The Ship of Fools, Volume 1

by Sebastian Brant

Of them that forceth or careth for the bacbytynge of lewde people.

Whether that a bell be hangyd or lye on grounde
If vnto the same a clapper lacke or fayle
The bell shall make but sympyll noyse or sounde
Though thou in it do hange a Foxys tayle
Right so backbyters that vse on men to rayle
Can nat greatly hurt them that lyue rightwysly
Wherfore it is foly theyr babblynge to set by.

Who that within this worlde wolde rest and lyue

In eas of mynde, peas and tranquyllyte

Must nat his mynde set, nor his erys gyue

To the vayne talys, of the rude comonte

And though some people of suche condicion be

Oft to dyffame good people true and Just

Let them nought care, for byde it nede they must

Let no man care for the lewde hyssynges

And yll soundynges of this vnhappy rage

It is great foly to set by the lesynges

Of cursyde tunges syns none can them asswage

For who in this worlde wyll come to auautage

Hym selfe exaltynge to worshyp and honoure

Shall fynde the swetnes mengled with the sowre

And he that wyll of his dygnyte be sure

Or sympyll lyuynge what so euer it be

Right greuous chargis somtymes must endure

And with his iyen often beholde and se

Suche thynges wherwith his mynde can not agre

And he that wyll with the worlde haue to do

Must suffer suche trouble as belongeth therto

Yet some haue pytched theyr tentis stedfastly

Upon sure grounde, auoyde of all this payne

Despysynge the worldes wantonnes and foly

For in the same is nought sure nor certayne

Nought se we tranquyll in these wawes mundayne

We se no loue, lawe, fydelyte, nor trust

But nowe up hye, and nowe lowe in the dust

To auoyde the worlde with his foly and stryfe

Many hath left londes townes and ryches

And yll company lyuynge solytary lyfe

Alone in desert and in wyldernes

Ye and that: men of moste wyt and worthynes

Whiche by that meane dyd best of all eschewe

All worldly sclaunder and lyuyd in vertue

He that intendeth to lyue a rightwyse lyfe

And so procedeth in maners and good dede

Of worldly sclaunder, complaynt, hatered, and stryfe

And all yll wyll, he ought nat to take hede

For he that is iuste ought no thynge for to drede

A sclaundrynge tonge, ye, be it neuer so wode

For suche lewde tonges can none hurte that ar gode.

Lyue well and wysely, than let men chat theyr fyll

Wordes ar but wynde, and though it oft so fall

That of lewde wordes comyth great hurte and yll

Yet byde the ende, that onely prouyth all

If thou canst suffer truste well that thou shall

Ouercome thyne ennemyes better by pacience

Than by hye wordes rygour or vyolence

If poetis that somtyme vyce blamyd and discommendyd

And holy Prophetis whiche also dyd the same

To suche vayne and mortall wordes had intendyd

They sholde nat haue durst the peoples vyce to blame

So sholde they haue lost their honour and good name

Theyr fame and meryt, but nowe they haue nat so

But spred theyr fame, whiche neuer away shall go

Forsoth none lyueth within the worlde wyde

Suche meke so holy, so wyse or pacyent

Whiche can hym selfe at euery tyme so gyde

To please eche fole, for none can some content

Forsoth he myght be named excellent

Happy and blessyd and lyue in welth and eas

Whiche euery man cowde serue content and pleas

But suche is none, and he that wyll assay

For to content eche folysshe mannes mynde

Must brake his slepe and stody nyght and day

And yet alway some fole shall be behynde

Ye if one lyue well, yet wyll they somwhat fynde

Behynde his backe hym to sclaunder and diffame

For beggers and bawdes therin haue all theyr game

For whether thou dwell in Est west north or south

Of suche dryuels euer shalt thou fynde plente

One must haue moche mele, to stoppe eche mannys mouth

Sclander is the cunnynge of all the comonte

And in the same suche ay moste besy be

Whiche lyue them selfe in shame and vylany

Euen nowe they speke repentynge by and by

Thus all the cunnynge and stody dilygent.

Of people vnthryfty is alway to despyse

And diffame other whiche ar but innocent

Wherfore let suche as ar discrete and wyse

Nought set by them that lesyngys doth deuyse

Nor theyr vayne foly: for he that doth certayne

Is but, a fole. and euer shall lyue in payne.

The enuoy of Barklay to the Folys.

Trouble nat thy selfe (thou man) where is no nede

And arme thou thy selfe with goodly pacyence

Be sure it is great foly to take hede

Unto backbytynge syns that no resystence

May be founde to withstande his violence

And take thou this one thynge for thy comfort

That none wyse, or good, wyll commyt this offence

But all ar caytyffes, that ar of this lewde sort.

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