Youre ugly tokyn My mynd hath brokyn From worldly lust; For I have dyscust We ar but dust, And dy we must. It is generall To be mortall I have well espyde No man may hym hyde From Deth holow eyed, With synnews wyderyd, With bonys shyderyd, With hys worme etyn maw, And hys gastly jaw Nakyd of hyde, Neyther flesh nor fell. Loke that ye spell Well thys gospell; For wher so we dwell Deth wyll us qwell, And with us mell. Oure days be datyd, To be chekmatyd With drawttys of deth, Stoppyng oure breth; Oure eyen synkyng, Oure bodys stynkyng, Oure gummys grynnyng, Oure soulys brynnyng! To whom, then, shall we sew For to haue rescew, But to swete Jesu On us then for to rew? O goodly chyld Of Mary mylde, Then be oure shylde! That we be not exyld To the dyne dale Of boteles bale, Nor to the lake Of fendys blake. But graunt us grace To se thy face, And to purchace Thyne hevenly place, And thy palace, Full of solace, Above the sky That is so hy, Eternally To beholde and se The Trynyte! Amen. Myrres vous y...

Merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as a falcon Or hawk of the tower: With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly Her demeaning In every thing, Far, far passing That I can indite, Or suffice to write Of Merry Margaret As patient and still And as full of good will As fair Isaphill, Coriander, Sweet pomander, Good Cassander, Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought, Far may be sought Ere that ye can find So courteous, so kind...

He shall be as now nameles, But he shall not be blameles, Nor he shall not be shameles; For sure he wrought amys, To hawke in my church of Dys.. He made his hawke to fly, With hogeous showte and cry. The hy auter he strypte naked; There on he stode, and craked; He shoke downe all the clothis, And sware horrible othes Before the face of God, By Moyses and Arons rod, Or that he thens yede, His hawke shulde pray and fede Upon a pigeons maw. The bloude ran downe raw Upon the auter stone. His seconde hawke wexid gery, And was with flying wery; She had flowin so oft, That on the rode loft She perkyd her to rest. The fauconer then was prest, Came runnynge with a dow, And cryed, ‘Stow, stow, stow!’ Her mete was very crude, She had not wel endude; She was not clene ensaymed, She was not well reclaymed Full upon the gorge. I wyll not fayne nor forge; The hawke with that clap Fell downe with evyll hap. The church dores were sparred, Fast boltyd and barryd, Yet wyth a prety gyn I fortuned to come in, This rebell to beholde, Wherof I hym controlde; But he sayde that he woulde Agaynst my mynde and wyll In my churche hawke styll. On Saynt John decollacion He hawked on this facion, But who so that lokys In the officiallis bokys, Ther he may se and reed That this is matter indeed. How be it, mayden Meed, Made theym to be agreed; And so the Scrybe was feed, And the Pharasay Then durst nothing say, But let the matter slyp, And made truth to trip; Ware the hawke! Maister sophista, Ye simplex silogista, Ye develysh dogmatista, Your hawke on your fista, To hawke when you lista In ecclesia ista, Ware the hawke! icculo lutveris est colo bunraaran Nixphedras visarum caniuter tuntantes Raterplas Natanbrian umsudus itnugenus. 18.10.2.11.19.4.13.3.4.1.tenvalet. Chartula stet, precor, hec nullo temeranda petulco: Hos rapiet numeros non homo, sed mala bos. Ex parte rem cartae adverte aperte, pone musam Arethusam hanc. Ware the hawke! This dowtles ye ravyd, Dys church ye thus depravyd; Wherfore, as I be savyd, Ye are therefore beknavyd. Ware he hawke!