A replycacion agaynst certayne yong scolers abiured of late

A lytell ragge of rethorike,
A lesse lumpe of logyke,
A pece or a patche of philosophy,
Than forthwith by and by
They tumble so in theology,
Drowned in dregges of diuinite,
That they iuge them selfe able to be
Doctours of the chayre in the Uyntre
At the Thre Cranes,
To magnifye their names:
But madly it frames,
For all that they preche and teche
Is farther than their wytte wyll reche.
Thus by demeryttes of their abusyon,
Finally they fall to carefull confusyon,
To beare a fagot, or to be enflamed:
Thus are they vndone and vtterly shamed.

To the honour of our blessed lady,
And her most blessed baby,
I purpose for to reply

Agaynst this horryble heresy
Of these yong heretikes, that stynke vnbrent,
Whom I nowe sommon and content,
That leudly haue their tyme spent,

In their study abhomynable,
Our glorious lady to disable,
And heynously on her to bable
With langage detestable;
With your lyppes polluted
Agaynst her grace disputed,
Whiche is the most clere christall
Of all pure clennesse virgynall,
That our Sauyour bare,
Whiche vs redemed from care.

I saye, thou madde Marche hare,
I wondre howe ye dare
Open your ianglyng iawes,
To preche in any clawes,
Lyke pratynge poppyng dawes,
Agaynst her excellence,
Agaynst her reuerence,
Agaynst her preemynence,
Agaynst her magnifycence,
That neuer dyde offence.

Ye heretykes recrayed,
Wotte ye what ye sayed
Of Mary, mother and mayed?
With baudrie at her ye brayed;
With baudy wordes vnmete
Your tonges were to flete;
Your sermon was nat swete;
Ye were nothyng discrete;
Ye were in a dronken hete.
Lyke heretykes confettred,

Ye count your selfe wele lettred:
Your lernyng is starke nought,
For shamefully ye haue wrought,
And to shame your selfe haue brought.

Bycause ye her mysnamed,
And wolde haue her defamed,
Your madnesse she attamed;
For ye were worldly shamed,
At Poules crosse openly,
All men can testifye;

There, lyke a sorte of sottes,
Ye were fayne to beare fagottes;
At the feest of her concepcion
Ye suffred suche correction.
Sive sic, sive nat so,
Ye are brought to, Lo, lo, lo!

Se where the heretykes go,
Wytlesse wandring to and fro!
With, Te he, ta ha, bo ho, bo ho!
And suche wondringes many mo.
Helas, ye wreches, ye may be wo!
Ye may syng wele away,
And curse bothe nyght and day,
Whan ye were bredde and borne,

And whan ye were preestes shorne,
Thus to be laughed to skorne,
Thus tattred and thus torne,
Thorowe your owne foly,
To be blowen with the flye
Of horryble heresy.
Fayne ye were to reny,
And mercy for to crye,
Or be brende by and by,
Confessyng howe ye dyde lye
In prechyng shamefully.
Your selfe thus ye discured
As clerkes vnassured,
With ignorance obscured:

Ye are vnhappely vred.
In your dialeticall
And principles silogisticall,
If ye to remembrance call
Howe syllogisari
Non est ex particulari

Ye coude nat corde tenus,
Nor answere verbo tenus,
Whan prelacy you opposed;
Your hertes than were hosed,

Your relacions reposed;
And yet ye supposed
Respondere ad quantum,
But ye were confuse tantum,
Surrendring your supposycions,
For there ye myst you[r] quosshons.
Wolde God, for your owne ease,

That wyse Harpocrates
Had your mouthes stopped,
And your tonges cropped,

Whan ye logyke chopped,
And in the pulpete hopped,
And folysshly there fopped,
And porisshly forthe popped
Your sysmaticate sawes
Agaynst Goddes lawes,
And shewed your selfe dawes!

Ye argued argumentes,
As it were vpon the elenkes,
And ye wolde appere wyse,
But ye were folysshe nyse:
Yet be meanes of that vyse
Ye dyde prouoke and tyse,
Oftnar than ones or twyse,
Many a good man
And many a good woman,
By way of their deuocion
To helpe you to promocion,
Whose charite wele regarded
Can nat be vnrewarded.

I saye it for no sedicion,
But vnder pacient tuicyon,
It is halfe a supersticyon
To gyue you exhibycion
To mainteyne with your skoles,
And to proue your selfe suche foles.
Some of you had ten pounde,
Therwith for to be founde
At the vnyuersyte,
Employed whiche myght haue be
Moche better other wayes.

But, as the man sayes,
The blynde eteth many a flye:
What may be ment hereby,
Ye may soone make construction
With right lytell instruction;
For it is an auncyent brute,

Suche apple tre, suche frute.
What shulde I prosecute,
Or more of this to clatter?
Retourne we to our matter.

Ye soored ouer hye
In the ierarchy
Of Iouenyans heresy,
Your names to magnifye,
Among the scabbed skyes

Of Wycliffes flesshe flyes;
Ye strynged so Luthers lute,
That ye dawns all in a sute
The heritykes ragged ray,
That bringes you out of the way
Of holy churches lay;
Ye shayle inter enigmata
And inter paradigmata,
Marked in your cradels
To beare fagottes for babyls.
And yet some men say,
Howe ye are this day,
And be nowe as yll,
And so ye wyll be styll,
As ye were before.
What shulde I recken more?

Men haue you in suspicion
Howe ye haue small contrycion
Of that ye haue myswrought:
For, if it were well sought,
One of you there was
That laughed whan he dyd pas
With his fagot in processyon;
He counted it for no correction,
But with scornefull affection
Toke it for a sporte,
His heresy to supporte;
Whereat a thousande gased,
As people halfe amased,
And thought in hym smale grace
His foly so to face.
Some iuged in this case
Your penaunce toke no place,
Your penaunce was to lyght;

And thought, if ye had right,
Ye shulde take further payne
To resorte agayne
To places where ye haue preched,
And your lollardy lernyng teched,
And there to make relacion
In open predycacion,
And knowlege your offence
Before open audyence,
Howe falsely ye had surmysed,
And deuyllysshely deuysed
The people to seduce,
And chase them thorowe the muse
Of your noughty counsell,
To hunt them into hell,
With blowyng out your hornes,
Full of mockysshe scornes,
With chatyng and rechatyng,
And your busy pratyng:
Of the gospell and the pystels

Ye pyke out many thystels,
And bremely with your bristels
Ye cobble and ye clout
Holy Scripture so about,
That people are in great dout
And feare leest they be out
Of all good Christen order.
Thus all thyng ye disorder
Thorowe out euery bord[e]r.

It had ben moche better
Ye had neuer lerned letter,
For your ignorance is gretter,
I make you fast and sure,
Than all your lytterature.
Ye are but lydder logici,
But moche worse isagogici,
For ye haue enduced a secte
With heresy all infecte;
Wherfore ye are well checte,
And by holy churche correcte,
And in maner as abiecte,
For euermore suspecte,
And banysshed in effect
From all honest company,
Bycause ye haue eaten a flye,
To your great vyllony,
That neuer more may dye.

Come forthe, ye popeholy,
Full of melancoly;
Your madde ipocrisy,
And your idiosy,
And your vayne glorie,
Haue made you eate the flye,
Pufte full of heresy,
To preche it idolatry,
Who so dothe magnifye

That glorious mayde Mary;
That glorious mayde and mother,
So was there neuer another
But that princesse alone,
To whom we are bounde echone
The ymage of her grace
To reuerence in euery place.

I saye, ye braynlesse beestes,
Why iangle you suche iestes,
In your diuynite
Of Luthers affynite,
To the people of lay fee,
Raylyng in your rages
To worshyppe none ymages,
Nor do pylgrymages?
I saye, ye deuyllysshe pages,
Full of suche dottages,
Count ye your selfe good clerkes,
And snapper in suche werkes?

Saynt Gregorie and saynt Ambrose,
Ye haue reed them, I suppose,
Saynt Jerome and saynt Austen,
With other many holy men,
Saynt Thomas de Aquyno,
With other doctours many mo,
Whiche de latria do trete;
They saye howe latria is an honour grete,
Belongyng to the Deite:
To this ye nedes must agre.
But, I trowe, your selfe ye ouerse
What longeth to Christes humanyte.

If ye haue reed de hyperdulia,
Than ye knowe what betokeneth dulia:
Than shall ye fynde it fyrme and stable,
And to our faithe moche agreable,
To worshyppe ymages of sayntes.
Wherfore make ye no mo restrayntes,
But mende your myndes that are mased;
Or els doutlesse ye shalbe blased,
And be brent at a stake,
If further busynesse that ye make.

Therfore I vyse you to forsake
Of heresy the deuyllysshe scoles,
And crye Godmercy, lyke frantyke foles.

Why fall ye at debate
With Skelton laureate,
Reputyng hym vnable
To gainsay replycable
Opinyons detestable
Of heresy execrable?

Ye saye that poetry
Maye nat flye so hye
In theology,
Nor analogy,
Nor philology,
Nor philosophy,
To answere or reply
Agaynst suche heresy.
Wherfore by and by
Nowe consequently
I call to this rekenyng

Dauyd, that royall kyng,
Whom Hieronymus,
That doctour glorious,
Dothe bothe write and call
Poete of poetes all,
And prophete princypall.

This may nat be remorded,
For it is wele recorded
In his pystell ad Paulinum,
Presbyterum divinum,
Where worde for worde ye may
Rede what Jerome there dothe say.

Kyng Dauid the prophete, of prophetes principall,
Of poetes chefe poete, saint Jerome dothe wright,
Resembled to Symonides, that poete lyricall
Among the Grekes most relucent of lyght,
In that faculte whiche shyned as Phebus bright;
Lyke to Pyndarus in glorious poetry,
Lyke vnto Alcheus, he dothe hym magnify.

Flaccus nor Catullus with hym may nat compare,
Nor solempne Serenus, for all his armony
In metricall muses, his harpyng we may spare;
For Dauid, our poete, harped so meloudiously
Of our Sauyour Christ in his decacorde psautry,
That at his resurrection he harped out of hell
Olde patriarkes and prophetes in heuen with him to dwell.

Than, if this noble kyng
Thus can harpe and syng
With his harpe of prophecy
And spyrituall poetry,
As saynt Jerome saythe,
To whom we must gyue faythe,
Warblyng with his strynges
Of suche theologicall thynges,

Why haue ye than disdayne
At poetes, and complayne
Howe poetes do but fayne?
Ye do moche great outrage,
For to disparage
And to discorage
The fame matryculate
Of poetes laureate.
For if ye sadly loke,
And wesely rede the Boke
Of Good Aduertysement,
With me ye must consent
And infallibly agre
Of necessyte,
Howe there is a spyrituall,
And a mysteriall,
And a mysticall

Effecte energiall,
As Grekes do it call,
Of suche an industry,
And suche a pregnacy,
Of heuenly inspyracion
In laureate creacyon,
Of poetes commendacion,

That of diuyne myseracion

God maketh his habytacion
In poetes whiche excelles,
And soiourns with them and dwelles.

By whose inflammacion
Of spyrituall instygacion

And diuyne inspyracion,
We are kyndled in suche facyon
With hete of the Holy Gost,
Which is God of myghtes most,
That he our penne dothe lede,

And maketh in vs suche spede,
That forthwith we must nede
With penne and ynke procede,
Somtyme for affection,
Somtyme for sadde dyrection,
Somtyme for correction,

Somtyme vnder protection
Of pacient sufferance,
With sobre cyrcumstance,
Our myndes to auaunce
To no mannes anoyance;
Therfore no greuance,
I pray you, for to take,
In this that I do make
Agaynst these frenetykes,
Agaynst these lunatykes,
Agaynst these sysmatykes,
Agaynst these heretykes,
Nowe of late abiured,
Most vnhappely vred:
For be ye wele assured,
That frensy nor ielousy
Nor heresy wyll neuer dye.