpe,
The swan of Menander,
The goose and the gander;
The ducke and the drake,
Shal watche at thys wake;
The pecocke so proude,
Because hys voyce is loud,
And hath a gloryous tale,
He shal synge the grayle;
The owle that so foule,
Must helpe vs to houle;
The heron so gaunte,
And the cormoraunte,
Wyth the fesuant,
And the gaglyng gaunte,
And the churlish chouge,
The rout and the kough,
The barnacle, the bussard,
With the wilde mallard;
The diuendop to sleep,
The water hen to weep;
The puffin and the tele,
Honey they shall dele
To pore folke at large,
That shalbe theyr charge;
The semew and the titmose,
The wodcocke with the long nose,
The threstill with her warblinge,
The starling with her brablinge;
The rooke, with the ospray
That putteth fishes to afray;
And the deinty curlew,
With the turtil most true.

At this Placebo.
We may not well forgo,
The countring of the co,
The storke also,
That maketh his nest
In chimneyes to rest;
Within those walles
No broken galles
May there abide
Of cokoldry syde;
Or els philosophy
Maketh a great lye.

The estridge, that wil eate
An horshowe so greate
In the stede of meat,
Such feruent heat
His stomake doth freat;
He cannot wel fly,
Nor synge tunably;
Yet at abrayde
He hath well assayd
To sol fa aboue Ela,
Fa lorell fa fa;
Ne quando,
Male cantando,

The best that we can
To make him our belman,

An let him ring the bels,
He can do nothing els;
Chaunteclere, our cocke,
Must tell what is of the clocke
By the astrologye
That he hath naturally
Conceyued and caught,
And was never taught
By Albumazer,
The astronomer,
Nor by Ptholomy,
Prince of astronomy;
Nor yet by Haly,
And yet he croweth dayly
And nightly the tydes
That no man abides,
With partlot his hen,
Whome now and then
Hee plucketh by the hed
Whan he doth her tred.
The bird of Arabye,
That potenciallye
May neuer dye,
And yet there is none
But one alone;
A phenix it is

This herse that must blis
With armaticke gummes
That cost great summes;
The way of thurification
To make fumigacion
Swete of reflarye,
And redolent of ayre,
This corse for sence,
With great reuerence
As partriarke or pope,
In a blacke cope,
Whiles he senseth
He shal syng the verse
Libera me,
In de la sol re,
Softly bemole

For my Sparowes soule.
Plinni sheweth al
In his story natural
What he doth finde
Of the phenix kinde,
Of whose incineracion
There riseth a new creacion
Of the same facion
Wythout alteracion;
Sauing that old age

Is turned into corage
Of fresh youth agayne;
This matter true and playne,
Playne matter indeed,
Who so lyst to rede.

But for the egle doth fly
Hyest in the sky,
He shalbe thy sedeane -
The quere to demeane,
As prouost principall,

To teach them their ordinall;
Also the noble fawcon,
With the gerfawcon,
The tarsel gentil,
They shall

still;

morne

softe and

In theyr amisse of gray
The sacre with them shal say

Dirige for Philips soule;

The goshauke shal haue a roul
The queresters to controule;
The lanners and marlions
Shall stand in their mourning
gounes;

The hobby and the musket
The sensers and the crosse shall set;
The kestrel in al this warke
Sal be holy water clarke;
And now the darke cloudy night
Chaseth away Phebus bryght,
Taking his course toward the
weste,

God send my Sparows soule good
rest;
Requiem eternam dona eis domine,
Fa fa fa my re;
A por ta in fe ri,
Fa fa fa my my.

Credo videre bona domini,

I pray God Philip to heven may flie;

Domine exaudi oracionem meam, To heaven he shal, from heuen he came.

Do mi nus vo bis cum,

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And theim to dispise

In the homeliest wise,

Bring other wiues in thought
Their husbandes to set at naught.
And though that red haue I
Of Gawen and fyr Guy,
And tel can a great peece
Of the golden fleece,
How Jason it wan
Like a valiaunt man;
Of Arturs round table,
With his knightes commendable,
And dame Gaynour hys quene
Was somwhat wanton I wene;
How syr Launcelote de lake
Many a speare brake
For his ladyes sake;
Of Tristom and kyng Marke,
And al the whole warke
Of bele Isold his wife,
For whom was much strife;
Some say she was lyght,
And made her husband knyght
Of the common hall
That cuckoldes men call;
And of sir Libius,

Named Disconius;

Of al good praiers God send him Of quater fylz Amunde,

sum.

Oremus.

And how they were sommond
To Rome to Charlemayne,

Deus cui proprium est miserere & Upon a great payne;

parcere,

On Philips soule haue pity.

For he was a prety cocke, And came of a gentill stocke, And wrapt in a maidens smock, And cherished full daintely, Tyll cruel fate made him to dye, Alas for doleful desteny! But whereto shuld I Lenger morne or cry? To Jupiter I call, Of heauen emperial, That Philip may fly Aboue the sterry sky, To treade the prety wren, That is our ladies hen, Amen, amen, amen.

Yet one thing is behinde, That now commeth to mind, An epitaphe I wold haue For Phillips graue; But for I am a mayde, Timerous, halfe afrayde That neuer yet asayde Of Elycones well, Where the muses dwell, Though I can rede and spell, Recount, report, and tell Of the talles of Caunterbury, Some sad storyes, some merry; As Palomon and Arcet, Duke Theseus and partelet; And of the wife Bath, That worketh much scathe Whan her tale is told Among huswiues bold, How she controld

Her husbandes as she wold,

And how they rode each one On Bayard Mountalbon; Men se him now and then In the forest Arden. What though I can frame The storyes by name, Of Judas Machabeus, And of Cesar Julius; And of the loue betwene Paris and Viene; And of the duke of Hannyball, That made the Romaynes al For drede and to quake: How Scipion did wake The citie of Cartage, Which by his vnmerciful rage He beat down to the ground; And though I can expound Of Hector of Troy, That was all theyr ioye, Whome Achilles slue, Wherfore all Troy did rue; And of the loue so hote That made Troylus to dote Upon fayre Cresseyde, And what they wrote and sayd, And of their wanton wils Pandaer bare the byls From one to the other His maisters loue to further; Somtime a precious thynge, An ouche or els a ryng, From her to him agayn Somtime a prety chain, Or a bracelet of her heare Prayed Troylus for to weare That token for her sake; How hartely he did it take, And much therof did make;

And al that was in vayne,
For shee dyd but fayne;
The story telleth playne
He could not obtayne,
Though his father wer a king;
Yet there was a thynge
That made the male to wryng,
She made him to sing
The song of louers laye,
Musing night and daye,
Mourninge al alone,
Comfort had he none,
For she was quite gone;
Thus in conclusion

She broughte him in abusion:
In earnest and in game
She was much to blame,
Disparaged is her fame,
And blemished is her name
In maner half with shame.
Troylus also hath lost

On her muche loue and cost,
And now must kisse the post;
Pandar, that went betwene,
Hath won nothyng, I ween,
But light for somer greene,
Yet for a special laud
He is named Troyllous baud,
Of that name he is sure
Whiles the world shal dure.

Though I remembre the fable
Of Penelope most stable,
To her husband most trew,
Yet long time she ne knew
Whether he were on liue or ded,
Her wit stode her in sted,
That she was true and juste
For anye bodelye luste
To Ulixes her make,
And neuer wold him forsake.

Of Marcus Marcellus
A prosses I could tel vs;
And of Anteocus,
And of Josephus,
De antiquitatibus;
And of Mardocheus,
And of great Assuerus,
And of Vesca his queene,

Whom he forsoke with teene,
And of Hester his other wife,

With whom he led a pleasaunt

life;

Of kynge Alexander,
And of kyng Euander,
And of Porcena the greate,

That made the Romans to sweat.
Though I haue enrold

A thousand, newe and old,
Of these historyous tales
To fil bougets and males,
With bookes that I haue red,
Yet I am nothynge sped,
And can but lytle skyl
Of Ovid or Vergil.

Or of Plutharke,
Or of Fraunces Petrarke,
Alcheus or Sapho ;

Of suche other poetes moe,
As Linus and Homerus,
Euphorion and Theocritus,

Anacreon and Arion,
Sophocles and Philemon,
Pindarus and Dimonides,
Philiston and Phorocides;
These poetes of auncientie,
They are to diffuse for me.

For as I to fore haue sayd,
I am but a yonge mayd,
And cannot in effect
My stile as yet direct
With englysh wordes elect;
Our naturall tongue is rude,
And hard to be enneude
Wyth polyshed tearmes lustye;
Oure language is so rustye,
So cankered, and so ful
Of frowardes, and so dul,
That if I wold apply
To write ordinately,
I wot not where to finde
Termes to serue my minde;
Gowers englyshe is olde,
And of no value is tolde,
His matter 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 englyshe wel alowed,
So as it is enprowed,
For as it is employed
There is no englyshe voyd,
At those dayes muche commended,
And now men wolde haue amended
His Englishe, where at they barke,
And marre all they warke.
Chaucer, that famous clarke,
His tearmes were not darcke,
But pleasaunt, easy, and playne;
No worde he wrote in vayne.

Also John Lydgate,
Wrytteth after an hyer rate;
It is diffuse to fynde
The sentence of his mind,
Yet wryteth he in his kind;
No man that can amend
Those maters that he hath pend;
Yet some men finde a faut,
And say he wryteth to haut.

Wherfore hold me excused
If I haue not wel perused
Myne Englysh halfe abused;
Thoughe it be refused,
In worth I shall it take,
And fewer wordes make.

But for my Sparowes sake,
Yet as a woman maye,
My wit I shall assay
An epytaphe to wryghte
In Latyne playne and lyght;
Wherof the elegy
Foloweth by and by,
Flos volucrum formose vale,
Philippe sub isto

Marmore iam recubas,
Qui mihi carus eras ;
Semper erunt nitido
Radiantia sidera cœlo,
Impressusque meo

Pectore semper eris:
Per me laurigerum
Britanum Skeltonida vatem,
Hæc cecinisse licet
Ficta sub imagine texta
Cuius eris volucris
Prestanti corpore Virgo
Candida Nais erat:
Formosior ista Joanna est;
Docta Corinna fuit,
Sed magnis ista sapit
Bien men souient.

THE COMMENDACIONS.
BEATI immaculati in via,
O gloriosa fœmina,

Now mine hole imaginacion
And studious meditacion,
Is to take this commendacion
In this consideracion,
And vnder pacient tolleracion
Of that most godly mayd
That Placebo hath sayd,
And for her Sparow prayd
In lamentable wyse.

Now wyl I enterpryse
Thorow the grace diuine
Of the muses nine
Her beauty to commend,
If Arethusa wyll send
Me enfluence to endite,
And with my pen to write;
If Apollo will promise
Melodiouslye it to deuise,
His tunable harpe stringes
With armonye that singes
Of princes and of kynges,
And of all pleasaunt thynges,
Of lust and of delyght,
Thorow his godly might;
To whome be the laud ascrybed
That
my pen hath enbibed
With the aureat droppes,
As verelye my hope is,
Of Thagus, that golden floud,
That passeth all the earthly good:
And as that floud dothe pas
Al floudes that euer was
With hys golden sandes,
Who so that vnderstandes
Cosmography, and the stremes,
And the floudes in straunge remes
Ryght so she dothe excede
Al other of whom we rede,
Whose fame by me shal sprede
Into Perce and Mede,
From Britons Albion
To the toure of Babilon.

I trust it is no shame, And no manne wyl me blame Thoughe I regester her name In the courte of fame; For thys most goodly floure, This blossome of freshe coloure, So Jupiter me succoure, She florysheth new and new, In beauty and vertue; Hac claritare gemina, O gloriosa fœmina,

Retribue seruo tuo, vivifica me. Labia mea laudabunt te.

BUT enforsed am I
Openlye to askry,
And to make an outcry
Againste odyous enuye,
That euermore wyl lye,
And say cursedlye,
With hys lether eye,
And chekes drye,
With vysage wan,
As swarte as tan,
His bones crake,
Leane as a rake,
Hys gummes rustye,
Are full vnlustye,
Hys harte with all
Bytter as gall,
His liuer, his longes,
With anger is wronge,
Hys serpentes tonge

That many one hath stonge;
He frowneth euer,
He laugheth neuer
Euen nor morowe;
But other mens sorowe
Causeth him to grin
And reioice therein.
No slepe can hym catche,
But euer doth watche,
He is so bete

With malice and frete,
Wyth anger and yre,
His foule desire
Wyl suffer no sleep
In his head to creep;
His foule semblaunte
Al displeasaunte,
Whan other are glad
Than is hee sad
Franticke and mad;
His tounge neuer styll
For to saye yll,
Writhing and wringing,
Biting and stingyng;
And thus this elf
Consumeth himselfe ;
Hymselfe doth sloe
Wyth payne and woe,
Thys false enuy
Sayth that I
Use greate follye
For to indite

And for to wryte,
And spende my time
In prose and rime,
For to expres
The noblenes
Of my maystres
That causeth me
Studious to be,
To make a relation
Of her commendacion;
And there agayne
Enuy doth complayne,
And hath disdaine,
But yet certayne
I will be playne,

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Howe shall I reporte
Al the godly sort
Of her fetures cleere
That hath none earthly peere?
Her fauoure of her face,
Ennewed with al grace,
Confort, pleasure, and solace,
Mine hart doth so enbrace,
And so hath rauished me
Her to behold and se,
That in wordes playne
I cannot me refrayne
To loke to her agayne.
Alas what shoulde I fayne,
It were a pleasaunte payne
With her aye to remayne.

Her eyen graye and stepe,
Causeth myne harte to leepe;
With her browes bente
She maye wel represente
Fayre Lucres, as I weene,
Or els fayre Polexene ;
Or els Caliope,

Or els Penolope:

For thys moste goodly floure,
This blossome of freshe coloure,
So Jupiter me succour,
She florisheth new and new
In beauty and vertue;
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa fœmina,

Memor esto verbi tui servo tuo,
Servus tuus sum ego.

THE Indy Saphyre blewe, Her vaynes doth ennew;

The orient pearle so cleare,
The witnes of her lere;
The lusty ruby ruddes,
Resemble the rose buddes;
Her lippes soft and mery,
Emblomed like the chery;
It were an heauenly blysse
Her sugred mouthe to kysse;
Her beauty to augment
Dame nature hath her lente
A warte upon her cheke,
Who so lyst to seeke:
In her visage a skar,
That semeth from a far
Lyke to a radyant star,
Al with fauour fret,
So proprely it is set;
She is the violet,
The daisy delectable,
The columbine commendable,
This ielofer amiable:
This moste goodly floure,
This blossome of freshe coloure,
So Jupiter me succoure,
She florysheth new and new
In beauty and vertue;
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa fœmina,
Bonitatem fecisti cum servo tuo
domina,

Et ex præcordiis sonant præconia.

AND whan I perceiued
Her wart and conceiued,
It cannot be denaid
But it was wel conuaid;
And set so womanly,
And nothing wantonly,
But right conueniently,
And full congruentlye,
As nature could deuise
In moste goodly wyse;
Who so lyst behold,
It maketh louers bold
To her to sue for grace,
Her fauour to purchase;
The sker upon her chin,
Enchased on her fayre skin,
Whiter than the swan,
It wold make any man
To forget deadly syn
Her fauour to wyn;
For this most goodly flour,
This blossome of freshe coloure,
So Jupiter me succour,

She flourisheth new and new
In beauty and vertue;
Hac claritate gemina,
O gloriosa fœmina.

Defecit in salutate tua anima

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AND to amend her tale, Whan she lyst to auale, And with her fingers small, And handes soft as silke, Whiter than milke,

That are so quickely vayned, Wherwith my hand she strained, Lord, how I was payned, Unneth I am refrayned, How she me had reclaymed, And me to her retayned; Embrasyng therwith all Her goodly middle small, With sides long and streyt, To tel you what conceit I had then in a trice The matter wer to nyce, And yet there was no vyce Nor yet no villany, But only fantasy; For this most goodly floure, The blossome of fresh colour, So Jupiter me succour, She florisheth new and new In beautie and vertue ; Hac claritate gemina, O gloriosa fœmina;

Iniquos odio habui;

Non calumnientur me superbi.

BUT whreto shold I note
How often dyd I tote
Upon her pretye fote,
It raysed myne hart rote
To see her treade the grounde
With heles short and round;
She is plainly expresse
Egeria, the goddesse,
And lyke to her ymage,
Importured with corage,
A louers pilgrimage;
There is no best sauage,
Ne no tygre so wood

But she wold chaunge his mood,
Suche relucent grace

Is formed in her face;

For this most goodly flour,
This blossome of freshe coloure,

So Jupiter me succour,

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