A New Enterlude called Thersytes

A new Enterlude called Therſytes

Thys Enterlude Folowynge Dothe Declare howe that the greateſt boeſters are not the greateſt doers.

The names of the players

Therſites A boſter.

Mulciber A ſmyth.

Mater  A mother.

Miles  A knyght.

Telemachus A childe.

Therſites commeth in fyrſte hauinge a clubbe vppon his necke

Haue in a ruffler foorth of the greke lande

Called Therſites, if ye wyll me knowe

abacke, geue me roume, in my way do ye not ſtand

For if ye do, I wyll ſoone laye you lowe

In Homere of my actes ye haue red I trow

Neyther Agamenon nor Ulyſſes, I ſpared to checke

They coulde not bringe me to be at theyr becke

Of late frome the ſege of Troye I retourned

Where all my harnes excepte this clubbe I lost

In an olde houſe there it was quyte burned

Whyle I was preparinge vytayles for the hoſte

I muſt nedes get me newe, what so euer it coſt

I Wyll go ſeke aduentures, for I cannot be ydle

I wyll hamper ſome of the knaues in a brydle

It greueth me to heare howe the knaues do bragge

But by ſupreme Iupiter, when I am harnessed well

I shall make the dasters to renne in to a bagge

To hyde them fro me, as from the deuyll of hell

I doubte not but hereafter, of me ye ſhall heare tell

Howe I haue made the knaues for to play cowch quaile

But nowe to the ſhop of Mulciber, to go I wyll not faile

Mulciber muſt haue a ſhop made in the place and Therſites cōmethe before it sayinge a loude

Mulciber, whom the Poetes doth call the god of fyer

Smith vnto Iupiter kinge ouer all

Come foorth, of thy office I the deſyre

and graunte me my petiction, I aſke a thinge but ſmall

I wyl none of thy lightning, that thou art wont to make

for the goddes ſupernall for yre when they do ſhake

With whiche they thruste the gyauntes downe to hell

That were at a conuention heauen to bye and ſell

But I woulde haue ſome helpe of Lemnos and Ilua

That of theyr ſtele, by thy crafte, condatur mihi galea.

Mulciber What felowe Therſites, do ye ſpeake latyn nowe?

Nay, then farewell, I make god a vowe

I do not you vnderſtande, no latyn is in my palet

And then he muſt do as he wolde go awaye.

Therſites I ſay abyde good Mulciber, I pray yu make me a ſallet

Mulciber Why Therſites haſt thou anye wytte in thy head?

Woldeſt thou haue a ſallet nowe, all the herbes are dead

Beſyde that it is not mete for a ſmyth

To gether herbes and ſallettes to medle with

Go get the to my louer venus

She hath ſallettes ynough for all vs

I eate none ſuche ſallettes for now I waxe olde

and for my ſtomacke they are verye coulde

Therſites Nowe I praye to Iupiter that thou dye a cuckolde

I meane a ſallet with whiche men do fyght

Mulciber It is a ſmall taſtinge of a mannes mighte

That he ſhoulde for any matter

Fyght with a fewe herbes in a platter

No greate laude ſhoulde folowe that victorye

Therſites Goddes paſſion Mulciber where is thy wit & memory

I wolde haue a ſallet made of ſtele

Mulciber Whye ſyr, in youre ſtomacke longe you ſhall it fele

For ſtele is harde for to digeſt

Therſites Mans bones and ſydes hee is worſe then a beeſt

I wolde haue a ſallet to were on my hed

Whiche vnder my chyn wt a thonge red

Buckeled ſhall be

Doeſt thou yet parceyue me

Mulciber Your mynde now I ſe

Why thou peuyſſhe ladde

Arte thou almoſt madde

Or well in thy wytte

Gette the a wallette

Wolde thou haue a ſallette

What woldeſt thou do with it

Therſites I pray the good Mulciber make no mo bones

But let me haue a ſallet made at ones.

Mulciber I must do ſomewhat for this knaue

What maner of ſallet ſyr woulde ye haue.

Therſites I wold haue ſuch a one that nother might nor mayne

ſhoulde perſe it thorowe, or parte it in twayne

Whiche nother gonſt one, nor ſharpe ſpeare

Shoulde be able other to hurte or teare

I woulde haue it alſo for to ſaue my heade

yf Iupiter him ſelfe woulde haue me dead

And if he in a fume, woulde caſt at me his fire

This ſallet I woulde haue to kepe me from his yre.

Mulciber I perceaue youre mynde.

ye ſhall fynde me kynde

I wyll for you prepare

And then he goeth in to his ſhop,and maketh a

ſallet for hym at the laſte he ſayth.

Here Therſites do this ſallet weare

And on thy head it beare

And none ſhall worke the care

Then Mulciber goeth into his ſhop, vntyll he is called agayne.

Therſites Now woulde I not feare with anye bull to fyghte

Or with a raumpinge lyon nother by daye nor nyghte

O What greate ſtrength is in my body ſo luſty

Whiche for lacke of exerciſe, is nowe almoſt ruſtye

Hercules in compariſon to me was but a boye

When the bandogge Cerberus from hell he bare awaye

When he kylled the lyons, hydra, and the bere ſo wylde

Compare him to me and he was but a chylde

Why Sampſon I ſaye, haſt thou no more wytte

woldeſt yu be as strōg as I? come ſuck thy mothers tytte

Wene you that Dauid that lyttle eluyſhe boye

Should with his ſlinge haue take my life awaye

Nay ywys Golyath, for all his fyue ſtones

I woulde haue quaſhed his little boyſſhe bones

O howe it woulde do my harte muche good

To ſe ſome of the giauntes before Noes floud

I woulde make the knaues to cryecreke

Or elles with my clubbe their braynes I wyll breake

But Mulciber, yet I haue not with the do

My heade is armed, my necke I woulde haue to

And alſo my ſhoulders with ſome good habergyn

That the deuyll if he ſhote at me coulde not enter in

For I am determined greate battayle to make

Excepte my fumiſhenes, by ſome meanes may aſſake.

Mulciber Bokell on this habergyn as faſt as thou canne

And feare for the metinge of nother beaſt nor manne

yf it were poſſible for one too ſhote an oke

This habergyn wyll defende thee frome the ſtroke

Let them throwe mylſtones at the as thick as haile

yet the to kyll they ſhall their purpoſe faile

yf Maluerue hylles ſhoulde on thy ſhoulders light

They ſhall not hurte the, nor ſuppreſſe thy mighte

Yf Beuis of Hampton, Colburne and Guy

Will the aſſaye, ſet not by them a flye

To be briefe, this habergyn ſhall the ſaue

Bothe by lande and water, nowe playe the luſtye knaue

Then he goeth in to his ſhoppe againe

Therſites When I conſider my ſhoulders that ſo brode be

When the other partes of my bodye I do beholde

I verely thynke that none in chryſtente

With me to medele dare be ſo bolde

Now haue at the lyons on cotſolde

I wyll neyther ſpare for heate nor for colde

Where art thou king Arthur, & the knightes of the rounde table

Come,brynge forth your horſes out of the ſtable

Lo with me to mete they be not able

By the maſſe they had rather were a bable

Where arte thou Gawyn the curteſſe and Cay the crabed

Here be a couple of knightes cowardiſhe and ſcabbed

Appere in thy likeneſſe ſyr Libeus diſconius

Yf thou wilt haue my clubbe lyghte onthy hedibus

Lo ye maye ſee he heareth not the face

With me to trye a blowe in thys place

Howe ſyrray, approthe ſyr Launcelot de lake

What? renne ye awaie and for feare quake

Nowe he that did the a knight make

Thought neuer that thou any battaile ſhouldeſt take

yf yu wilt not come thy ſelf, ſome other of thy felowes ſend

To battaile I prouoke them, them ſelfe let them defende

To, for all the good that euer they ſe

They wyll not ones ſet hande to fight with me

O good lorde howe brode is my breſt

And ſtronge with all for hole is my cheſt

He that ſhould medle with me ſhall haue ſhrewde reſt

Beholde you my handes, my legges and my feete

Euery parte is ſtronge proportionable and mete

Thinke you that I am not feared in felde and ſtrete

Yes yes god wote, they geue me the wall

Or elles with my clubbe, I make them to fall

Backe knaues I ſaye to them, then for feare they quake

And take me then to the tauerne and good chere me make

The proctoure and his men I made to renne their waies

And ſome wente to hide them in broken heys

I tell you at a woorde

I ſet not a torde

By none of them al

Early and late I wyll walke

And London ſtretes ſtalke

Spyte of them greate and ſmall

For I thinke verely

That none in heauen ſo hye

Nor yet in hell ſo lowe

Whyle I haue this clubbe in my hande

Can be able me to withſtande

Or me to ouerthrowe

But Mulciber, yet I muſt the deſyre

To make me briggen yrons for myne armes

And then I will loue the as mine owne ſyre

For withoute them, I can not be ſafe frome all harmes

Thoſe once had, I will not ſette a ſtrawe

by all the worlde, for then I wyll by awe

Haue all my mynde, or elles by the holye roode

I wyl make them thinke, the deuyll caryeth them to the wood

yf no man wyll with me battayle take

A vyage to hell quickely I wyll make.

And there I wyll bete the deuyll and his dame

And bringe the ſoules awaye, I fullye entende the ſame

After that in hell I haue ruffled ſo

Sreyghte to olde purgatorye wyll I go

I wyll cleane that ſo purge rounde aboute

That we ſhall nede no pardons to helpe them oute

yf I haue not fyghte ynoughe this wayes

I wyll clymbe to heauen and fet awaye Peters kayes

I wyll kepe them my ſelfe, and let in a great route

What ſhoulde ſuche a fyſher kepe good felowes out

Mulciber Haue here Therſites briggen yrons bright

and feare thou no man manly to fyghte

Thoughe he be ſtronger then Hercules or Sampſon

Be thou preſt and bolde to ſet him vpon

Nother Amazon nor xerxes with their hole rable

the to aſſayle ſhall fynde it profytable

I warrante the they wyll fle fro thy face

as doth an Hare from the dogges in a chase

Would not thy blacke and ruſtye grym berde

Nowe thou art ſo armed, make anye man aferde

Surely if Iupiter dyd ſee the in this gere

He woulde renne awaye and hyde hym for feare

He wold thinke that Typhoeus the gyaunt were aliue

And his brother Enceladus, agayn with him to ſtriue

If that Mars of battell the god ſtoute and bold

In this aray ſhoulde chaunce the to beholde

He would yelde vp his ſworde vnto the

And god of battayle (he would ſay) thou ſhouldeſt be

Now fare thou wel go the world through

And ſeke aduenturus thou arte man good ynough.

Therſites Mulciber, whyle the ſtarres ſhal ſhyne in the ſky

And Phaetons horſes with the ſonnes charret ſhall fly

Whyle the mornynge ſhall go before none

And cauſe the darkenneſſe to vanyſſhe away ſoone

Whyle that the cat ſhall loue well mylke

And whyle that women ſhalloue to go in ſylke

Whyle beggers haue lyce

And cockneys are nyce

Whyle pardoners can lye

Marchauntes can by

And chyldren crye

Whyle all theſe laſte and more

Whiche I kepe in ſtore

I do me faythfully bynde

Thy kyndnes to beare in mynde

but yet Mulciber one thinge I aſke more

Haſte thou euer a ſworde now in ſtore?

I would haue ſuche a one that would cut ſtones

And pare a great oke down at once

That were a ſworde lo, euen for the nones.

Mulciber Truely I haue ſuche a one in my ſhoppe

that wil pare yron as it were a rope

haue, here it is, gyrde it to thy ſyde

Now fare thou well, Iupiter be thy guyde

Therſites Gramercye Mulciber wyth my hole harte

Geue me thy hande and let vs departe

Mulciber goeth in to hys ſhoppe againe, and Therſites ſaith foorth

Nowe I go hence, and put my ſelfe in preaſe

I wyll ſeeke aduentures, yea and that I wyll not ceaſe

If there be any preſent here thys nyghte

that wyll take vpon them with me to fighte

Let them come quickly, and the battayle ſhall be pyghte

Where is Cacus that knaue? not worthe a grote

that was wont to blowe cloudes oute of his throte

Which ſtale Hercules kine and hyd them in his caue

Come hether Cacus, thou lubber and falſe knaue

I wyll teache all wretches by the to beware

If thou come hether I trappe the in a ſnare

thou ſhalt haue knocked breade and yll fare

how ſay you good godfather that loke ſo ſtale

ye ſeeme a man to be borne in the vale

Dare ye aduenture wyth me a ſtripe or two

Go coward go hide the as thou waſt wonte to do

What a ſorte of daſterdes haue we here

None of you to battaile with me dare appeare

What ſaie you hart of gold, of countenaunce ſo demure?

Will you fighte with me? no, I am righte ſure

Fye bluſſhe not woman, I wyll do you no harme

Excepte I had you ſoner to kepe my backe warme

Alas lyttle pums why are ye ſo ſore afrayd?

I praye you ſhew how longe it is? ſence ye were a mayd

Tell me in myne eare, ſyrs, ſhe hathe me tolde

That gone was her mydenhead, at thruſtene yeare olde

Byr ladye ſhe was lothe to kepe it to longe

And I were a mayde agayne, nowe maye be here ſonge

Do after my connſel of maydens the hoole beuye

Quickly red your maydehed, for they are vēgeaūce heuy

Well, let all go, whye? wyll none come in

With me to fyghte that I maye pare his ſkyn

The mater commeth in.

Mater What ſaye you my ſonne wyl ye fyght? god it defende

For what cauſe to warre do you nowe pretende

Wyll ye committe to battayles daungerous

youre lyfe that is to me ſo precious.

Therſites I wyll go, I wyll go. ſtoppe not my waye

Holde me not good mother I hartely you pray

If there be any lyons, or other wylde beeſt

That wyll not ſuffer the huſband man in reſt

I wyll go ſeeche them and byd them to afeeſt

They ſhall abye bytterlye the comminge of ſuche a geſt

I wyll ſearche for them bothe in buſſhe and ſhrubbe

And laye on a lode with this luſtye clubbe

Mater O my ſwete ſonne, I am thy mother

Wylt thou kyll me and thou haſt none other

Therſites No mother no, I am not of ſuche iniquitye

That I wyll defyle my handes vpon the.

But be contente mother, for I wyll not reſt

Tyll I haue foughte with ſome man or wylde beaſt

Truely my ſonne yf that ye take thys way

Thys ſhall be the concluſion, marke what I ſhall ſay

Other I wyll drowne my ſelfe for ſorowe

And fede fyſhes with my body before to morowe

Or wyth a ſharpe ſwerde, ſurely I wyll me kyll

Nowe thou mayſt ſaue me, if it be thy wyll

I wyll alſo cut my pappes awaye

That gaue the ſucke ſo manye a daye

And ſo in all the worlde it ſhall be knowen

That by my owne ſonne I was ouerthrowen

Therefore if my lyfe be to the pleaſaunte

That whiche I deſyre good ſonne do me graunte

Therſites Mother thou ſpendeſt thy winde but in waſt

The goddes of battayle hyr fury on me hath caſt

I am fullye fyxed battayle for to taſte

O how many to deth I ſhall dryue in haſte

I wyll ruffle this clubbe aboute my hedde

Or els I pray god I neuer dye in my bedde

There ſhall neuer a ſtroke be ſtroken with my hande

But they ſhall thynke yt Iupiter doth thonder in ye land

Mater My owne ſwete ſonne I knelynge on my knee

And bothe my handes holdinge vp to the

Deſyre the to ceaſſe and no battayle make

Call to the pacience and Better wayes take

Therſites Tuſſhe mother, I am deafe I wyll the not heare

No no, yf Iupiter here him ſelfe nowe were

And all the goddes, and Iuno his wife

And louinge Minerua that abhorreth all ſtryfe

yf all theſe I ſaye, would deſyre me to be content

They dyd theyr wynde but in vaine ſpente

I wyll haue battayle in wayles or in kente

and ſome of the kuaues I wyll all to rent

where is the valiaunt knighte ſyr Iſenbraſe?

Appere ſyr I praye you, dare ye not ſhewe your face

where is Robin Iohn and little hode

approche hyther quickely if ye thinke it good

I wyll teache ſuche outlawes wyth Chryſtes curſes

How they take hereafter awaye abbottes purſes

whye wyll no aduenture appeare in thys place

where is Hercules with his greate maſe

where is Buſpris, that fed hys horſes

Full lyke a tyraunte, with dead mens corſes

Come any of you bothe

And I make an othe

That yer I eate anye breade

I wyll dryue a wayne

ye for neede twayne

Betwene your bodye and your heade

Thus paſſeth my braynes

wyll none take the paynes

To trye wyth me a blowe?

O what a fellowe am I

whome euerye man dothe flye

That dothe me but once knowe

Mater Sonne all do you feare

That be preſente here

They wyll not wyth you fyghte

you, as you be worthye

Haue nowe the victorye

wythoute taſtynge of youre myghte

Here is none I trowe

that profereth you a blowe

Man woman nor chylde

Do not ſet your mynde

To fyghte with the wynde

be not ſo madde nor wylde

Therſites I ſaye aryſe who ſo euer wyll fighte

I am to battayle here readye dyghte

Come hyther other ſwayne or knyghte

Let me ſee who dare preſente him to my ſyghte

Here with my clubbe readye I ſtande

yf anye wyll come to take them in hand

Mater There is no hope left in my breſt

To bring my ſonne vnto better reſt

He wyll do nothinge at my requeſt

He regardeth me no more thē a beſt

I ſee no remedye, but ſtyll I wyll praye

To god, my ſonne to gyde in his waye

That he maye haue a praſperous iournynge

And to bee ſaue at his returnynge

Sonne, god aboue graunte thys my oration

That when in battaile thou ſhalt haue concertacion

with your ennemies, other fare or nere

No wounde in them nor in you may appere

So that ye nother kyll nor be kylled

Therſites Mother thy peticion I praye god be fulfylled

For then no knaues bloude ſhall be ſpilled

Felowes kepe my counſell, by the maſſe I doo but crake

I wyll be gentyll enoughe and no buſeneſſe make

But yet I wyll make her beleue that I am a man

thincke you that I wyll fight? no no but wyth the can

Excepte I finde my enemye on thys wyſe

that he be a ſlepe or els can not aryſe

Yf his armes and his fete be not faſt bounde

I wyll not profer a ſtripe for a thouſande pound

Fare well mother and tarrye here no longer

For after proues of chiualry I do both thyrſte & honger

I wyll heare the knaues as flatte as a conger

Then the mother goeth in the place which is prepareth for her.

What how long ſhal I tary? be your hartes in your hoſe

will there none of you in battayl me appoſe

Come proue me whye ſtande you ſo in doubte

haue you any wylde bloude, that ye would haue let oute

A lacke that a mans ſtrengthe can not be knwen

Becauſe that he lacketh ennemies to be ouerthowen

Here a ſnaile muſte appere vnto him, and hee muſte loke fearefully vppon the ſnaile ſaienge

But what a monſter do I ſee nowe

Comminge hetherwarde with an armed browe

what is it? ah it is a ſowe

No by gods body it is but a greſtle

And on the backe it hath neuer a bryſtle

It is not a cow, ah there I fayle

For then it ſhould haue a long tayle.

What the deuyll I was blynde, it is but a ſnayle

I was neuer ſo afrayde in eaſt nor in ſouth

My harte at the fyrſte ſyght was at my mouth

Mary ſyr fy, fy, fy, I do ſweate for feare

I thoughte I had craked but to tymely here

Hens thou beeſt and plucke in thy hornes

Or I ſweare by him that crowned was with thornes

I will make the drincke worſe than good ale in yt cornes

Haſte thou nothynge elles to doo

But come wyth hornes and face me ſo

Howe, how my ſeruauntes, get you ſhelde and ſpere

And let vs werye and kyll thys monſter here

here Miles cometh in.

Miles Is not thys a worthye knyghte

that wyth a ſnayle dareth not fight

Excepte he haue hys ſeruauntes ayde

Is this the chaumpyon that maketh al mē afraid

I am a pore ſouldiour come of late frō Calice

I truſt or I go to debate ſome of his malyce

I wyll tarrye my tyme tell I do ſee

Betwixt hym and the ſnayle what the ende wyll be

Therſites Whye ye horeſon knauys, regard ye not my callinge

whye do ye not come and wyth you weapons brynge

why ſhall this monſter ſo eſcape kyllinge

No that he ſhal not and god be wyllinge

Miles I promyſe you, thys is as worthye a knyghte

as euer ſhall brede oute of a bottell byte

I thinke he be Dares of whom Uirgyll doth write

That woulde not let entellus alone

But euer prouoked and euer called on

But yet at the laſt he tooke a fall

And ſo within a whyle, I trowe I make the ſhall

Therſites By Gods paſſion knaues, if I come I wyll you fetter

Regarde ye my callinge and cryinge no better

why horeſons I ſaye, wyll ye not come

By the maſſe the knaues be all from home

They had better haue fette me an etrande at Rome

Miles By my trothe, I thynke that very ſkante

This lubber dare aduenture to fighte with an ant

Therſites Well ſeinge my ſeruauntes come to me will not

I muſt take hede that this monſter me ſpyll not

I wyll ioparde with it a ioynte

And other with my clubbe or my ſweardes poynte

I wyll reche it ſuche woundes

As I woulde not haue for. xl. M. poundes

Plucke in thy hornes thou vnhappy beaſt

what faceſt thou me? wilte not thou be in reſte

Why? wylte not thou thy hornes in holde

Thinkeſt thou that I am a cocklode

Goddes armes the monſter cometh towarde me ſtyll

Excepte I fyght manfully, it wyll me ſurely kyll

Then he muſt ſyghte againſt the ſnayle with his club

Miles O Iupiter Lorde doeſt thou not ſee and heare

How he feareth the ſnayle as it were a bere

Therſites Well with my clubbe I haue had good-lucke

Nowe with my ſworde haue at the a plucke

And he muſt caſt his club awaye.

I wyll make the or I go, for to ducke

And thou were as tale a man as frier ſucke

I ſaye yet agayne thy hornes in drawe

Or elles I wyll make the to haue woundes rawe

Arte not thou a ferde

To haue thy bearde

Pared with my ſwearde

   Here he muſt fighte then with his ſworde againſt the ſnayle, and the ſnayle draweth her hornes in.

Ah well, nowe no more

Thou mighteſt haue done ſo before

I layed at it ſo ſore

That it thoughte it ſhoulde haue be lore

And it had not drawen in his hornes againe

Surelye I woulde the monſter haue ſlaine

But now farewell, I wyll worke the no more payne

Nowe my fume is paſte

And dothe no longer laſte

That I did to the monſter caſt

Now in other countreis both farre and neare

Mo dedes of chyualrye I wyll go inquere

Miles Thou nedes not ſeke any further for redy I am here

I wyll debate anone I trowe thy bragginge chere

Therſites Nowe where is any mo that wyll me aſſayle

I wyll turne him and toſſe him bothe toppe and tayle

yf he be ſtronger then Sampſon was

who with his bare handes kylde lyons apas

Miles What nedeth this booſte? I am here at hande

That with the will fighte kepe the heade and ſtande

Surelye for al thy hye wordes I wyll not feare

To aſſaye the a towche tyll ſome bloude apeare

I wyll geue the ſomewhat for the gifte of a newe yeare

And he begynth to fight with him, but Therſites muſt ren awaye, and hyde hym behynde hys mothers backe ſayinge.

Therſites O mother mother I praye the me hyde

Throwe ſome thinge ouer me and couer me euery ſyde

Mater O my ſonne what thynge eldyth the?

Therſites Mother a thouſande horſemen do perſecute me

Mater Marye ſonne then it was time to flye

I blame the not then, thoughe afrayde thou be

A deadlye wounde thou mighteſt there ſone catche

One againſt ſo manye, is no indyfferente matche

Therſites No mother but if they had bent but ten to one

I woulde not haue auoyded but ſet them vppon

But ſeinge they be ſo many I ran awaye

Hyde me mother hyde me, I hartely the pray

For if they come hyther and here me fynde

To their horſes tayles they wyll me bynde

And after that faſſhyon hall me and kyll me

And thoughe I were neuer ſo bolde and ſtoute

To fyghte againſte ſo manye, I ſhoulde ſtande in doubte

Miles Thou that doeſt ſeke giauntes to conquere

Come foorth if thou dare, and in this place appere

Fy for ſhame doeſt thou ſo ſone take flighte

Come forth and ſhewe ſomewhat of thy myghte

Therſites Hyde me mother, hyde me, and neuer worde ſaye

Miles Thou olde trotte, ſeyſt thou any man come thys waye

well armed and weaponed and readye to fighte

Mater No forſothe Maiſter, there came none in my ſight

Miles He dyd auoyde in tyme, for withoute doubtes

I woulde haue ſet on his backe ſome clowtes

Yt I may take him I wyll make all ſlowches

To beware by him, that they come not in my clowches

Then he goeth oute, and the mother ſaith

Mater Come foorth my ſonne, youre enemy is gone

Be not afrayed for hurte thou canſt haue none

Then he loketh aboute if he be gone or not, at the laſt he ſayth.

Therſites Ywys thou dideſt wiſely who ſo euer thou be

To tarrye no longer to fighte with me

For with my clubbe I woulde haue broken thy ſkull

yf thou were as bigge as Hercules bull

why thou cowardely knaue, no ſtronger then a ducke

Dareſt thou trye mayſtries with me a plucke

whiche fere nother giauntes nor Iupiters fire bolte

Nor Beelzebub the mayſter deuyll as ragged as a colte

I woulde thou wouldeſt come hyther ones againe

I thincke thou haddeſt rather alyue to be flayne

Come againe and I ſweare by my mothers wombe

I wyll pull the in peeces no more then my thombe

and thy braines abrode, I wyll ſo ſcatter

That all knaues ſhall feare, againſt me to clatter

Then cometh in Telemachus bringinge a letter from his father Uliſſes, and Therſites ſaieth.

what? little Telemachus

what makeſt thou here amonge vs?

Telemachus Syr my father Ulyſſes doth hym commende

To you moſt hartely, & here he hath you ſende

Of hys mynde a letter

whiche ſhewe you better

Euery thynge ſhall

Then I can make reherſall

Here he muſt delyuer hym the letter

Therſites Lo frendes ye maye ſee

what great men wryte to mee

Here he muſt redde the letter

As entyrely as harte can thyncke

Or ſcryuener can wryte with yucke

I ſende you louynge gretynge

Therſytes myne owne ſwetynge

I am very ſorye

when I cast in memory

The great vnkyndneſ

And also the blyndneſ

That hath be in my breſt

Agaynſt you euer preſt

I haue be prompt and dylygent

Euer to make you ſhent

To appale your good name

And To mynyſſhe your fame

In that I was to blame

But well al this is gone

And remedy there is none

But onely repentaunce

Of all my olde greuaunce

with whiche I dyd you moleſte

And gaue you ſorye reaſt

The cauſe was thereof truelye

Nothinge but verye enuye

wherefore nowe gentyll eſquier

Forgeue me I you deſyre

And helpe I you beſeche

Telemachus to a leche

That hym maye wyſelye charme

From the wormes that do hym harme

In that ye maye do me pleaſure

For he is my chyefe treaſure

I haue hearde menne ſay

That come by the way

That better charmer is no other

then is youre owne deare mother

I praye you of her obtayne

To charme away his paine

Fare ye well, and come to my houſe

To dryncke wyne and eate a peece of ſowſe

And we wyll haue minſtrelſy

that ſhall pype hankyn boby

My wyfe penelope

Doth grete you well by me

wrytinge at my houſe on Candelmaſſe daye

Mydſomer moneth, the calenders of maye

By me Uliſſed beynge verye gladde

That the victorye of late of the monſter ye hadde

Ah ſyrraye quod he? how ſaye you frendes all

Uliſſes is glad for my fauoure to call

well, thoughe we ofte haue ſwerued

And he ſmall loue deſerued

Yet I am well contente

Seinge he dothe repente

To let olde matters go

And to take him no more ſo

As I haue do hyther to

For my mortall fo

Come go with me Telemachus, I wyll the bringe

Unto my mother to haue her cherminge

I doubte not, but by that tyme that ſhe hathe done

Thou ſhalte be the better ſeuen yeares agone

Then Therſytes goeth to his mother ſayinge

Mother Chriſte thee ſaue and ſee

Ulyſſes hathe ſende his ſonne to thee

That thou ſhouldeſt hym charme

From the wormes that hym harme

Mater Sonne ye be wife kepe ye warme

whye ſhoulde I for Ulyſſes doo

That neuer was kynde vs to

He was readye in warre

Euer the, ſonne, to marre

Then had bene all my ioye

Exiled cleaue awaye

Therſites Wel mother all that is paſt

Wroth maye not alwaye laſte

And ſeinge we be mortall all

Let not our wroth be immortall

Mater Charme that charme wyll, he ſhal not be charmed of me

Therſites Charme or by the maſſe with my club I wil charme the

Mater Why ſonne arte thou ſo wicked to beate thy mother

Therſites Ye that I wyll, by goddes deare brother

Charme olde witche in the deuils name

Or I wyll ſende the to him, to be his dame

Mater Alas what a ſonne haue I

That thus dothe order me ſpitefullye

Curſed be the time that euer I hym fedde

I woulde in my bely he had be deade

Therſites Curſeſt thou olde hore? bleſſe me againe

Or I wyll bleſſe the, that ſhall be to thy payne

Then he muſt take hyr by the armes, and ſhe crieth oute as foloweth.

Mater He will kyll me

He wyll ſpyll me

He wyll broſe me

He wyll loſe me

He wyll pricke me

He wyll ſtycke me

Therſites The deuyll ſtycke the olde wytherde witch

For I wyll ſticke nother the, nor none ſuche.

But come of geue me thy bleſſinge againe

I ſaye let me haue it, or elles certayne

With my clubbe I wyll laye the on the brayne

Mater Well ſeinge thou threateneſt to me affliction

Spite of my harte haue nowe my benediction

Nowe chriſtes ſwete bleſſinge and mine

Lighte aboue and beneath the bodye of thyne

And I beſeche with all my deuotion

That thou mayſte come to A mans promotion

He that forgeue Mary Mawdalene hyr ſynne

Make the hygheſt of all thy kynne

Therſites In this wordes is double intellimente

Wouldeſt thou haue me hanged mother veramente

Mater No ſonne no, but too haue you hye

In promotion, is my mynde verelye

Therſites Well then mother let all this goo

and charme this chylde that you is ſende to

and loke hereafter to curſe ye be not gredye

Curſe me no more, I am curſed ynoughe all readye

Mater Well ſonne I wyll curſe you no more

Excepte ye prouoke me to to ſore

But I meruaile whye ye do me moue

To do for Uliſſes that dothe not vs loue

Therſites Mother by hys ſonne he hathe ſende me a letter

Promyſynge heareafter to be to vs better

And you and I with my greate clubbe

Muſte walke to him and eate a ſolybubbe

and we ſhall make merye

and ſynge tyrle on the berye

With Simkyn ſydnam ſomner

that kylde a catte at comner

There the tryflinge tabborer trowbler of tunys

Wyll pyke Peter pybaker a penyworth of prunes

Nycholl neuer good a nette and a night cappe

Knytte wyll for kyt whoſe knee cawghte a knappe

Dauid dowghtye dyghter of datys

Gren with godfrey goodale wyll gretely at the gates

Thom tombler of tewxbury turninge at a tryce

wyll wype wylliam waterman if he be not wyſe

Symon ſadler of ſudeley that ſerued the ſowe

Hytte wyll Henrye hartleſſe he harde not yet how

Iynkyn Iaton that iabbed iolye Ione

Grynde wyll gromellede vntyll he grone

Prowde perts pykethancke, that pykid pernels purſe

Cut wyll the cakes thoughe Cate do crye and curſe

Roughe Robyn rouer rufflinge in ryghte rate

balde Bernarde braynles wyll bete and Benet bate

Folyſhe frederycke furburer of a farte

Dynge daniell deintye to deathe wyll with a darte

Mercolfe mouylts moreninge for mad Marye

Tyncke wyll the tables thoughe he there not tary

Andrewe all knaue alderman of Andwarpe

Hoppe wyll with holy hockes & harken humfreys harpe

It is to to mother the paſtyme and good chere

That we ſhall ſee and haue, when that we come there

Wherefore gentyll mother I the hartely praye

That thou wylte charme for wormes this pretye boye

Mater Well ſonne, ſeinge the caſe and mater ſtandeth ſo

I am contente all thy requeſt to do

Come hyther pretye childe

I will the charme frome the wormes wylde

but firſte do thou me thy name tell

Telemachus I am called Telemachus there as I dwell

Mater Telemachus lye downe vprighte on the grounde

And ſtyrre not ones for a thouſande pounde

Telemachus I am readye here preſte

To doo all youre requeſte

Then he muſt lay hym down with his bely vpward and ſhee muſte bleſſe hym frome aboue too beneath ſayinge a feloweth.

Mater The cowherd of Comertowne with his croked ſpade

Cauſe frome the, the wormes ſoone to vade

And iolye Iacke iumbler that iuggleth with a horne

Graunte that thy wormes ſoone be all to torne

Good graundſyre Abraham godmother to Eue

Graunte that this wormes no longer this chylde greue

All the courte of conſcience in cockoldſt yres

Tynckers and tabberets typplers tauerners

Tyttyfylles, tryfullers, turners and trumpers

Tempters, traytoures, trauaylers and thumpers

Thryftleſſe, theuyſhe, thycke and thereto thynne

the maladye of this wormes cauſe for too blynne

The vertue of the tayle of Iſaackes cow

That before Adam in paradyſe dyd lowe

Alſo the ioyſte of Moſes rod

In the mounte of caluarye that ſpake with God

Facie ad faciem, turninge tayle to tayle

Cauſe all theſe wormes quickly to fayle

The bottome of the ſhyppe of Noe

And alſo the legge of ye horſe of Troe

The peece of the tounge of Balaams aſſe

the chawbone of the Oxe that at Chriſtes byrth was

the eye to the of the dogge that wente on pylgremage

with yonge Thobye, theſe wormes ſone may ſwage

the butterflye of Bromemycham yt was borne blinde

The blaſte of the bottell that blowed Aelous wynde

The buttocke of the bytter boughte at Buckyngame

the bodye of the bere that wyth Beuis came

the backſter of Balockburye with her bakinge pele

Chylde fro thy wormes I praye, maye ſone the hele

The tapper of tauyeſtocke and the tapſters potte

The tothe of the tytmus, the torde of the gote

In the towre of tenyſballes toſtyd by the fyer

the table of Tantalus turned trym in myre

yt tombe of Tom thredbare yt thruſle tyb through yt ſmock

Make al thy wormes chylde, to come forth at thy docke

Sem Cam and Iaphat and coll the myllars mare

the fyue ſtones of Dauyd: that made goliath ſtare

the wing with whiche ſeit Mychaell dyd fly to his moūt

the counters wherwith cherubyn, did cheriſtones count

The hawke with whiche Iſſuerus kylde ſhe wylde bore

Helpe that theſe wormes my chylde, hurt the no more

the mawe of the morecocke that made mawd to mowe

when martylmas at moreton morened for the ſnowe

the ſpere of ſpanyſſhe ſpylbery ſprente wt ſpiteful ſpottes

the lyghtes of the lauerocke layde at London lottes

the ſhynbon of ſaint Samuell ſhyninge ſo as the ſunne

Graunt child of the wormes that ſone thy paines be don

Mother bryce of oxforde and greate Gyb of hynxey

Alſo mawde of thrutton and mable of charteſey

And all other wytches that walke in dymminges dale

Clytteringe and clatteringe there youre pottes with ale

Inclyne youre eares, and heare this my peticion

and graunte this childe, of healthe to haue fruition

the bleſſinge that Iorden to his Godſonne gaue

Lyght on my chylde and from the wormes him ſaue

Now ſtand vppe little Telemachus anone

I warrante the by to morow, thy wormes wyll be gone

Telemachus I thanke you mother in my moſt hartelye wiſe

wyll ye ſyr to my father commaunde me anye ſeruice

Therſites No pretye boye, but do thou vs two commende

to thy father and mother, tell them that we entende

Bothe my mother and I

to ſee them ſhortelye

Telemachus Ye ſhall be hartelye welcome to them I dare well ſay

Fare ye well, by youre leaue, now I wyll departe awaye

Therſites Sonne, geue me thy hande, fare well

Mater I praye god kepe the from parell

Telemachus goeth oute, and the mother ſayeth.

Ywys it is a proper chylde

and in behauioure nothinge wylde

Ye maye ſee what is good education

I woulde euery man after this faſſhion

Had their children vp broughte

then manye of them woulde not haue bene ſo nonghte

A chylde is better vnborne then vntaughte

Therſites Ye ſaye truthe mother, well let all this go

and make you readye Uliſſes to go to

with me anone, be ye ſo contente

Mater I am well pleaſed to youre wyll I aſſente

For all thoughe that I loue hym but verye euyll

It is good to ſet a candell before the deuyll

Of moſte parte of greate men I ſweare by thys fyer

Lyghte is the thancke but heauye is the ire

Fare well ſonne, I wyll go me to prepare

Therſites Mother God be wyth you and keepe you frome care

The mother goeth out, and Therſites ſayeth forth

What ſomeuer I ſaye ſyrs, I thyncke yll might ſhe care

I care not if the olde wytche were deade

It were an almoys dede to knocke byr in the heade

And ſaye on the wormes that ſhe dyd dye

For there be manye that my landes woulde bye

By goddes bleſſed brother

Yf I were not ſeke of the mother

thys totheles trotte kepe the me harde

And ſuffereth no money in my warde

But by the bleſſed trinitye

Yf ſhe will no ſoner ded be

I wyll with a coyſhiou ſtoppe hyr breath

tyll ſhe haue forgotte newe marketh heth

Yll myghte I fare

Yf that I care

Nyr to ſpare

Aboute the houſe ſhe hoppeth

and hyr noſe ofte droppeth

When the wortes ſhe choppeth

When that ſhe dothe brewe

I maye ſaye to you

I am redy to ſpew

the droppes to ſee downe renne

By all Chryſten menne

Frome hyr noſe to hyr knen

Fye Goddes bodye, it maketh me to ſpitte

to remember howe that ſhe doth ſytte

By the fyer brallynge

Scratchinge and ſcrallynge

and in euerye place

Leyenge oyſters apaſe

She dothe but lacke ſhelles

the deuyll haue they whytte, elles

At nyghte when to bedde ſhe goys

and pluicketh of her hoſe

She knappeth me in the noſe

with typpe, tappe

Flyppe, flappe

that an yll happe

Come to that tappe

that venteth ſo

Where ſo euer ſhe go

So muche ſhe daylye dryncketh

That hyr breath at both endes ſtyncketh

That a horſecombe and an halter

Hyr ſoone vppe talter

tyll I ſaye Dauydes pſalter

That ſhall be at neuermas

Whyche neuer ſhall be, nor neuer was

By this tenne bones

She ſerued me ones

A touche for the nones

I was ſicke and laye in my bedde

She broughte me a kerchyfe to wrappe on my heade

And I praye God that I be deade

Yf that I lye any whytte

when ſhe was aboute the kerchefe to knytte

Breake did one of the formes fete

that ſhe dyd ſtande on

And downe fell ſhe anone

And foorth withall

As ſhe dyd fall

She gyrded oute a farte

That me made to ſtarte

I thyncke hyr buttockes dyd ſmarte

Excepte it badde be a mare in a carte

I haue not harde ſuche a blaſt

I cryed and byd hyr holde faſt

with that ſhe nothinge agaſt

ſaid to me yt no woman in this lande

Coulde holde faſte that whyche was not in hyr hande

Nowe ſyrs, in that hole pitche and fyre brande

Of that bagge ſo fuſtye

So ſtale and ſo muſtye

So cankered and ſo ruſtye

So ſtinckynge and ſo duſtye

God ſende hyr as muche ioye

as my noſe hathe alwaye

Of hyr vnſauerye ſpice

Yf that I be not wyſe

and ſtoppe my noſe quickelye

When ſhe letteth goo merelye

But let all this go, I had almoſte forget

The knaue that here yerewhyles dyd iet

Before that Telemachus did come in

I wyll go ſeeche hym, I wyll not blynne

Untyll that I haue hym

Then ſo god ſaue hym

I wyll ſo be knaue hym

That I wyll make to raue hym

Wyth this ſwearde I wyll ſhaue hym

And ſtrypes when I haue gaue hym

Better I wyll depraue him

That you ſhall knowe for a ſlaue him

Then Miles cometh in ſayinge

Miles wylte thou ſo in deede?

Hye the make good ſpede

I am at hande here preſt

Put awaye tongue ſhakynge

and this folyſſhe crakynge

Let vs trye for the beſt

Cowardes make ſpeake a paſe

Srypes prouethe manne

Haue nowe at thy face

Keepe of if thou canne

And then he muſte ſtryke at hym, and Therſytes muſte runne awaye and leaue his clubbe & ſworde behynde.

Whye thou lubber runneſt thou awaye

and leaueſt thy ſwearde and thy clubbe thee behynde

Nowe thys is a ſure carde, nowe I maye well ſaye

That a cowarde crakinge here I dyd fynde

Mayſters ye maye ſee by this playe in ſighte

That great barking dogges, do not moſt byte

And oft it is ſene that the beſt men in the hooſt

Be not ſuche, that vſe to bragge moſte

Yf ye wyll auoyde the daunger of confuſion

Printe my wordes in harte and marke this concluſion

Suche gyftes of god that ye excelle in moſte

Uſe them wyth ſoberneſſe and youre ſelfe neuer bow

Seke the laude of God in all that ye doo

So ſhall vertue and honoure come you too

But if you geue youre myndes, to the ſinne of pryde

Uaniſſhe ſhall your vertue, your honoure away wil ſlide

For pryde is hated of God aboue

And meekeneſſe ſoneſt obtaineth his loue

to youre rulers and parentes, be you obediente

Neuer tranſgreſſinge their lawefull commaundemente

Be ye merye and ioyfull at borde and at bedde

Imagin no traitourye againſte youre prince and heade

Loue God and feare him and after him youre kinge

Whiche is as victorious as anye is lyuinge

Praye for his grace, with hartes that dothe not fayne

that longe he maye rule vs withoute grefe or paine

beſeche ye alſo that God maye ſaue his quene

Louely Ladie Iane, & the prince that he hath ſend them

to augment their ioy and the comonſ felicitie (betwen

Fare ye wel ſwete audiēce, god graunt you al proſperite

Amen.

Imprinted at London,

by Iohn Tyſdale and are to be ſolde

at hys ſhop in the vpper ende of Lombard ſtrete, in Alhallowes

churche yarde neare

vntoo grace

church.