THE COMPLAINT OF A RUSTIC THAT THE CLERGY AND PEOPLE ARE AT WAR.
What can it avail
To drive forth a snail?
Or to make a sail Of an herring's tail? To rhyme or to rail, To write or to indite, Either for delight, Or else for despite, Or books to compile Of divers manner style Vice to revile
And sin to exile?...
Say this, and say that:1- "His head is so fat, He wotteth never what, Nor whereof, he speaketh : He crieth and he creaketh, He pryeth and he peeketh, He chides and he chatters, He prates and he patters, He clitters and he clatters, He meddles and he smatters, He gloses and he flatters." Or, if he speak plain, Then," He lacketh brain, He is but a fool,
Let him go to school!". And, if ye stand in doubt Who brought this about, My name is Colin Clout: I purpose to shake out All my cunning-bag 2 Like a clerkly hag.
For, though my Rhyme be ragged,
Tattered and jagged,
Rudely rain-beaten, Rusty and moth-eaten, If ye take well therewith, It hath in it some pith.
For, as far as I can see, It is wrong with each degree :1 For the Temporalty Accuseth the Spiritualty; The Spiritual again Doth grudge and complain Upon temporal men.
Thus each of other blother 2 The t'one against the t'other; Alas, they make me shudder! For in hudder-mudder
The Church is put in faute; The Prelates been so haut, They say, and look so high As though they would fly Above the starry sky. . . The Temporalty say plain How Bishops disdain Sermons for to make, Or such labour to take. And, for to say troth, A great part 3 is for 4 sloth;
But the greatest part
Is for they have but small art,
And right slender cunning
Within their heads wonning....
Thus I, Colin Clout,
As I go about,
And wandering as I walk,
I hear the people talk.
FROM WHY COME YE NOT TO COURT?
3 Of their misdeeds. 6 Knowledge. 7 Dwelling.
For Thrift is threadbare worn, Our sheep are shrewdly1 torn, And Truth is all to-torn ; 2 Wisdom is laughed to scorn. . . . Will, will, will, will,
He ruleth alway still;
Good Reason and Good Skill, They may garlic pill, Carry sacks to the mill, Or peascods they may shill, Or else go roast a stone! There is no man but one 3 That hath the strokes alone. Be it black or white,
All that he doth is right ;
As right as a cammock crooked!4.
He is set so high
In his hierarchy
Of frantic frenèsie 5
And foolish fantasie,
That in the Chamber of Stars 6 All matters there he mars, Clapping his rod on the board : No man dare speak a word, For he hath all the saying Without any re-naying ;7 He rolleth in his records; He saith, "How say ye, my lords? Is not my reason good?" (Good even, good Robin Hood !) Some say "yes," and some Sit still as they were dumb. Thus, thwarting over them, He ruleth all the roast With bragging and with boast, Borne up on every side With pomp and with pride,
With "trump up, hallelujah!"10...
Our Barons be so bold,
Into a mouse-hole they wold Run away and creep; Like a meinie 11 of sheep,
9 Perversely controlling, domineering.
1 In allusion to 4 Potsherds.
Dare not look out at door For dread of the mastiff cur, For dread of the butcher's dog1 Would worry them like an hog. For, and this Cur do gnar,2 They must stand all afar,
To hold up their hand at the bar. For all their noble blood, He plucks them by the hood, And shakes them by the ear, And brings them in such fear: He baiteth them like a bear, Like an ox or a bull:
Their wits, he saith, are dull;
He saith they have no brain Their estate to maintain,
And maketh them to bow their knee
Before his majesty. . . .
But this mad Amalek, Like to a Mamelek,3 He regardeth lords No more than potshords.* He is in such elation Of his exaltation, And the supportation Of our sovereign lord, That, God to record, He ruleth all at will Without reason or skill; How be it, the primordial Of his wretched original, And his base progeny, And his greasy genealogy,
He came of the sang-royal®
That was cast out of a butcher's stall....
Such a prelate I trow
Were worthy to row
Through the straits of Maroc 9
To the gibbet of Baldoc;10
He would dry up the streams
Of nine kings' realms, All rivers and wells, All water that swells;
Wolsey's reputed descent. 5 The king's patronage.
For with us he so mells1 That within England dwells,
I would he were somewhere else; For else, by and bye,
He will drink us so dry,
And suck us so nigh, That men shall scantly Have penny or halfpenny. God save his noble grace, And grant him a place Endless to dwell
With the Devil of Hell i For, and he were there We need never fear
Of the fiendès black;
For I undertake
He would so brag and crake2 That he would then make The devils to quake,
To shudder and to shake, Like a fire-drake ;3 And with a coal-rake Bruise them on a break,1
And bind them to a stake, And set Hell on fire
At his own desire.
He is such a grim sire,
And such a potestolate,
And such a potestate,
That he would break the brains
Of Lucifer in his chains,
And rule them each one
In Lucifer's throne :- I would he were gone!
4 An instrument of torture.
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