A BALLADE COMPYLED BY DAN JOHN LYDGATE MONKE OF BERY, ABOUT —— YERES AGOE, AND NOW NEWLY OVERSENE AND AMENDED.
[Harleian MSS. 367, f. 126, 127.]
To London once, my stepps I bent,
Where trouth in no wyse should be faynt:
To Westmynster ward I forthwith went,
To a man of law to make complaynt.
I sayd, for Mary’s love that holy saynt,
Pity the poore that would proceede;
But for lack of mony I cold not spede.
And as I thrust the prese amonge,
By froward chaunce my hood was gone;
Yet for all that I stayd not longe,
Tyll at the kynge bench I was come.
Before the judge I kneled anon,
And prayd hym for Gods sake to take heede;
But for lack of money I myght not spede.
Beneth them sat clarkes a great rout,
Which fast dyd wryte by one assent;
There stoode up one and cryed about,
Rychard, Robert, and John of Kent;
I wyst not wele what this man ment:
He cryed so thycke there indede,
But he that lackt mony myght not spede.
Unto the common place I yode thoo,
Where sat one with a sylken hoode;
I dyd hym reverence, for I ought to do so,
And told my case as well as I coud,
How my goods were defrauded me by falshood.
I gat not a mum of his mouth for my meed,
And for lack of mony I myght not spede.
Unto the Rolls I gat me from thence,
Before the clarkes of the chauncerye,
Where many I found earnyng of pence,
But none at all once regarded mee:
I gave them my playnt uppon my knee;
They lyked it well when they had it reade,
But lackyng mony I could not be sped.
In Westmynster hall I found out one,
Which went in a long gown of raye;
I crouched and kneled before hym anon:
For Maryes love, of help I hym praye.
I wot not what thou meanest, gan he say;
To get me thence he dyd me bede,
For lack of mony I cold not speed.
Within this hall, neithere ryche nor yett poor,
Wold do for me ought, although I shold dye;
Which seing, I gat me out of the doore,
Where Flemynge began on me for to cry,
Master, what will you copen or by,
Fyne felt hatts, or spectacles to reede?
Lay down your sylver, and here you may spede.
Then to Westmynster gate I presently went,
When the sonn was at hyghe pryme;
Cokes to me, they tooke good entent,
And profered me bread with ale and wyne,
Rybbs of befe both fat and ful fyne;
A fayre cloth they gan for to sprede,
But wantyng mony I might not be speede.
Then unto London I dyd me hye,
Of all the land it beareth the pryse;
Hot pescods one began to crye,
Straberry rype, and cherryes in the ryse:
One bad me come nere, and by some spyce,
Peper, and sayforne, they gan me bede;
But for lacke of money I myght not spede.
Then to the Chepe I began me drawne,
Where mutch people I sawe for to stande;
One ofred me velvet, sylke, and lawne,
An other he taketh me by the haunde,
Here is Parys thred, the fynest in the launde.
I never was used to such thyngs in dede,
And wanting mony I myght not spede.
Then went I forth by London stone,
Throughout all Canwyke streete;
Drapers mutch cloth me offred anone:
Then comes me one, cryd hot shepes feete,
One cryde makerell, ryshes grene, another gan greete,
One bad me by a hood to cover my head;
But fore want of mony I myght not be sped.
Then I hyed me into Estchepe;
One cryes rybbs of befe, and many a pye;
Pewter potts they clattered on a heape,
There was harpe, pype, and mynstrelsye;
Yea by cock, nay by cock, some began crye,
Some songe of Jenken and Julyan for there mede;
But for lack of mony I myght not spede.
Then into Cornhyll anon I yode,
Where was much stolen gere amonge;
I saw where honge myne owne hoode,
That I had lost amonge the thronge;
To by my own hood I thought it wronge,
I knew it well as I dyd my crede;
But for lack of mony I could not spede.
The Taverner took mee by the sleve;
Sir, sayth he, wyll you our wyne assay?
I answerd, that can not mutch me greve,
A peny can do no more than it may:
I dranke a pynt, and for it dyd pay;
Yet sore a hungerd from thence I yede,
And wantyng my mony I cold not spede.
Then hyed I me to Belyngsgate;
And one cryed hoo, go we hence;
I prayd a barge man for Gods sake,
That he wold spare me my expence.
Thou scapst not here, quod he, under ij pence,
I lyst not yet bestow my almes dede:
Thus lacking mony I could not speede.
Then I convayed me into Kent;
For of the law wold I meddle no more,
Because no man to me tooke entent,
I dyght me to do as I dyd before.
Now Jesus that in Bethlem was bore,
Save London, and send trew lawyers there mede,
For who so wants mony with them shall not spede.
EXPLICIT LONDON LYCKPENY.
UPON THE EMPTINESS OF HIS PURSE:
BY JOHN LYDGATE.
[Harleian MSS. 2255, f. 45b.]
Riht myhty prynce, and it be your wille,
Condescende leiser for to take,
To seen the content of this litil bille,
Which whan I wrot, myn hand I felte quake;
Tokne of mornyng weryd clothys blake,
Cause my purs was falle in gret rerage;
Lynyng outward, his guttys wer out shake,
Oonly for lak of plate, and of coignage.
I souhte leechys for a restoratiff,
In whom I fond no consolacione;
Appotecaryes for a confortatiff;
Dragge nor dya was noon in Bury tone,
Botme of his stomak was tournyd up so done;
A laxatif did hym so gret outrage,
Made hym slendre by a consumpcione,
Oonly for lak of plate, and of coignage.
Ship was ther noon, nor seilis rede of hewe,
The wynd froward to make hem ther to londe;
The flood was passyd, and sodeynly of newe,
A lowh ground ebbe was faste by the stronde;
No maryneer durste take on honde,
To caste an ankir for streihtnesse of passage,
The custom skars, as fow may undirstonde,
Oonly for lak of plate, and of coignage.
Ther was no tokne sent done from the Tour,
As any gossomer the countirpeys was liht,
A fretyng etyk causyd his langour,
By a cotidian which heeld hym day and nyht:
Sol and Luna wer clypsyd of ther liht,
Ther was no cros nor preent of no visage,
His lynyng dirk, ther wer no platys briht,
Oonly for lak, and scarsete of coignage.
Harde to likke hony out of a marbil stoon,
For ther is nouthir licour nor moisture;
An ernest grote, whan it is dronke and goon,
Bargeyn of marchauntys stant in aventure.
My purs and I be callyd to the lure
Off indigence, our stuff leyd in morgage;
But ye, my lord, may al our soor recure,
With a receyt of plate, and of coignage.
Nat sugre plate maad by thappotecarye,
Plate of briht metal yevith a mery sone,
In Boklerys bury is noon such letuary;
Gold is a cordial, gladdest confeccione,
Ageyn etiques of oold consumpcione,
Auru’ potabile, for folk ferre ronne in age,
In quynt essence best restauracione,
With silver plate, enprentyd with coignage.
O seely bille! why art thu nat ashamyd,
So malapertly to shewe out thy constreynt;
But povert hath so nyh thy tonne attamyd,
That nichil habet is cause of thy compleynt.
A drye tisyk makith oold men ful feynt;
Reediest weye to renewe ther corage,
Is a fresshe dragge of no spycis meynt,
But of a briht plate, enpreentyd with coignage.
Thu mayst afferme, as for thyn excus,
Thy bareyn soyl is sool and solitarye;
Of cros nor pyl ther is no reclus,
Preent nor impressione in al thy seyntuarye.
To conclude breefly, and nat tarye,
Ther is no noyse herd in thyn hermytage;
God sende soone a gladdere letuarye,
With a cleer sone of plate, and of coignage.
EXt. Qd. LYDGATE.