“The Cardinal will not forget these lines so long as he lives; nor will the world forget them, any more than the world forgets the words of Ovid. When men shall speak of Cardinal Wolsey, they shall say, ‘He it was of whom Skelton—poeta laurea donatus—spoke when he said:
‘“Borne up on every syde
With pompe and with pryde.”’
By cock’s blood, proud Sir Tyrmagant, I had rather my prison than thy shame!”
He paused and sighed.
“I confess, good sir, that I thought not to end my days in such a place as this. I thought to become a bishop—nay, even an archbishop, if it might please the Lord. All to-ragged as I am”—he was indeed somewhat frayed in the matter of linen—“and poor, insomuch that, unlike these losels among whom I live, who pay to the Abbey rent and fees for protection, I depend upon the bounty of the good Abbot Islip, whom may Christ and St. Peter spede. Yet, look you, I am John Skelton. You know not all that John Skelton has done. In the ‘Garlande of Laurell’ you may find set forth at length all that I have written. Since Dan Chaucer there has been no poet like unto me. My fame hath gone forth into strange lands. Alma parens was Cambridge; but at Oxford was I honoured with the laurel; yea, and the ancient and venerable University of Louvain did also grant me a like honour. Had I time, I would read, gentle sir, certain noble Latin verses written in my honour by a scholar. ‘All the world,’ he truly writes,—‘the woods, the forests, the rivers and the sea, the Loves, the Satyrs, the Nymphs, the Naiades and Oceanides,—all together sing my praise. And my fame shall be as everlasting as the stars—fama perennis erit.’ Thus it is that the scholars speak of poets; thus are we honoured. Why, I look around me and without: I am a Sanctuary man; no bishop am I, nor chancellor,—only a Sanctuary man; yet—fama perennis erit. Or would you know what Erasmus, that great light of learning, said of me? Then read in his immortal Ode ‘De Laudibus Britanniæ,’ the dedication to Prince Henry. ‘Thou hast,’ he said, ‘at home Skelton, the only light and glory of British letters, one who can not only inflame thee with ardour, but also fill thee with learning.’ Yes, I was indeed the tutor of that young Prince, of whom I may proudly say that, if he is—all men know that he is—learned beyond any prince of his ancestry, mine own handiwork it is.”
THE HOLBEIN GATE.
Again he paused and sighed. Then he went on: “I have not now to tell a tale of George a Green and Jack a Vale. ’Tis of John Skelton—unlucky John—that I must speak. They made me Rector of Diss in my native county, and there——” He paused and rubbed his chin and smiled. “Understand, sir, we poets pay for the favour of the Muse in many ways. Some of us are merry when we should be grave; and we are prone to fall in love despite our vows; and we love better the company of our brothers, even in taverns and alehouses,—even when they are but clowns and rustics of the baser sort,—than the loneliness of the priest’s house; we laugh in season and out of season; if we make songs we desire to sing them; the rattling of pint-pots, the tinkling of mazers, is music in our ears; we linger over the Psalms no longer than we must; we invent merry conceits and quips; men laugh with us: none so popular as the poet who makes mirth for the company.” Here he sighed and buried his face in the black jack. “’Tis right good ale,” he said. “’Tis solacyous ale, and from the Monastery cellar. Not such is the small stuff doled out to the rest. Drink, good sir. Ay! ’tis easy to make good cheer; but one is not the clown on the stage nor the fool, and they make men laugh as well. If the jester be also a grave scholar and a reverend Divine, there are presently rumours of things unseemly, things unworthy, things tacenda. Add to which that the poet inclineth often unto satire, like Horace and Juvenal; and that those against whom the satire is directed are apt to chafe and even to become revengeful. Quarrels, therefore, I had with Sir Christopher Garnyshe, and with Masters Barclay, Gaguin, and Lily. What? I thumped them and they thumped me. And the world