And Tib, my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full 'oft drinks she, till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek:
Then doth she troul to me the bowl,
Even as a maltworm should,
And saith, "Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old."
Now let them drink till they nod and wink
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to.
And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls
Or have them lustily troul'd,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old.
Sir John Davies, poet and lawyer, wrote many acrostics to Queen Elizabeth, and other witty verses.
Earth now is green and heaven is blue;
Lively spring which makes all new,
Iolly spring doth enter.
Sweet young sunbeams do subdue
Angry aged winter.
Blasts are mild and seas are calm,
Every meadow flows with balm,
The earth wears all her riches,
Harmonious birds sing such a psalm
As ear and heart bewitches.
Reserve (sweet spring) this nymph of ours,
Eternal garlands of thy flowers,
Green garlands never wasting;
In her shall last our state's fair spring,
Now and forever flourishing,
As long as heaven is lasting.
Wedlock, indeed, hath oft compared been
To public feasts, where meet a public rout,
Where they that are without would fain go in,
And they that are within would fain go out.
John Marston, both dramatist and divine, gives us this bit of humorous satire
I was a scholar: seven useful springs
Did I deflower in quotations
Of cross'd opinions 'bout the soul of man;
The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt.
Delight my spaniel slept, whilst I baus'd leaves,
Toss'd o'er the dunces, pored on the old print
Of titled words: and still my spaniel slept.
Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh,
Shrunk up my veins: and still my spaniel slept.
And still I held converse with Zabarell,
Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw
Of antick Donate: still my spaniel slept.
Still on went I; first, an sit anima;
Then, an it were mortal. Oh, hold, hold! at that
They're at brain buffets, fell by the ears amain
Pell-mell together; still my spaniel slept.
Then, whether 't were corporeal, local, fixt,
Ex traduce, but whether 't had free will
Or no, hot philosphers
Stood banding factions, all so strongly propt,
I stagger'd, knew not which was firmer part,
But thought, quoted, read, observ'd, and pryed,
Stufft noting-books: and still my spaniel slept.
At length he wak'd, and yawned; and by yon sky,
For aught I know he knew as much as I.
Following the example of Jest Books and collections of Merry Tales, came the Anthologies.
The most important of these was the Miscellany, which went through eight editions in thirty years, and is said to be the book of songs and sonnets that Master Slender missed so much.
This book was first published in 1557 and was followed by many less worthy collections.
In 1576 appeared The Paradise of Dainty Devices which also ran through many editions.
As a rule these collections were uninteresting and composed largely of dull and prosy numbers. Their chief charm lay in their titles, which were such as A Gorgeous Gallery of Gallant Inventions, A Handful of Pleasant Delights, and A Bouquet of Dainty Conceits.
Yet it must be remembered that this latter half of the Sixteenth Century saw the splendid flowering of lyric poetry, and in the last year appeared a famous book called England's Helicon or The Muses' Harmony, which was a sort of Golden Treasury of the Elizabethan age.
This was supplemented two years later by the Poetical Rhapsody, edited by Francis Davison, and from then on, the collected songs and verses of England showed poetry from the masters.
Also there were produced at this period many translations, both of the classics and of more modern works of various countries; though no important humorous work was translated until the next century, when Urquhart gave Rabelais to the English people.
FRENCH WIT AND HUMOR
Rutebœuf, the Trouvère, of the Thirteenth Century, if not the principal author of the Fabliaux was the first to put them into rhyme.
Most of his tales are too long and rambling to quote, and we content ourselves with one.
THE ASS'S TESTAMENT
A priest there was in times of old,
Fond of his church, but fonder of gold,
Who spent his days and all his thought
In getting what he preached was naught.
His chests were full of robes and stuff,
Corn filled his garners to the roof,
Stored up against the fair-times gay,
From Saint Rémy to Easter Day.
An ass he had within his stable,
A beast most sound and valuable.
For twenty years he lent his strength
For the priest, his master, till at length,
Worn out with work and age, he died.
The priest, who loved him, wept and cried;
And, for his service long and hard,
Buried him in his own churchyard.
Now turn we to another thing:
'Tis of a bishop that I sing.
No greedy miser he, I ween;
Prelate so generous ne'er was seen.
Full well he loved in company
Of all good Christians still to be;
When he was well, his pleasure still,
His medicine best when he was ill.
Always his hall was full, and there
His guests had ever best of fare.
Whate'er the bishop lack'd or lost
Was bought at once despite the cost;
And so, in spite of rent and score,
The bishop's debts grew more and more.
For true it is this ne'er forget-
Who spends too much gets into debt.
One day his friends all with him sat,
The bishop talking this and that,
Till the discourse on rich clerks ran,
Of greedy priests, and how their plan
Was all good bishops still to grieve,
And of their dues their lords deceive.
And then the priest of whom I've told
Was mention'd; how he loved his gold.
And because men do often use
More freedom than the truth would choose,
They gave him wealth, and wealth so much,
As those like him could scarcely touch.
"And then besides, a thing he's done,
By which great profit might be won,
Could it be only spoken here."
Quoth the bishop, "Tell it without fear."
"He's worse, my lord, than Bedouin,
Because his own dead ass, Baldwin,
He buried in the sacred ground."
"If this is truth, as shall be found,"
The bishop cried, "a forfeit high
Will on his worldly riches lie.
Summon this wicked priest to me;
I will myself in this case be
The judge. If Robert's word be true,
Mine are the fine and forfeit too."
"Disloyal! God's enemy and mine,
Prepare to pay a heavy fine.
Thy ass thou buriedst in the place
Sacred to church. Now, by God's grace,
I never heard of crime more great.
What! Christian men with asses wait?
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