A Satire Anthology. Wells Carolyn

aucht days I gat but libellandum;

      Within ane month I gat ad opponendum;

      In half ane year I gat inter-loquendum;

      And syne I gat – how call ye it? —ad replicandum;

      Bot I could never ane word yet understand him:

      And then they gart me cast out mony placks,

      And gart me pay for four-and-twenty acts.

      Bot or they came half gate to concludendum,

      The fiend ane plack was left for to defend him.

      Thus they postponed me twa year with their train,

      Syne, hodie ad octo, bade me come again;

      And then their rooks they rowpit wonder fast

      For sentence, silver, they cryit at the last.

      Of pronunciandum they made me wonder fain,

      Bot I gat never my gude gray mare again.

Sir David Lyndsay.

      THE SOUL’S ERRAND

      GO, Soul, the body’s guest,

      Upon a thankless errand;

      Fear not to touch the best;

      The truth shall be thy warrant.

      Go, since I needs must die,

      And give them all the lie.

      Go tell the Court it glows

      And shines like rotten wood;

      Go tell the Church it shows

      What’s good, but does no good.

      If Court and Church reply,

      Give Court and Church the lie.

      Tell Potentates they live

      Acting, but oh! their actions;

      Not loved, unless they give,

      Not strong but by their factions.

      If Potentates reply,

      Give Potentates the lie.

      Tell men of high condition,

      That rule affairs of state,

      Their purpose is ambition;

      Their practice only hate;

      And if they do reply,

      Then give them all the lie.

      Tell those that brave it most,

      They beg for more by spending,

      Who in their greatest cost

      Seek nothing but commending;

      And if they make reply,

      Spare not to give the lie.

      Tell Zeal it lacks devotion;

      Tell Love it is but lust;

      Tell Time it is but motion;

      Tell Flesh it is but dust;

      And wish them not reply,

      For thou must give the lie.

      Tell Age it daily wasteth;

      Tell Honour how it alters;

      Tell Beauty how it blasteth;

      Tell Favour that she falters;

      And as they do reply,

      Give every one the lie.

      Tell Wit how much it wrangles

      In fickle points of niceness;

      Tell Wisdom she entangles

      Herself in overwiseness;

      And if they do reply,

      Then give them both the lie.

      Tell Physic of her boldness;

      Tell Skill it is pretension;

      Tell Charity of coldness;

      Tell Law it is contention;

      And if they yield reply,

      Then give them all the lie.

      Tell Fortune of her blindness;

      Tell Nature of decay;

      Tell Friendship of unkindness;

      Tell Justice of delay;

      And if they do reply,

      Then give them still the lie.

      Tell Arts they have no soundness,

      But vary by esteeming;

      Tell Schools they lack profoundness,

      And stand too much on seeming.

      If Arts and Schools reply,

      Give Arts and Schools the lie.

      Tell Faith it’s fled the city;

      Tell how the country erreth;

      Tell, Manhood shakes off pity;

      Tell, Virtue least preferreth;

      And if they do reply,

      Spare not to give the lie.

      So, when thou hast, as I

      Commanded thee, done blabbing,

      Although to give the lie

      Deserves no less than stabbing,

      Yet stab at thee who will,

      No stab the Soul can kill!

Sir Walter Raleigh.

      OF A CERTAIN MAN

      THERE was (not certain when) a certain preacher

      That never learned, and yet became a teacher,

      Who, having read in Latin thus a text

      Of erat quidam homo, much perplexed,

      He seemed the same with study great to scan,

      In English thus, There was a certain man.

      “But now,” quoth he, “good people, note you this,

      He said there was: he doth not say there is;

      For in these days of ours it is most plain

      Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man’s certain;

      Yet by my text you see it comes to pass

      That surely once a certain man there was;

      But yet, I think, in all your Bible no man

      Can find this text, There was a certain woman.”

Sir John Harrington.

      A PRECISE TAILOR

      A   TAILOR, thought a man of upright dealing —

      True, but for lying, honest, but for stealing —

      Did fall one day extremely sick by chance,

      And on the sudden was in wondrous trance;

      The fiends of hell mustering in fearful manner,

      Of sundry colour’d silks display’d a banner

      Which he had stolen, and wish’d, as they did tell,

      That he might find it all one day in hell.

      The man, affrighted with this apparition,

      Upon recovery grew a great precisian:

      He bought a Bible of the best translation,

      And in his life he show’d great reformation;

      He walkéd mannerly, he talkéd meekly,

      He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly;

      He