Prologue of Robert Copland.
Copland.
WHY should I muse suche tryfles for to wryte
Or wanton toyes, but for the appetyte
Of wandryng braynes, that seke for thynges new
And do not reche if they be fals or trew.
Quidam.
With what newes? or here ye any tidinges
Of the pope, of the Emperour, or of kynges
Of martyn Luther, or of the great Turke
Of this and that, and how the world doth worke.
Copland.
So that the tongue must euer wagge and clatter
And waste their wyndes, to medle of eche matter
Thus ben we prynters called on so fast
That meruayle it is, how that our wittes can last.
Quidam.
With haue ye the takyng of the Frenche kyng
Or what conceytes haue ye of laughyng
Haue ye the balade called maugh murre
Or bony wenche, or els go from my durre
Col to me, or hey downe dery dery
Or a my hert, or I pray you be mery.
Copland.
Thus if our heades forged were of brasse
Yet shoulde we wexe as dulle as any asse
And al of baggage nought worthe in substaunce
But bokes of vertue haue none vtteraunce
As thus, syr I haue a very proper boke
Of morall wysdome please ye their on to loke
Or els a boke of comen consolation.
Quidam.
Tusshe a straw man, what should I do therewith
Hast thou a boke of the wydowe Edith
That hath begyled so many with her wordes
Or els suche a geest that is ful of bourdes
Let me se, I wyll yet waste a peny
Vpon suche thynges and if thou haue eny.
Copland.
How say ye by these, wyll ye bestowe a grote.
Quidam.
Ye syr so muche? nay, that I shorowe my cote
A peny I trow is ynough on bokes
It is not so soone goten, as this worlde lokes
By saynt Mary I cannot tell the brother
Money euer goeth for one thyng or for other
God helpe my fryende, this worlde is harde and kene
They that haue it wyll not let it be sene
But let that passe vn to another tyme
Haue ye not seene a prety geest in ryme
Of the seuen sorowes that these women haue
Whan that their husbandes been brought to graue.
Copland.
No I fayth, I dyd neuer here ther of
Quidam.
By God and it is a very propre scoffe
If it were prynted, it wyl be wel soulde
I haue heard it or now, ful madly tolde
Copland.
It may well be, but I wene I should gyt
Displeasure of women if that I prynt it
And that were I loth, for I haue alway
Defended them, and wyll to my last day.
Quidam.
Ah ha, than I se ye be wel at ease
Whan ye are afrayde women to displease
Copland.
What nede me gette angre, if I may haue tha n ke
In faythe I can not se, but as madde a pranke
As soone wyl a man do as a woman
Why should they be rayled and gested on than
And to say soth it is but a fond apetyte
To geste on women, or a gainst them to wryte
Quidam.
That is truthe, if they be good and honest
But this is but a mery bourdyng Ieest
Without reproufe, dishonesty or shame
That in no wyse can appayre their good name.
Copland.
That is good, but haue ye any copy
That a man myght enprynt it thereby
And whan I se it, than I wyll you tell.
If that the matter be ordred yll or well.
Quidam.
I haue no boke, but yet I can you shewe
The matter by herte, and that by wordes fewe
Take your penne, and wryte as I do say
But yet of one thyng, hertely I you praye
Amende the englysh somwhat if ye can.
And spel it true, for I shall tel the man
By my soule ye prynters make such englyshe
So yll spelled, so yll poynted, and so peuyshe
That scantly one cane rede lynes tow.
But to fynde sentence; he hath ynough to do
For in good fayth, yf I should say truthe
In your craft to suffer, it is great ruthe
Suche pochers to medle, and can not skyl
Of that they do, but doth al marre and spyl
I ensure you, your wardeins ben therof to blame
It hyndreth your gayne and hurteth your name
Howe be it, it is al one to mee
Whether ye thryue, or elles neuer thee.
Copland.
Wel brother. I can it not a mende
I wyl no man ther of dyscommende
I care not greatly, so that I nowe and than
May get a peny as wel as I can
Howe be it, in our crafte I knowe that there be
Connyng good worke men, and that is to se
In latyn and englysh, whiche they haue wrought
Whose names appereth, where they be sought
But to our purpose, nowe tourne we a gayne
And let me begyn to wryte a lyne or twayne.
Quidam.
Wyth al my hert, but fyrst I pray you say
Vnto all women that I them hertely pray
To haue me excused of thys homely dede
And what I say, of themselfe take no hede
Copland.
WHY should I muse suche tryfles for to wryte
Or wanton toyes, but for the appetyte
Of wandryng braynes, that seke for thynges new
And do not reche if they be fals or trew.
Quidam.
With what newes? or here ye any tidinges
Of the pope, of the Emperour, or of kynges
Of martyn Luther, or of the great Turke
Of this and that, and how the world doth worke.
Copland.
So that the tongue must euer wagge and clatter
And waste their wyndes, to medle of eche matter
Thus ben we prynters called on so fast
That meruayle it is, how that our wittes can last.
Quidam.
With haue ye the takyng of the Frenche kyng
Or what conceytes haue ye of laughyng
Haue ye the balade called maugh murre
Or bony wenche, or els go from my durre
Col to me, or hey downe dery dery
Or a my hert, or I pray you be mery.
Copland.
Thus if our heades forged were of brasse
Yet shoulde we wexe as dulle as any asse
And al of baggage nought worthe in substaunce
But bokes of vertue haue none vtteraunce
As thus, syr I haue a very proper boke
Of morall wysdome please ye their on to loke
Or els a boke of comen consolation.
Quidam.
Tusshe a straw man, what should I do therewith
Hast thou a boke of the wydowe Edith
That hath begyled so many with her wordes
Or els suche a geest that is ful of bourdes
Let me se, I wyll yet waste a peny
Vpon suche thynges and if thou haue eny.
Copland.
How say ye by these, wyll ye bestowe a grote.
Quidam.
Ye syr so muche? nay, that I shorowe my cote
A peny I trow is ynough on bokes
It is not so soone goten, as this worlde lokes
By saynt Mary I cannot tell the brother
Money euer goeth for one thyng or for other
God helpe my fryende, this worlde is harde and kene
They that haue it wyll not let it be sene
But let that passe vn to another tyme
Haue ye not seene a prety geest in ryme
Of the seuen sorowes that these women haue
Whan that their husbandes been brought to graue.
Copland.
No I fayth, I dyd neuer here ther of
Quidam.
By God and it is a very propre scoffe
If it were prynted, it wyl be wel soulde
I haue heard it or now, ful madly tolde
Copland.
It may well be, but I wene I should gyt
Displeasure of women if that I prynt it
And that were I loth, for I haue alway
Defended them, and wyll to my last day.
Quidam.
Ah ha, than I se ye be wel at ease
Whan ye are afrayde women to displease
Copland.
What nede me gette angre, if I may haue tha n ke
In faythe I can not se, but as madde a pranke
As soone wyl a man do as a woman
Why should they be rayled and gested on than
And to say soth it is but a fond apetyte
To geste on women, or a gainst them to wryte
Quidam.
That is truthe, if they be good and honest
But this is but a mery bourdyng Ieest
Without reproufe, dishonesty or shame
That in no wyse can appayre their good name.
Copland.
That is good, but haue ye any copy
That a man myght enprynt it thereby
And whan I se it, than I wyll you tell.
If that the matter be ordred yll or well.
Quidam.
I haue no boke, but yet I can you shewe
The matter by herte, and that by wordes fewe
Take your penne, and wryte as I do say
But yet of one thyng, hertely I you praye
Amende the englysh somwhat if ye can.
And spel it true, for I shall tel the man
By my soule ye prynters make such englyshe
So yll spelled, so yll poynted, and so peuyshe
That scantly one cane rede lynes tow.
But to fynde sentence; he hath ynough to do
For in good fayth, yf I should say truthe
In your craft to suffer, it is great ruthe
Suche pochers to medle, and can not skyl
Of that they do, but doth al marre and spyl
I ensure you, your wardeins ben therof to blame
It hyndreth your gayne and hurteth your name
Howe be it, it is al one to mee
Whether ye thryue, or elles neuer thee.
Copland.
Wel brother. I can it not a mende
I wyl no man ther of dyscommende
I care not greatly, so that I nowe and than
May get a peny as wel as I can
Howe be it, in our crafte I knowe that there be
Connyng good worke men, and that is to se
In latyn and englysh, whiche they haue wrought
Whose names appereth, where they be sought
But to our purpose, nowe tourne we a gayne
And let me begyn to wryte a lyne or twayne.
Quidam.
Wyth al my hert, but fyrst I pray you say
Vnto all women that I them hertely pray
To haue me excused of thys homely dede
And what I say, of themselfe take no hede