10. THOMAS CHURCHYARD IN PRAISE OF SKELTON

1568


This poem by the soldier and poet Thomas Churchyard (1520?–1604) appears as a preface (A iiv–A iiiiv) to the edition of the ‘Pithy, Pleasaunt and Profitable Works of Maister Skelton, Poete Laureate’, published in 1568 (STC 22608). The punctuation has been somewhat modernized.


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 are
For goeth the people past,

Our selus should soen in silence slepe,
And loes renom at last.

No soyll nor land so rude
But some odd men can shoe:

Than should the learned pas vnknowe,
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 a right,
And blames abues of men,

And shoes what lief desarues rebuke,
And who the prayes of pen.

You see howe forrayn realms
Aduance their Poets all;

And ours are drowned in the dust,

Or flong against the wall.

In Fraunce did Marrot (1) raigne;
And neighbour thear vnto

Was Petrark, marching full with Dantte,
Who erst did wonders do;

Among the noble Grekes
Was Homere full of skill;

And where that Ouid norisht was
The soyll did florish still

With letters hie of style;
But Virgill wan the fraes,

And past them all for deep engyen,
And made them all to gaes

Vpon 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 vewe

The workes and sugred verses fine
Of our raer poetes newe;

Whoes barborus language rued
Perhaps ye may mislike;

But blame them not that ruedly playes
If 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 reed

Fine verses trimly wrought,
And coutcht in comly sort;

But neuer I nor you I troe,
In sentence plaine and short

Did yet beholde with eye,
In any forraine tonge:

A higher verse a staetly[er] style,
That may be read or song,

Than is this daye in deede
Our englishe verse and ryme,

The grace wherof doth touch ye gods,
And reatch the cloudes somtime.

Thorow earth and waters deepe
The pen by skill doth passe,

And featly nyps the worldes abuse,
And shoes vs in a glasse

The vertu and the vice
Of eury wyght alyue:

The hony combe that bee doth make
Is not so sweete in hyue

As are the golden leues
That drops from poets head,

Which doth surmount our common talke
As 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 (
2) the marke did beat,

And Phaer did hit the pricke
In thinges he did translate,

And Edwards had a special gift;
And diuers men of late

Hath 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 indeed
My branchis all might groe?

Nay, Skelton wore the Lawrell wreath,
And past in schoels, ye know;

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 full
What Skelton was in deed;

A further knowledge shall you haue,
If you his bookes do reed.

I haue of meer good will
Theas verses written heer,

To honour vertue as I ought,
And make his fame apeer,

That whan the Garland gay
Of lawrel leaues but laet:

Small is my pain, great is his prayes,
That thus sutch honour gaet.

Notes

1 Clement Marot (1496–1544), a French sonneteer and pastoral poet.

2 Thomas Vaux (1510–56), poet.