The Paynters and the Glasiors Playe
Incipit pagina septima de pastoribus
One wouldes I have walked full wylde,
Under bushes my bower to builde,
From stiffe stormes my sheepe to sheilde,
My seemlye weithers to save;
From comelye Conwaye unto Clyde,
Under tyldes them to hyde,
A better sheaparde on no syde
No yeairthlye man maye have.
For with walkinge wearye I have me thoughte,
Besyde thee suche my sheefpe] I soughte,
My talefull tuppes are in my thoughte
Them to save and heale.
Or the rotte, yf yt were wroughte,
Yf the caughe had them caughte,
Of yt I coulde them heale.
Loe, here be my erbes safe and sounde,
Wislye wrought for everye wounde,
The woulde a wholl man bringe to grounde
Within a littill while;
Of henbane and horehounde,
Bybbey raydishe and egremounde,
Which be my erbes saffe and sounde,
Medled on a rowe.
I shall recken them on a rooe,
Fynter fanter, and ffetter foe,
And also penye wrytte.
This is all that I knowe,
For be it weither or be it yoo,
I shall them heale on a rooe,
Cleane from their hurte.
Heare is tarre in a potte,
To heale from the rotte;
Well I can and well I wotte
The caughe from them take.
Save my selfe alone in good faye;
Therfore after one faste will I crye,
But firste will I drinke, yf I maie.
Hic potet Primus Pastor
Howe, Harvye, howe!
Drive thy sheepe to the lowe;
Thou maye not heare excepte I blowe,
As ever have I heale.
Hic flabit Primus Pastor
It is noe shame for to shewe
Howe I was sette to sowe,
With the feither of a croe,
A clowte upon my heele. sitte downe
And thoughe me thinkes nedes,
Hade we Tudde heare by us sette,
Their mighte we sitte and feede us.
Yea, to feede us frendlye in faye,
Howe mighte we have our service aye,
Crye thou muste lowde, by this daie,
Tudde is deafe and [maye] not well heare us.
Secundus Pastor vocat submissa voce.
Howe, Tudde, come for thy father kyn.
Why, knowes thou not hym?
Fye, man, for shame!
Calle hym Tudde Tybbes sonne,
And then will the shrewe come,
For, in good faith, it is his wonne
To love well his dames name.
For yette have I not all done
That I have to doe;
To seithe salve for our sheepe;
And leste my wife shoulde it weete,
With grete gravill and greete
I skoure an oulde pane.
With tarre boyste muste be tamde,
Penye gresse and butter for fatte sheepe,
For this saulfe am I not ashamed;
Ashamed am I not to shewe
No poynte that longes to my crafte,
No better that I well knowe
In lande is no where lefte.
For to good men this is not unknowne,
To husbandes that be heare aboutes,
That iche man muste to his wife bowne,
And commonlye for feare of a cloute.
All is for feare of our dame Kenye,
Nowe will I caste my ware here by,
And hye faste that I were at Hancken.
Hancken, houlde up thy hande, and have me,
That I were on heighte their by thee.
For lothe me is to denye thee.
With good harte I thanke hym of his grace.
Wellckome be thou well fayer weither,
Tudde, will we shape us to some solace.
That we shape us to our suppere;
For meate and drinke well, I wene,
To eiche deede is moste deare.
What he hath lefte of his livereye;
And I will put fourth my piche,
With my parte, firste of us all three.
And suche store as my wife hade,
In your sighte sone shall you see,
At our begininge us for to glade.
For in good meate their is moche glee.
Heare is bread this daie was baken;
Onyans, garlicke, and leickes,
Butter that boughte was in Blackon,
And greene cheese that will greese your cheekes.
And whotte meate I hade to my hier;
A puddinge maye no man deprave,
And a jannacke of Lancaster shire.
Loe! heares a sheepes heade sawsed in ale,
And a grayne to laye on the greene,
And sower mylke my wife hade ordened,
A noble supper as well is seene.
And put out parte of my liverye,
And put out that I have in my pocke,
And a gygges foote from puddinge purye.
This hotte meate serveid here,
Gammons and other good meate in feare,
A puddinge with a pricke in the ende.
To sheapardes am I not ashamed;
And this tonge pared rounde aboute,
With my tonge it shalbe atamed.
Tunc comedent, et dicat Primus Pastor:
Byd me doe gladly, and I thee,
For by god here is good grawsinge.
Come eate with vs, god of heaven hye,
But take noe heede though ther be noe howsinge.
While that we have heaven over our heades
Nowe to weete our mouthes tyme were,
This flagette will I tame, yf thou reade us.
For heare is but of the beste;
Suche liccore makes me to live,
This game maye nowher be leftc.
Thinke we on hym that kepes our flockes.
Blowe thy home and [call] after Trowle,
And byde hym some of our bittlockes.
For that shrewe I suppose seekes us.
My horne to blowe I will not lette,
Tell that ladde have some of our leekes.
Suche a lade nowher in lande is.
Blowe a mote for that mittinge,
Whyle that home nowe in thy hande is.
That he and all heaven shall heare;
Yender ladde, that sittes on a lowe,
The lowde of this home shall heare.
Tunc cantabit, et dicat Trowle:
Good Lorde, loke one me!
And my flocke heare as the feed have;
On this woulde walke we woe,
Are no man heare that maye,
All is playne perdye;
Therfore, sheepe, we mone goe,
No better maye be
Of beastes that bloode and bone have.
Necessaryes that to me ne done,
Tarre boyste and tarre boyle
Ye shall see heare,
Nettell, hemlocke, and butter abydinge,
And my good dogge Dottinoule,
That is nothinge choyse of his chydinge.
Yf any man come me bye,
And woulde witte which waie were beste,
My legge I leifte up as I lye,
And wishe hym the waie este or weste.
I woulde thinke that travill loste.
For kinge nor ducke by this daie
Rise I will not, but take my reste.
Nowe here sitte downe I will,
Harmles, as I hastelye hope;
No man heare shall drinke,
Save my selfe, the devill of the sope.
All this bottill I sette at littill,
Naye, ye lades, kepe I not to lye thee;
For ye have manye a fowle fitte,
Thou fowle fylth, though thou flitte, I defye thee.
Trowle, take teene to my talkinge,
For thy teeith heare is good touginge,
While thy weithers bene walkinge,
And on this loyne thou maie have good luginge.
Youer lyverastes, livers and lounges!
You sause, your saustes, your saverye,
Your sittinge without anye songes.
On this hill I houlde me heare,
No hape to your hotte meate have I;
But sitte with my fellowes in freye,
And your sheepe full securlye save I.
Good knave, take kepe;
Seith thou maye not slepe,
Come eate of this sauce.
Stopped theirin for to stepe,
And the grobbes theiron doe crepe
At whom at thy howse.
Therfore meate, yf I maie,
Of your dightinge to daie
Will I naughte, by no waie,
Tell I have my wages.
I wende to have been gaye:
Se so ragged is myne araye,
Aye pynckes is your paye
To everye poore page.
Come eate a morscill with me,
And then wrastill will we
Here on this greene.
Though yt be with all three,
To laye my livereye,
That wages will I houlde.
Tunc ibit ad magistros suos, et dicat Trowle:
A turne to take have I tighte
With my maistores, or I rewe,
Put hym fourth that moste is of mighte.
Eate of this meate for a knighte.
All upon thy heade shall lighte.
Of a shrewe this to be shente?
And lose a lyme or he wente.
But ware leste your golions glette.
That were littill dole to our dame,
Though in meideste Dde the were drente.
On this grounde thou shalte have a falle.
Hente one and houlde that thou haste,
Yf thou hape have all goe to all.
Hancken, sheaparde, shame thee I shall;
Worth thou arte worse then thou was,
Ware leste thou walte here by the walle.
Tunc projiciat primum pastorem, et dicat Secundus Pastor:
Kneele downe and aske me a bone,
Leste I destroye thee heare on thes stones:
Cease, leaste I shame thee to sone.
Good were thee thy oulde ragges to save sounde;
Littill doute of suche drownes,
Leither tycke, for thy deedes are done.
But let me goe nowe to that lade!
Sheapardes he shames and shyndes,
For laste nowe am I out shade.
For all your boste I houlde you full bade;
Houlde your ersces and your hynder loynes,
Then hope I to have as I to-fore hade,
The better in the bore, as I hade before,
Of this boverte.
Yea, hope I more, kepe well thy store,
For feare of a farte.
Tunc projiciat tertium pastorem, et dicat Trowle:
My livereye nowe will [I] lache;
This curye, this cloute, and this cake,
For ye be caste nowe will I kache.
To the devill I all you betake,
And traytors ataynte of your tache,
One this woulde with this will I walke,
All the worlde wounder on the wache.
Et sic recedat Trowle, et dicat Primus Pastor:
That we bene this caste out of a knave;
All againste our willes he hase his,
But I muste nedes houlde the harme that I have,
Of thes unhappye harmes ofte here I:
Therfore will I wayte on this woulde
Upon the wedder, for I am wearye.
What betwene wrastlin^e and walkinge!
Ofte we maye be in thoughte, we be nowe under,
God amende yt with his makinge!
Tunc sedebunt, et Stella apparebit, et dicant:
That blackes so brighte heare,
On my blacke beyrde?
For to see this lighte heare,
A man maye be afrighte heare,
For I am freayde.
Maye we be all nowe,
A! yet it is nighte,
Yet seemes yt daie nowe,
Se I suche a sighte!
And a lighte leminge,
Lettes me to loke;
All to my deeminge,
From a starre streminge
Hit to me strocke.
To see will I founde,
Though mighte lighte fayle:
While I maye live in londe,
Why shoulde I founde,
Yf it will avayle?
Tunc respiciens firmamentum, et dicat Trowle:
A! God mighte is,
In vender starre lighte is,
Of the sonne this sighte is,
As yt nowe sheines.
A brighte starre to be,
Their to abyde.
From it we maye not fleye,
But aye glye on the glee,
Tell yt downe glyde.
Knele downe on our knye,
To the trewe Trenitie,
For to leade us to see
Our elderes Lorde.
In our prayer,
Wherto it will apente,
And why on highte here
The eayre is so cleare,
Nowe shall we be kente.
Guyde us some sighte,
Why that it is sente.
Before this nighte,
Was I never so afrighte
Of the fermamente.
Nowe is yt nighe daie,
So was it never;
Therfore I praye
The south us to saie,
Or that we desevere.
Tunc cantet angelus, Gloria in eoccelsis Deo et in terra pax hominibus bone voluntatis
Maye you not heare
This muttinge on heighte?
Yet no man was nere
Within our sighte.
Nowe am I sorye,
But more songe.
Such mirth more I
Woulde have amonge.
As I them demed,
That he sange.
Awreckinge me wened,
I wiste never woo.
That the sange to us all three!
Expounded shall yt be,
Or we hense passe;
For I am eldeste of degree,
And also beste, as seemes me:
Hit was glore glare with a glee,
Hit was nether more nor lesse.
Me thoughte that note ronne over the howse:
A semlye man he was and curyous,
But sone awaie he was.
And moche of cellsis was therto:
As ever have I reste or roo,
Moche he spake of glasse.
Therfore, fellowe, nowe stande by.
By my faith! he was some spie,
Our sheepe for to steale;
Or elles he was a man of our crafte,
For semlye he was and wounder dafte.
Our tuppes with tarre to tell.
Gurde Gabrill, when he so gloryed;
When he sange I mighte not be sorye,
Througe my breste bone bletinge he borned.
Sayde Gabrill when he beganne so,
He hade a moche better voyce then I have,
As in heaven all other have so.
For on that sadlye he sete hym,
Neither singes Sir, nor so well Sis,
Ney paxe merye Maude when she so met hym.
And therto I toke good intente;
All heaven mighte not a gone harre,
That noote on heighte when he up hente.
Up as pye he piped,
Suche a loden that is no lesse,
Never in my life me so liked.
That moch marville to me was,
And ever I quocke when the so shouted,
I durst not heade wher that it was.
Froo my mynde it shall not starte,
For he sange Bene voluntatis,
That is a crape that passeth all other.
Froo my harte it shall not starte;
He sange also of a Deo,
Me thoughte healed my harte.
And that worde Terre he tamed,
Therto I toke good intente,
And paxe also maye not be blamed,
For that to this songe I assente.
And singe I will and me imbrace,
That he will let us to be kente,
And to sende us of his grace.
For never in this worlde so well hase,
Singe we nowe I redde us shrille,
A merye songe us to solace.
Some songe will I assaye:
All men nowe singe after me,
For musicke of me learne you maie.
Singe troly loly troly loe.
Tunc cantabunt, et postea dicat Tercius Pastor:
That ys beste our songe to be,
To see the starre cleane maye,
The frute of that mayden freye.
Tell we come to that hollye stable;
To Bethelem bonne the lymes,
Folowe we it without anye fable.
Suche a frende loth us to fayle;
Lanche on, I will not be the laste,
Upon Marye for to marvayle.
Hic vadunt versus Bethlem.
For nowe the starre begineth to stonde;
Harvye, that bene our good happes,
We seene by our Savyour founde.
Hic apparet et dicat angelus:
Be ye not afrighte,
For this is Grodes mighte,
Take this in mynde:
To Bethelem nowe righte,
Ther you shall se in sighte,
That Christe is borne to nighte,
To ken all mankinde.
For with you I thinke to wende,
That Prince of peace for to praye,
Heaven to have at our ende.
And singe we all, I rede,
Some mirth to his magistie;
For certen nowe sheewe it in deed,
The kinges sonne of heaven is he.
Heare I see Marye,
And Jesus Christe faste by,
Lapped in haye.
And praye we hym of mercye,
And welckome hym worthelye,
That wo dose awaie.
And many mans moe is!
Christe Lorde, let us kysse
The crache or the clothes.
Buildes in my breste blesse,
Never after to doe amysse
Thinges that hym looth is.
Take heede howe his head is whore,
His beirde is like a buske of breyers,
With a pound of heaire about his mouth and more.
For to nape greatlye hym nedes;
Hartles is he nowe
For aye to his heales he heedes.
Righte well to her he heedes;
Worthy wighte, witte woulde,
Will we warne us worthye.
That my sonne you heither sente,
Through Godes mighte in magistie,
That in me lighte and heare is lente.
This man maried was to me,
For no syne ner suche assente,
But to kepe my virginitie,
And trewlye for no other intente.
As he was made through God allmighte,
Ordeyned lawes us to byncle,
Which that we shoulde kepe of righte,
Man and woman for to bynde,
Lawfullye them bouth to lighte,
To frutifye, as men maye fynde,
That tyme was wedded everye wighte.
As lawe woulde, her for to lere,
For noyse, nor sclaunder, nor treasspas,
And through that deed the devill to dare;
As toulde me Gabrill full of grace,
When I hade trussed all my geyer,
To have flede and never to have seene her face,
By hym was I areaisted their.
That shee lackles was of synne;
And when I harde that tockeninge,
From her durste I not tweyne.
Therfore goes fourth, preach this thinge,
All togeither and not in twene,
That you have seene youer heavenlye kinge
Comen, and all mankinde to myne.
That made all thinges of naughte,
Nowe we maie thanke thee icheone,
This is he that we have soughte.
Goe we nere anon,
With suche as we have broughte,
Ringe, bruche, ner precious stonne,
Lett us se yf we have oughte to proffer.
Let us doe hym homage.
Who shall goe firste! the page?
Therfore ye muste offer.
Borne in a crebe,
Mankinde unto thee
Thou haste made fullye.
Proffittes did tell thou shouldest be our succore,
Thus clarkes doth saye.
Loe, I bringe thee a bell:
I praie thee save me from hell,
So that I maye with thee dwell,
And serve thee for [aye].
And of heaven allsoe!
The feynde shall thee fell,
That ever hath bene false.
That stode us beforne;
Heale the, blessed full barne,
Loe, sonne, I bringe thee a flaggette,
Theirby heinges a sponne,
To eate thy pottage with all at nonne,
As I my selfe full ofte tymes have done,
With harte I praie thee to take.
That mankinde shall releeve!
Heale thee, froo unto Luciffier,
The which begyled Eve!
For in yeairth no we thou dwelleste.
Loe, sonne, I bringe thee a cape,
For I have nothinge elles:
This gueifte, sonne, I bringe thee is but small,
And though I come the hyndmoste of all,
When thou shall them to thy blesse call,
Good Lorde, yet thinke on me.
My state and felloshippe that I doe not lose,
For to save me from all yle sicknes,
I offer unto thee a payer of my wifes oulde hose;
For other dremes, my sonne,
Have I non for to geve,
That is worth anye thinge at all,
But my good harte, while I live,
And my prayers tell death doe me call.
For in this place or that I wende awaie,
Unto yender childe let us goe and praye,
As our maisters hath done us beforne.
Let us offer to this prince so deare,
And to his mother that mayden cleare,
That of her bodye hade bene borne.
This can I saie no more.
Nether goulde, silver, bruche, ner ringe,
Nor no riche robes mete for a kinge,
That I have heare in store:
But that yt lackes a stoppell,
Take thee heare my well [fayer] bottill,
For it will houlde a good pottill,
In faith, I can geve thee no more.
In full poore araye sittinge on her arme,
For to offer to thee I have no skorne,
Allthough thou be but a childe;
For jewell have I non to geve thee,
For to mantayne thy royall dignitie,
But my hude, then take it thee,
As thou arte god and man.
Alas! what have I for thee,
Save onlye my pipe?
Elles trewlye nothinge,
Were I in the rockes or in,
I coulde make this pippe,
That all this woode shoulde ringe,
And quiver, as yt were.
And be God thy selfe in thy manhoode,
Yet I knowe that in thy childehoode
Thou wylte for sweete meate loke,
To pull downe aples, peares, and plumes,
Oulde Joseph shall not nede to hurte his thombes,
Because thou hast not pleintie of crombes,
I geve thee heare my nutthocke.
For of synne naughte thou wotteste,
Thou haste brought fourth this daie
Godes sonne of mighteste moste.
Wherfore men shall saye,
Blessed in everye coste and place
Be thou memoriall for me and for us all.
And that we maie from syne fall,
And stande ever in thy grace,
Our Lorde God be with thee.
Singinge walke whomwardes;
Unkinde will I in no case be,
But preache ever that I can and crye,
As Gabryll taughte by his grace me,
Singinge awaye hense will I.
I will henge and aboute goe nowe,
To preache this in everye place,
And sheepe will I kepe non nowe.
For our misdeedes amendes to make;
For so nowe I will,
And to that childe whollye me betake;
For ever sickerlie
Sheaphardes crafte heare I forsake,
And to an ancker heare by,
I will in my prayers wache and wake.
To praise God to paie,
To walke by style and streete,
In wyldernes to walke ever;
And I will no man meete,
But for my livinge I shall them praie,
Barefoote on my feete,
And this will I live ever and aye.
This worlde I fullye refuce,
My misse to amende with mones.
Torne to thy felowes and kisse,
I eylde, for in youth
We have bene felowes, i-wysse,
Therfore lende us your mouthe,
And frendlye let us kisse.
Suche another sheaparde I not were.
Bouth framed and couth,
God grante you, amen.
Greate God, if thy wilbe.
Amen all singe you:
Good men, fares well!
God of his mighte grante you;
For heare nowe we make an ende,
Fare well, for we goe from you nowe.
Finis. Deo gracias! per me, Georgi Bellin. 1592.
Come, Lorde Jesu, come quicklye.
2018 Dec 12 22:23:26