Primary Sources - 1500s, the poetry of John Skelton
Skelton was the poet laureate of England under Henry VII;
he also tutored the young Prince Henry, duke of York, who became the infamous Henry VIII.

              To Mistress Margaret Hussey
       
          Merry Margaret,
              As midsummer flower,
          Gentle as 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 endite,
              Or suffice to write
          Of merry Margaret,
              As midsummer flower,
          Gentle as falcon
          Or hawk of the tower.
              As patient and as still
              And as full of good will
              As fair Isaphill;
              Colyander,
              Sweet pomander,
              Good Cassander;
          Steadfast of thought,
              Well made, well wrought,
              Far may be sought
              Ere that ye can find
              So courteous, so kind
          As merry Margaret,
              This midsummer flower,
          Gentle as falcon
          Or hawk of the tower.
To Mistress Isabell Pennell
    By Saint Mary, my lady,
    Your mammy and your dady
    Brought forth a goodly baby!
    My maiden Isabell,
    Reflaring rosabell,
    The flagrant camamell,
    The ruddy rosary,
    The sovereign rosemary,
    The pretty strawberry,
    The columbine, the nepte,
    The jeloffer well set,
    The proper violet;
    Ennewèd your colour
    Is like the daisy flower
    After the April shower;
    Star of the morrow gray,
    That blossom on the spray,
    The freshest flower of May:
    Maidenly demure,
    Of womanhood the lure;
    Wherefore, I make you sure,
    It were an heavenly health,
    It were and endless wealth,
    A life for God himself,
    To hear this nightingale
    Among the birdes smale
    Warbling in the vale,
    Dug, dug, jug, jug,
    Good year and good luck,
    With chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck!
     
     
     
     
     
     
          With Lullay, Lullay, Like A Child
            WITH lullay, lullay, like a child,
            Thou sleepèst too long, thou art beguiled!

             "My darling dear, my daisy flower,
            Let me," quoth he, "lie in your lap."
            "Lie still," quoth she, "my paramour,
            Lie still hardily, and take a nap."
            His head was heavy, such was his hap,
            All drowsy, dreaming, drowned in sleep,
            That of his love he took no keep,
                  With hey, lullay, etc.

             With ba, ba, ba, and bas, bas, bas!
            She cherished him both cheek and chin
            That he wist never where he was;
            He had forgotten all deadly sin!
            He wanted wit her love to win:
            He trusted her payment and lost all his pay;
            She left him sleeping and stale away,
                  With hey, lullay, etc.

             The rivers rough, the waters wan;
            She sparèd not to wet her feet.
            She waded over, she found a man
            That halsèd her heartily and kissed her sweet;
            Thus after her cold she caught a heat.
            "My lief," she said, "rowteth in his bed;
            Iwys he hath an heavy head,"
                  With hey, lullay, etc.

             What dreamest thou, drunkard, drowsy pate?
            Thy lust and liking is from thee gone;
            Thou blinkard blowboll, thou wakèst too late;
            Behold thou liest, luggard, alone!
            Well may thou sigh, well may thou groan,
            To deal with her so cowardly.
            Ywis, pole-hatchet, she blearèd thine eye!
                        Quoth Skelton Laureate.
             
             
             
             
             
             

      A ballade of the Scottysshe Kynge
      (This is in the original old English.)
      Kynge Iamy, Iomy your. Ioye is all go
      Ye sommoned our kynge why dyde ye so
      To you nothyng it dyde accorde
      To sommon our kynge your souerayne lorde.
      A kynge a somner it is wonder
      Knowe ye not salte and suger asonder
      In your somnynge ye were to malaperte
      And your harolde nothynge experte
      Ye thought ye dyde it full valyauntolye
      But not worth thre skyppes of a pye
      Syr squyer galyarde ye were to swyfte.
      Your wyll renne before your wytte.
      To be so scornefull to your alye,
      Your counseyle was not worth a flye.
      Before the frensshe kynge, danes, and other
      Ye ought to honour your lorde and brother
      Trowe ye syr Iames his noble grace,
      For you and your scottes wolde tourne his face
      Now ye proude scottes of gelawaye.
      For your kynge may synge welawaye
      Now must ye knowe our kynge for your regent,
      Your souerayne lorde and presedent,
      In hym is figured melchisedeche
      And ye be desolate as armeleche
      He is our noble champyon.
      A kynge anoynted and ye be non
      Thrugh your counseyle your fader was slayne
      Wherfore I fere ye wyll suffre payne,
      And ye proude scottes of dunbar
      Parde ye be his homager.
      And suters to his parlyment,
      Ye dyde not your dewty therin.
      Wyerfore ye may it now repent
      Ye bere yourselfe somwhat to bolde,
      Therfore ye haue lost your copyholde.
      Ye be boundetenauntes to his estate.
      Gyue vp yovr game ye playe chekmate.
      For to the castell of norham
      I vnderstonde to soone ye cam.
      For a prysoner there now ye be
      Eyther to the deuyll or the trinite.
      Thanked be saynte Gorge our ladyes knythe
      Your pryd is paste adwe good nycht.
      Ye haue determyned to make a fraye
      Our kynge than beynge out of the waye
      But by the power and myght of god
      Ye were beten weth your owne rod
      By your wanton wyll syr at a worde
      Ye haue loste spores, cotearmure, and sworde
      Ye had bee better to haue busked to huntley_bankes,
      Than in Englonde to playe ony suche prankes
      But ye had some wyld sede to sowe.
      Therfore ye be layde now full lowe,
      Your power coude no lenger attayne
      Warre with our kynge to meyntayne.
      Of the kynge of nauerne ye may take hede,
      How vnfortunately he doth now spede,
      In double walles now he dooth dreme.
      That is a kynge witout a realme
      At hym example ye wolde none take.
      Experyence hath brought you in the same brake
      Of the outyles ye roughfoted scottes,
      We have well eased you of the bottes
      Ye rowe ranke scottes and dronken danes
      Of our englysshe bowes ye haue fette your banes.
      It is not syttynge in tour nor towne,
      A somner to were a kynges crowne
      That noble erle the whyte Lyon.
      Your pompe and pryde hath layde a downe
      His sone the lorde admyrall is full good.
      His swerde hath bathed in the scottes blode
      God saue kynge. Henry and his lordes all
      And sende the frensshe kynge suche another fall

      Amen, for saynt charyte And god saue noble.
      Kynge Henry, The .viij.
       

to Primary Sources 1