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.
From the shrewde scabe it soughte,
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.
Here be more erbes, I tell it you,
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.
But no fellowshippe heare have I,
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
Felowe, nowe we be well mete,
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.
Naye, faye, thy voyce is wounderous dynie;
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.
Howe, Tudde, Tybbes sonne!
Sir, in faith nowe I come,
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.
Hemlocke and hereife take kepe,
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.
This for clowtes nowe care I,
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.
Gladlye, sir, yf thou woulde be by me,
For lothe me is to denye thee.
Nowe seinge God hath gaithred us togeither,
With good harte I thanke hym of his grace.
Wellckome be thou well fayer weither,
Tudde, will we shape us to some solace.
Solace woulde beste be seene
That we shape us to our suppere;
For meate and drinke well, I wene,
To eiche deede is moste deare.
Laye fourth iche man aleiche
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 heare ale of Halton I have,
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.
Nowe will I caste of my cloke,
And put out parte of my liverye,
And put out that I have in my pocke,
And a gygges foote from puddinge purye.
Abyde, fellowes, and you shall see here
This hotte meate serveid here,
Gammons and other good meate in feare,
A puddinge with a pricke in the ende.
My secchell to shake oute
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.
Howseinge enoffe have we heare,
While that we have heaven over our heades
Nowe to weete our mouthes tyme were,
This flagette will I tame, yf thou reade us.
And of this bottill nowe will I bibbe,
For heare is but of the beste;
Suche liccore makes me to live,
This game maye nowher be leftc.
Fellowes, nowe our bellye be full,
Thinke we on hym that kepes our flockes.
Blowe thy home and [call] after Trowle,
And byde hym some of our bittlockes.
Well sayde, Hancken, by my south,
For that shrewe I suppose seekes us.
My horne to blowe I will not lette,
Tell that ladde have some of our leekes.
Leekes to his livereye is likinge,
Suche a lade nowher in lande is.
Blowe a mote for that mittinge,
Whyle that home nowe in thy hande is.
With this home I shall make a howe
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.
Wotte I not daie nor nighte,
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.
And I rose when I laye,
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.
Fye on your loynes and on youer livereye!
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.
For thou saves our sheepe,
Good knave, take kepe;
Seith thou maye not slepe,
Come eate of this sauce.
Naye, the durte is so depe
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.
Trowle, boye, for Godes fee!
Come eate a morscill with me,
And then wrastill will we
Here on this greene.
That shall I never fleye,
Though yt be with all three,
To laye my livereye,
That wages will I houlde.
Tunc ibit ad magistros suos, et dicat Trowle:
Nowe comes Trowle the trewe,
A turne to take have I tighte
With my maistores, or I rewe,
Put hym fourth that moste is of mighte.
Trowle, better never thou knewe,
Eate of this meate for a knighte.
Naye, spare I will, thoughe I spewe,
All upon thy heade shall lighte.
Howe shoulde we suffer all this shame,
Of a shrewe this to be shente?
This ladde luste to be lamde,
And lose a lyme or he wente.
Have done, begyne we this game,
But ware leste your golions glette.
That were littill dole to our dame,
Though in meideste Dde the were drente.
False lade, fye on thy face,
On this grounde thou shalte have a falle.
Hente one and houlde that thou haste,
Yf thou hape have all goe to all.
And these sires heare to solace,
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:
Boye, leste I breake thy bones,
Kneele downe and aske me a bone,
Leste I destroye thee heare on thes stones:
Cease, leaste I shame thee to sone.
Gloe thee to greynes and groundes,
Good were thee thy oulde ragges to save sounde;
Littill doute of suche drownes,
Leither tycke, for thy deedes are done.
Out, alas! he lyes on his loynes,
But let me goe nowe to that lade!
Sheapardes he shames and shyndes,
For laste nowe am I out shade.
Bouth your backes heare to me bendes,
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:
Lye their, leither in the lacke,
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:
Fellowes, this a fowle case is,
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,
That I have nedes muste I houlde,
Of thes unhappye harmes ofte here I:
Therfore will I wayte on this woulde
Upon the wedder, for I am wearye.
Thoughe we be weayrie, no wounder,
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:
What is all this lighte here,
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.
Freayde, for a fraye nowe,
Maye we be all nowe,
A! yet it is nighte,
Yet seemes yt daie nowe,
Se I suche a sighte!
Suche a sighte seeminge,
And a lighte leminge,
Lettes me to loke;
All to my deeminge,
From a starre streminge
Hit to me strocke.
That starre, yf yt stande,
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.
It seemes as I nowe see
A brighte starre to be,
Their to abyde.
From it we maye not fleye,
But aye glye on the glee,
Tell yt downe glyde.
Fellowes, will we
Knele downe on our knye,
To the trewe Trenitie,
For to leade us to see
Our elderes Lorde.
Our Lorde will us lere
In our prayer,
Wherto it will apente,
And why on highte here
The eayre is so cleare,
Nowe shall we be kente.
Lorde, of this lighte
Guyde us some sighte,
Why that it is sente.
Before this nighte,
Was I never so afrighte
Of the fermamente.
Wyste I, by my faye!
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
Fellowes in feare,
Maye you not heare
This muttinge on heighte?
A glore and in glere,
Yet no man was nere
Within our sighte.
Naye, it was a glorye!
Nowe am I sorye,
But more songe.
Of this strange storye
Such mirth more I
Woulde have amonge.
As I them demed,
Scellsis it seemed
That he sange.
While the lighte lemed,
Awreckinge me wened,
I wiste never woo.
What songe was this, saye ye,
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.
Nay, it was glori, glory, glorious!
Me thoughte that note ronne over the howse:
A semlye man he was and curyous,
But sone awaie he was.
Naye, it was glory, glory, with a glo!
And moche of cellsis was therto:
As ever have I reste or roo,
Moche he spake of glasse.
Naye, yt was nether glasse nor glye;
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.
Naye, he came by nighte, all thinge lefte,
Our tuppes with tarre to tell.
Nay, on a glore, on a glory, on a glye!
Gurde Gabrill, when he so gloryed;
When he sange I mighte not be sorye,
Througe my breste bone bletinge he borned.
Nay, be God! it was a gloria,
Sayde Gabrill when he beganne so,
He hade a moche better voyce then I have,
As in heaven all other have so.
Will ye heare howe he sange selsis?
For on that sadlye he sete hym,
Neither singes Sir, nor so well Sis,
Ney paxe merye Maude when she so met hym.
One tyme he touched on terre,
And therto I toke good intente;
All heaven mighte not a gone harre,
That noote on heighte when he up hente.
And after of paxe or of peace,
Up as pye he piped,
Suche a loden that is no lesse,
Never in my life me so liked.
Upon omnibus he mutted,
That moch marville to me was,
And ever I quocke when the so shouted,
I durst not heade wher that it was.
Yet he sange more then all this;
Froo my mynde it shall not starte,
For he sange Bene voluntatis,
That is a crape that passeth all other.
Yet [and] yet, he sange more to,
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.
Nowe praye we to hym with good intente,
And singe I will and me imbrace,
That he will let us to be kente,
And to sende us of his grace.
Nowe seith I have all my will,
For never in this worlde so well hase,
Singe we nowe I redde us shrille,
A merye songe us to solace.
Singe we nowe, lettes see,
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:
Nowe wende we fourth to Beathlem,
That ys beste our songe to be,
To see the starre cleane maye,
The frute of that mayden freye.
Nowe folowe we the starre that shyneth,
Tell we come to that hollye stable;
To Bethelem bonne the lymes,
Folowe we it without anye fable.
Folowe we it, and hies full faste,
Suche a frende loth us to fayle;
Lanche on, I will not be the laste,
Upon Marye for to marvayle.
Hic vadunt versus Bethlem.
Stynte nowe, goe no more steppes,
For nowe the starre begineth to stonde;
Harvye, that bene our good happes,
We seene by our Savyour founde.
Hic apparet et dicat angelus:
Sheapardes, of this sighte
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.
To Bethlem take we the waye,
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.
Sym, Sym, sickerlye
Heare I see Marye,
And Jesus Christe faste by,
Lapped in haye.
Kneyle we downe in hye,
And praye we hym of mercye,
And welckome hym worthelye,
That wo dose awaie.
Awaye all our wo is,
And many mans moe is!
Christe Lorde, let us kysse
The crache or the clothes.
Solace nowe, to see this,
Buildes in my breste blesse,
Never after to doe amysse
Thinges that hym looth is.
Whatever this oulde man that heare 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.
More is this marvayle to me nowe,
For to nape greatlye hym nedes;
Hartles is he nowe
For aye to his heales he heedes.
Why, with his beirde, though it hydes,
Righte well to her he heedes;
Worthy wighte, witte woulde,
Will we warne us worthye.
Sheapardes, southlye I see
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.
Good men, Moyses takes in mynde,
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.
Therfore wedded to her I was,
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.
For he sayde to me sleapinge
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.
Greate God, sittinge in thy throne,
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?
Naye, ye be father of age,
Therfore ye muste offer.
Heale, kinge of heaven so hie!
Borne in a crebe,
Mankinde unto thee
Thou haste made fullye.
Heale, kinge! borne in a maydens bower,
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].
Heale the, emperower of hell,
And of heaven allsoe!
The feynde shall thee fell,
That ever hath bene false.
Heale the, maker of the starre,
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.
Heale, prince without anye peare,
That mankinde shall releeve!
Heale thee, froo unto Luciffier,
The which begyled Eve!
Heale the, granter of happe,
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 dere, with dutye unto thee I me dresse,
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.
The First Boye
Nowe to my fellowes this will I saye,
For in this place or that I wende awaie,
Unto yender childe let us goe and praye,
As our maisters hath done us beforne.
The Seconde Boye
And of suche goodes as we have heare
Let us offer to this prince so deare,
And to his mother that mayden cleare,
That of her bodye hade bene borne.
The Fyrste Boye
Abyde, syres, I will goe firste to yender kinge.
The Secound Boye
And I will goe nexte to that lordinge.
The Thirde Boye
Then wilbe I the laste of this offeringe,
This can I saie no more.
The Firste [Boye]
Nowe, Lorde, for to geve thee have I nothinge,
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.
The Secounde Boye
Lorde, thou arte of this virgine borne,
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.
The Thirde Boye
O, noble childe of thee!
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.
The Fourth Boye
Nowe, childe, allthough thou be comon from God,
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.
Nowe fare well, mother and maye,
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.
Brethren, let us all three
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.
Over the sea, and I maye have grace,
I will henge and aboute goe nowe,
To preache this in everye place,
And sheepe will I kepe non nowe.
I redde we us agree
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.
And I am heare meke
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.
For aye ever ones,
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.
From London to Louth
Suche another sheaparde I not were.
Bouth framed and couth,
God grante you, amen.
To that blesse bringe you,
Greate God, if thy wilbe.
Amen all singe you:
Good men, fares well!
Well for to fare iche frende,
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 Nov 08 14:38:26