John Heywood the Play of the Wether and A Mery Play Betwene Johan Johan, the Husbande Tyb, His Wife, &c

Edited with Critical Essay and Notes
by Alfred W. Pollard, M.A.,
St. John's College, Oxford

Critical Essay

Life.—The first authentic record of John Heywood is one of 6 January, 1515, in Henry VIII.'s Book of Payments, which shows him to have then been one of the King's singing men, in receipt of a daily wage of eightpence. According to Bale, who must have known him, he was "civis Londinensis," the story that he was born at North Mimms, Hertfordshire, having apparently arisen from his possession of land in that neighbourhood. Tradition has sent him to Broadgates Hall, now Pembroke College, Oxford, and there is nothing improbable in this. In February, 1521, Heywood was granted by the King an annuity of ten marks, and in 1526, a quarterly payment of the same sum was made him as a "player of the virginals." He appears to have been specially attached to the retinue of the Princess Mary, a payment being made in January, 1537, to his servant for bringing her "regalles" (or hand-organ) from London to Greenwich, and Heywood himself in March, 1538, receiving forty shillings for "pleying an interlude with his children" before her. At Mary's coronation Heywood made her a Latin speech in St. Paul's Churchyard, and in November, 1558, the Queen granted him some leases in Yorkshire. On the accession of Elizabeth, Heywood, though he had steered through the reign of Edward VI. with safety, fled to Malines, and Professor Ward (in the Dictionary of National Biography) identifies him with the John Heywood who in 1575 wrote from Malines, "where I have been despoiled by Spanish and German soldier," thanking Burghley for ordering the payment to him of some arrears on lands at Romney, and speaking of himself as an old man of seventy-eight, which would give 1497 as his birth-year. He is mentioned in a list of refugees in 1577, but by 1587 is spoken of as "dead and gone." Earlier biographers, it should be noted, following Anthony à Wood, have placed his death in 1565. Besides his plays Heywood wrote a Dialogue Conteyning the Number of the Effectuall Prouerbes in the Englishe Tonge, Six Hundred Epigrams, and a tedious allegory The Spider and the Flie, printed, with a woodcut of the author, in 1556.

Heywood's Place in English Comedy.—The early history of English comedy is a record of successive efforts and experiments apparently leading to no result. The comic scenes in the miracle plays culminate in the really masterly sheep-stealing plot of the Secunda Pastorum in the Towneley Cycle; but the step which seems to us so obvious, the separation of the Pastoral Comedy from its religious surroundings, was never taken, and the Secunda Pastorum stands by itself, a solitary masterpiece. In the earlier moralities there are flashes of humour as in the miracle plays; in the later moralities we find scenes in which the effort to paint the riotous course of Youth, though not very amusing to modern readers, is sufficiently faithful to bring us within sight of a possible comedy of manners. But the morality-writer was far from entertaining any conception of comedy as an end in itself. His aim remained to the last purely didactic. It did not, indeed, occur to him, as it occurred to didactic writers of a later period, to represent dissipation as so unattractive as to make it miraculous that it should attract. He would show it as bitter of digestion, but neither playwright nor audience were concerned to deny that it was pleasant in the mouth, and it is improbable that readiness to acquiesce in the sober moral of a play diminished in the least the applause with which, we may be sure, any approach to gayety in the tavern scenes would be attended. After all, though we may sometimes be inclined to doubt it, audiences both at miracle plays and moralities were human. To the very real strain imposed on their emotions in the miracle plays they needed what seem to us these incongruous interludes of humour by way of dramatic relief, and in the moralities it is difficult not to believe that the humour supplied the gilding without which the didactic pill, at a much earlier date, must have been found nauseating. It remains, however, certain that alike in the miracle plays, the moralities, and the moral interludes such humour as can be found is merely incidental, and this is the justification for assigning to John Heywood the honourable position which he occupies in this collection of English comedies. As far as we know, he was the first English dramatist to understand that a play might be constructed with no other objects than satire and amusement, and if such epithets were not fortunately a little discredited, we might dub him on this score the "Father" of English comedy. Paternity, however, cannot be predicated without some evidence of offspring, and it would be extremely difficult, I think, to show that Heywood exercised sufficient influence on any subsequent dramatist to be reckoned as his literary father. The anonymous author of that amusing children's play, Thersites, was indeed a kindred spirit, but there is at least a possibility that this play should be credited to Heywood himself, and on the subsequent development of comedy his influence was certainly of the smallest. But to have shown that comedy was entitled to a separate existence, apart from didactics, was no small achievement, and to the credit of this demonstration Heywood is entitled.

In guessing how Heywood came to make this discovery it seems not unreasonable to lay some stress on the fact that, according to a tradition which there is no reason to doubt, he was a friend of Sir Thomas More, while we know that four of his plays were printed by William Rastell, the son of More's brother-in-law, John Rastell. More's interest in the drama is attested by the story of his stepping, on more than one occasion, among the players, when they were performing before Cardinal Morton, and taking an improvised share in the dialogue. In the play of Sir Thomas More, written towards the close of the century, this improvisation is transferred to an interlude performed during an entertainment at More's own house, and the introduction of this interlude into the piece, and the ready welcome which the Chancellor is represented as giving the players, certainly argue a tradition of a keen interest in the drama on his part. John Rastell, again, has been credited with the authorship of at least one of the interludes which he printed, and quite recently some interesting documents have been discovered, which show him organizing a performance for which a wooden stage was erected in his own garden at Finsbury, setting Mrs. Rastell to help a tailor to make some very gorgeous dresses, and apparently engaging as players the craftsmen (a certain George Birch, currier, and his friends), who up to this date were still the customary performers, as distinct from a separate class of trained actors. Rastell, at this time, and More, throughout his life, held those views as to church-policy to which we know that Heywood himself consistently clung. The attitude of firm belief, with an absolute readiness to satirize abuses, which we find in Heywood's plays, was exactly characteristic of More, and it does not seem fanciful to believe that it was partly to the author of the Utopia, and to the circle of which he was the centre, that Heywood owed his dramatic development.

Plays assigned to him: Authorship, Dramatic Development, Literary Estimate.—There is the more reason for insisting on Heywood's place as one of a little circle, interested in playwriting and play-acting, in that the evidence for his authorship of two of the best of the six interludes commonly assigned to him is extremely vague. It is, indeed, very unfortunate that the six plays divide themselves into a group of four and a group of two, and that whereas the four plays of the first group are all positively assigned to him in one case in a contemporary manuscript, said to be in his own writing, in the others in contemporary printed editions, the two plays of the second group were both published anonymously, although, like The Play of Love and The Play of the Wether, they were issued by William Rastell, and appeared within a few months of these plays to which Heywood's name is duly attached. In the case of publications of our own day we should certainly be justified in thinking that the assertion of his authorship in two cases and the failure to assert it in two others were intentional and significant. But in the first half of the sixteenth century there was still much carelessness in these matters, while the difference is fairly well accounted for by the fact that in The Play of Love and Play of the Wether Rastell printed the title and dramatis personæ on a separate leaf, whereas in The Pardoner and the Frere and Johan Johan there is only a head title. However this may be, we are bound in the first instance to consider by themselves the four plays of which Heywood's authorship is beyond dispute.

In approaching these four plays we must prepare ourselves to judge them relatively to the other work of the very dull period of English literature at which they were written. To make this claim for them is to admit that they are imperfect, important historically rather than absolutely for their own worth; but the admission is one which no sane critic can avoid, and it is here made with alacrity. What it gains for Heywood is the recognition that two strongly marked features of these plays, one of which is now likely to repel, and the other to weary, most modern readers, in his own day helped to make them amusing. The repellent feature is, of course, that humour of filth which, quite as much as his sexual indecencies, makes some passages both in the Four PP. and The Play of the Wether disgusting even to readers not consciously squeamish. The epithet 'beastly' which Pope applied to Skelton is certainly on this score no less appropriate to Heywood, but it needs no wide acquaintance with the popular literature of his day to learn that this wretched stuff was found amusing for its own sake. To suppress this fact, either by expurgating or by deliberately choosing a less typical play for the sake of its accidental decency, would be to falsify evidence, and any such falsification would be grossly unjust to Heywood's successors. It is only by realizing how low was the conception of humour in the sixteenth century that we can explain the existence in the plays of Shakespeare himself of passages which would otherwise be wholly amazing.

For the other feature in Heywood's plays which now excites more weariness than interest there is no need to apologize; we may even confess that our failure to relish it is due to our own weakness. In Heywood's days one of the chief aims of education was skill in argument. Men disputed their way to academical degrees, and the quickest path to reputation was the successful maintenance against all comers of some hazardous proposition. Instead of introducing this siege-train of argument into their plays, modern dramatists have preferred the lighter weapons of verbal pleasantry and repartee which make what is called "pointed dialogue." A request from one of the dramatis personæ to another "in this cause to shewe cause reasonable.... Hearyng and aunswerynge me pacyently" would assuredly empty any theatre of our own day. But the audience who listened to it in Heywood's Play of Love no doubt settled themselves in their places with an anticipation of enjoyment. And we may fairly grant that our author is not wholly unsuccessful in vivacious argument. For a lady to compare the suit of an unwelcome lover to an invitation "to graunte hym my good wyll to stryke of[f] my hed," pleasingly illustrates the unreasonableness of too great pertinacity on the part of the rejected. The objection "Howe many have ye known hang willingly" shatters at a blow the seemingly sound plea that as the convict suffers more than his hangman, so the rejected lover is more to be pitied than the most tender-hearted lady who finds herself obliged to refuse him. The ups and downs of the argument are often conducted with ingenuity, and an audience to whom argument was amusing for its own sake no doubt applauded every point. Two of Heywood's plays depend almost entirely on their logical attractions,—the interlude, left unprinted till its issue by the Percy Society in 1846, to which has been given as title The Dialogue of Wit and Folly, and The Play of Love twice printed by Rastell (1533 and 1534) and once by Waley. The former is purely argumentative, discussing the question as to whether the fool or the sage has the pleasanter life. The Play of Love, on the other hand, may be said to have two episodes, the first a monologue of some three hundred lines in which the Vice, "Neither Loving nor Loved," narrates his ill-success in an endeavour to conquer the heart of a lady without losing his own, the second his appearance with a bucketful of squibs and a false story of a fire at the house of the happy lover's mistress. The argument in this play is double, "Loving not Loved" and "Loved not Loving" contending as to which is the more miserable, and "Both Loved and Loving" and "Neither Loving nor Loved" as to which is the happier. As each pair appoints the other as joint arbitrators, it is perhaps more surprising that any conclusion was reached, than that it should be the rather tame one that the pains of the first pair and the happiness of the second were in each case exactly equal.

In connection with these two plays we ought perhaps to allude to another, very similar in its form, the dialogue of Gentylnes and Nobylyte, of which the authorship has often been attributed to Heywood. This play is certainly printed in John Rastell's types, but in place of a colophon it has the words "Johannes Rastell fieri fecit," and as Rastell would probably have written "imprimi fecit" if he had been alluding merely to its printing, we can hardly doubt that the word "fieri" refers to performance, if not to composition. With the evidence we now have that John Rastell had plays acted in his own garden, "fieri fecit" seems exactly translatable by "caused to be produced," and as Mrs. Rastell helped the tailor to make the dresses, so probably the lawyer-printer helped to write the play. Its two parts are each diversified by the Plowman beating Knight and Merchant (verberat eos is the stage-direction), but otherwise it is all sheer argument, which in the end a philosopher is introduced to sum up. The tone of the interlude is singularly democratic, the Plowman throughout having the best of it, and, despite a natural similarity between some of the speeches with those of the "Gentylman" and the "Marchaunt" in the Play of the Wether, there seems no reason for connecting with it the name of Heywood, who, for the better part of his life, was in the service of the Court.

In "The playe called the foure PP.: a newe and a very mery enterlude of a palmer, a pardoner, a potycary, a pedler," the advance in dramatic form as compared with The Play of Love is very slight, though the play is much more vivid and amusing. The Palmer begins it with an account of his wanderings, and then the other three characters come on the stage, each catching up the words of the last speaker, and vaunting his own profession. The argument between Palmer, Pardoner, and Pothecary waxes hot, and at last the Pedler suggests that as lying is the one matter in which they are all skilled, their order of merit can best be determined by a contest in this art, and offers himself as the judge. At first the competitors lie vaguely. Then it is resolved that the lie must take the form of a tale, and the Pothecary tells a long story of the effect of one of his medicines; then the Pardoner a much longer one of a visit to Hell and the rescue thence of a shrew of whom Lucifer was very glad to be rid; finally the Palmer in a few words expresses his surprise that there should be such shrews in Hell, as in all his travels he never yet knew one woman out of patience—a remark which straightway wins him the preëminence, though there is more tedious wrangling, before a serious little speech from the Pedler brings the play to a close. The Four PP. is, to our thinking, insufferably spun out; but, except in the epilogue, as we may call it, it is plain that its intention was solely to amuse—

To passe the tyme in thys without offence
Was the cause why the maker dyd make it,
And so we humbly beseche you take it,

says the Pedler:—and in substituting stories and a lighter form of argument for the more formal disputation of the Dyaloge of Wit and Folly and the Play of Love it comes a little nearer to the modern conception of comedy, and may be thought to have deserved the success which it is said to have achieved.

The possession by the Play of the Wether of an obvious moral—the mess which men would make of rain, wind, and sunshine if they had the ruling of them—is undoubtedly a link with the interludes of a didactic character, and so may seem at first sight to place it in a lower grade of dramatic development. There can be little doubt that it was acted by Heywood's company of "children," whom we hear of as performing under his direction before the Princess Mary, and a children's play would perhaps naturally be cast in this form. But the form is here less important than the intention, and it does not need Mery-report's comment ("now shall ye have the wether—even as yt was") to tell us that Heywood's didactics were purely humorous. The point to be noted is that this is really a play—a play, moreover, which if it could be shortened and the unforgivable passages omitted, might be acted by children of the present day with some enjoyment. The part of "the Boy, the least that can play" is charming. There is stage furniture in Jupiter's "trone," and in the coming and going of the characters at least a semblance of action. We must note, however, the set disputation between the two millers, as still linking it with Heywood's other argumentative plays, though with all its faults it is the brightest and most pleasing of its class.

We come now to the two plays, The Pardoner and the Frere and Johan Johan, which modern writers have uniformly assigned to Heywood, although William Rastell printed them without any author's name, and no one has yet adduced contemporary evidence for assigning them to Heywood. In neither of these plays is there any trace of the disputation which in those we have been looking at is so conspicuous. They are both true comedies, comedies in miniature if you like, but true comedies, with a definite scene and dramatic action. The Pardoner and the Frere is little more than an expansion of hints given by Chaucer, from whom the author does not hesitate to borrow two whole passages, but the development of the little plot is well managed and the climax when the Parson and Neighbour Prat are badly worsted and the two rogues go off in triumph is thoroughly artistic. It has been said that this play must have been written during the life of Leo X., who died in 1521, because the Pardoner's speech contains the passage (omitting the Friar's interruptions):—

Worshypfull maysters ye shall understand
That Pope Leo the X hath graunted with his hand,
And by his bulls confyrmed under lede,
To all maner people, bothe quycke and dede,
Ten thousand yeres & as many lentes of pardon, etc.

But as Heywood was probably born in 1497, it is extremely unlikely that his undoubted plays were written before 1520, and if the evidence of this passage is to be pressed, I should regard it as absolutely fatal to his authorship, it being inconceivable that any one who had written the Pardoner and the Frere could subsequently write the Dyaloge of Wyt and Folly or the Play of Love. But there would be an obvious convenience in making a dead pope rather than a living one answerable for the Pardoner's ribaldries, and the weight of this argument is not lessened when we remember that the Pardoner proceeds to quote also the authority of the King. Although no alteration of date would bring the play out of the reign of Henry VIII., we may well believe that that peremptory monarch might forgive such reflections on his management of church affairs at an earlier date much more readily than satire of a system he was then supporting.

We shall have to speak again of the Pardoner and the Frere and its probable date, but we must pass on now to Heywood's masterpiece, if we may call it his, the mery play betwene Johan Johan, the husbande, Tyb his wyfe and Syr Jhan, the preest. In approaching this play, as in approaching Chaucer's tales of the Miller and Reeve and some of their fellows, we must, of course, leave our morality behind and accept the playwright's and tale-teller's convention that cuckoldry and cuckoldmaking are natural subjects for humour. This granted, it will be difficult to find a flaw in the play. Like the Pardoner and the Frere it is short, only about one half the length of the plays of Love, the Wether, and the Four PP., and it gains greatly from being less weighted with superfluities. Johan Johan himself, with his boasting and cowardice, his eagerness to be deceived, and futile attempts to put a good face on the matter, his burning desire to partake of the pie, his one moment of self-assertion, to which disappointed hunger spurs him, and then his fresh collapse to ludicrous uneasiness,—who can deny that he is a triumph of dramatic art, just human enough and natural enough to seem very human and natural on the stage, but with the ludicrous side of him so sedulously presented to the spectator that there is never any risk of compassion for him becoming uncomfortably acute? The handling of Tyb and Syr Jhan is equally clever. Each in turn is prepared to act on the defensive, to be evasive and explanatory, but before Johan Johan's acquiesciveness such devices seem superfluous, and little by little the pair reach a height of effrontery not easily surpassed. One of the incidents of the play, the melting of the wax by the fire, occurs also in a contemporary French Farce nouuelle tresbonne et fort ioyeuse de Pernet qui va au vin, and it is certainly in the French farces that we find the nearest approach in tone and treatment, as well as in form, to this anonymous Johan Johan.

Dates. The Authorship of "Thersites."—It may have been noticed that in passing these six plays in review the order followed has been purely that of their dramatic development. We know that four of them were printed in 1533, when Heywood was thirty-six or thereabouts, but with the exception of the reference to Leo X. in the Pardoner and the Frere, the significance of which I have given reasons for considering doubtful, no one has yet detected any time-reference which enables us to fix their approximate dates. In his little treatise John Heywood als Dramatiker (1888) Dr. Swoboda maintains that the Pardoner must be placed earlier than the Four PP., and that the Four PP. can be shown to be earlier than the anonymous play of Thersites, which we know from its epilogue was acted at Court between October 12 and 24, 1537, the dates respectively of the birth of Edward VI. and the death of his mother, Jane Seymour. In support of his first point he cites the fact that some of the relics ("the grete toe of the Trinite" and "of all Hallows the blessed jawbone") vaunted by the Pardoner in his sermon in the church appear again in the longer list of relics in the Four PP. In support of the second he quotes from Thersites the lines in which that hero proposes to visit Purgatory and Hell, and traces in them an allusion to the Pardoner's story in the Four PP. I cannot accept either of these arguments as decisive chronologically, it being quite as reasonable for a dramatist to abridge a list of relics as to expand it, while the boast of Thersites might be represented as the hint out of which the rescue of Mistress Margery Coorson was developed no less plausibly than as a reference to that notorious lie. The Pardoner and the Frere seems to me dramatically more advanced than the Four PP., and I am therefore slow to accept any argument which would place it earlier; but even when we allow for the fact that Chaucer had fixed for all time the humorous treatment of Pardoners, the fact that the Pardoners in these two plays are so closely alike is an argument of some weight for their common authorship. But if this be so, the reference to sweeping Hell clean in Thersites may set us wondering whether it was not the author of the Four PP. who was most likely to have written it; and we may note also the repetition in Thersites of the absurd boasting with which Johan Johan preludes his disclosure of his cowardice, while the incident of Telemachus belongs to that "humour of filth" which I have already noted as characteristic of Heywood. For the probability of the latter's authorship of Thersites we may claim also a little external support. We have already noticed that in March, 1538, Heywood received forty shillings for the performance by his "children" of an interlude before the Princess Mary. Now Thersites is obviously intended for performance by children; it was acted a few months previously to the payment of March, 1538, in honour of Jane Seymour, to whom Mary, in return for her abundant kindness, was greatly attached; and again Mary's fondness for the classics would explain the selection of a classical burlesque if, as is probable, she was present when it was acted. Given the facts that Heywood had already in the Play of the Wether brought Jupiter on the stage, that Thersites bears at least some slight resemblances to other plays attributed to him, that he was in the service of the Princess Mary, and was manager, whether permanently or temporarily, about this time, of a company of children, and I think we have a fairly strong case for attributing Thersites to his pen. If this theory be accepted, the probability of his authorship of both the Pardoner and the Frere and Johan Johan is considerably increased; for if Thersites is by Heywood, it is good enough to form an important link between these plays and his argumentative interludes, while if Thersites be not by Heywood, there was then some other playwright of the day for whom a strong claim might be put forward to the authorship of these other anonymous plays.

Sources.—The fact that an opportunity for writing about Heywood is not likely to recur very often must be offered as an excuse for interpolating questions of detail into this preface. For the broader view of the subject which we ought here to take it is obvious that the authorship of this or that play is not very important. What concerns us here is that we can see even in the less developed group of plays English comedy emancipating itself from the miracle-play and morality, and in the Pardoner and the Frere and Johan Johan becoming identical in form with the French fifteenth-century farce. Whether we ought to go beyond this and assert absolute borrowing from French originals is rather a difficult question. The Farce nouuelle d'un Pardonneur, d'un triacleur et d'une tauerniere may certainly have supplied the idea both of the preaching-match between Pardoner and Friar and also of the comparison of the wares of Pardoner and Pothecary. The Farce nouuelle tresbonne et fort ioyeuse de Pernet qui va au vin contains two passages which must have some direct connection with Johan Johan. The only extant edition of Pernet qui va au vin was "nouvellement imprimé" in 1548, and the date of its prototype is unknown. The Farce d'un Pardonneur, in the edition which has come down to us, is certainly later than 1540, but this also was probably a reprint. Thus despite the fact that the handling of the incidents in the English plays is far more skilful than in the French, it would seem too daring to suggest that the French farces can be borrowed from the English, and in any case we may imagine that the English dramatist did not make his new departure unaided, but was consciously working on the lines which had long been popular in France. By doing so he did not lay the foundation of English comedy, for it was not on these lines that our comedy subsequently developed. But it was at least a hopeful omen for the future that an English playwright so easily attained a real mastery in the only school of comedy with which he could have been acquainted. It was something also that the right of comedy to exist as a source of amusement apart from instruction had been successfully vindicated. These were two real achievements, and they must always be connected with the name of John Heywood.

"Play of the Wether": Early Editions and the Present Text.—At the time I write, the Play of the Wether has not been reprinted since the sixteenth century. Its bibliography has been rather confused by the existence of two texts of it, one at St. John's College, Oxford, the other at the University Library, Cambridge, each wanting the last leaf, containing in the one case twenty, and in the other sixteen, lines of the text and the colophon with the printer's name. The only perfect copy hitherto generally known is that preserved at the Bodleian Library, which belongs to an edition "Imprinted at London in Paules Churchyearde, at the Sygne of the Sunne, by Anthonie Kytson" whose career as a publisher seems to have been comprised within the years 1549 and 1579. Of this as the only complete edition I then knew I made my first transcript, though subsequent collation showed that the imperfect edition at St. John's College contained many better readings and an earlier spelling, while the copy at the University Library, Cambridge (sometimes, though I think erroneously, attributed to the press of Robert Wyer), belonged to an intermediate edition. The registration by the Bibliographical Society in its Hand-lists of English Printers, 1501-1556, of the copy of an edition of 1533, printed by William Rastell, in the Pepys Collection at Magdalene College, Cambridge, sent me to Cambridge for a new transcript. On examination, the Magdalene edition proved to be identical with that at St. John's College, Oxford, which had previously been conjecturally assigned to Rastell, perhaps by some one who had seen it before the last leaf disappeared. In reproducing Rastell's text I have not thought it necessary to print my collation of the later editions, as it is clear that the unidentified edition at the University Library, Cambridge (U. L. C.), was printed from Rastell's, and Kitson's from this. The printer of the U. L. C. edition introduced some errors into his text, most of which Kitson copied: e.g. hote for hore in l. 38, omission of second so in l. 68, and of second as in l. 72, name for maner in l. 115, or for of in l. 357, we for I in l. 427, plumyng for plumpyng in l. 657, thynges for thynge in l. 660, showryng for skowryng in l. 661, ye for yt in l. 699, and for all in l. 705, belyke for be leak[e]y in l. 800; though he corrected a few: e.g. pale for dale in l. 277. On the other hand, Kitson introduced some sixty or seventy errors of his own, such as creatour for creature in l. 5, well for we in l. 21, myngled for mynglynge in l. 144, mery for mary in l. 366, beseched for besecheth in l. 347, pycked for prycked in l. 467, bodily for boldely in l. 470, solyter for solycyter in l. 496, etc. As these variations are obviously misprints and nothing more, it would have been pedantic to record them in full, and these samples will doubtless suffice. The following title-page is a representation, not a reproduction, of the original. There is no running head-line in Rastell's text.

Alfred W. Pollard.

A new and a very
mery enterlude of
all maner wethers
made
by John Heywood,

The players names.

• Jupiter a god.
• Mery reporte the vyce.
• The gentylman.
• The marchaunt.
• The ranger.
• The water myller.
• The wynde myller.
• The gentylwoman.
• The launder.
• A boy the lest that can play.

The Play of the Wether

Jupyter

R Yght farre to longe, as now, were to recyte
The auncyent estate wherein our selfe hath reyned,
What honour, what laude, gyven us of very ryght,
What glory we have had, dewly unfayned,
Of eche creature, which dewty hath constrayned;
For above all goddes, syns our father's fale,
We, Jupiter, were ever pryncypale.

If we so have beene, as treuth yt is in dede,
Beyond the compas of all comparyson,
Who coulde presume to shew, for any mede,
So that yt myght appere to humayne reason,
The hye renowne we stande in at this season?
For, syns that heven and earth were fyrste create,
Stode we never in suche tryumphaunt estate

As we now do, whereof we woll reporte
Suche parte as we se mete for tyme present,
Chyefely concernynge your perpetuall comforte,
As the thynge selfe shall prove in experyment,
Whyche hyely shall bynde you, on knees lowly bent,
Sooly to honour oure hyenes, day by day.
And now to the mater gyve eare, and we shall say.

Before our presens, in our hye parlyament,
Both goddes and goddeses of all degrees
Hath late assembled, by comen assent,
For the redres of certayne enormytees,
Bred amonge them, thorow extremytees
Abusyd in eche to other of them all,
Namely, to purpose, in these moste specyall:

Our forsayde father Saturne, and Phebus,
Eolus and Phebe, these foure by name,
Whose natures, not onely, so farre contraryous,
But also of malyce eche other to defame,
Have longe tyme abused, ryght farre out of frame,
The dew course of all theyr constellacyons,
To the great damage of all yerthly nacyons:

Whyche was debated in place sayde before;
And fyrste, as became, our father moste auncyent,
With berde whyte as snow, his lockes both colde & hore,
Hath entred such mater as served his entent,
Laudynge his frosty mansyon in the fyrmament,
To ayre & yerth as thynge moste precyous,
Pourgynge all humours that are contagyous.

How be yt, he alledgeth that, of longe tyme past,
Lyttell hath prevayled his great dylygens,
Full oft uppon yerth his fayre frost he hath cast,
All thynges hurtfull to banysh out of presens.
But Phebus, entendynge to kepe him in sylens,
When he hath labored all nyght in his powres,
His glarynge beamys maryth all in two howres.

Phebus to this made no maner answerynge,
Whereuppon they both then Phebe defyed,
Eche for his parte leyd in her reprovynge
That by her showres superfluous they have tryed;
In all that she may theyr powres be denyed;
Wherunto Phebe made answere no more
Then Phebus to Saturne hadde made before.

Anone uppon Eolus all these dyd fle,
Complaynynge theyr causes, eche one arow,
And sayd, to compare, none was so evyll as he;
For, when he is dysposed his blastes to blow,
He suffereth neyther sone-shyne, rayne nor snowe.
They eche agaynste other, and he agaynste al three,—
Thus can these iiii in no maner agree!

Whyche sene in themselfe, and further consyderynge,
The same to redres was cause of theyr assemble;
And, also, that we, evermore beynge,
Besyde our puysaunt power of deite,
Of wysedome and nature so noble and so fre,
From all extremytees the meane devydynge,
To pease and plente eche thynge attemperynge,

They have, in conclusyon, holly surrendryd
Into our handes, at mych as concernynge
All maner wethers by them engendryd,
The full of theyr powrs, for terme everlastynge,
To set suche order as standyth wyth our pleasynge,
Whyche thynge, as of our parte, no parte requyred,
But of all theyr partys ryght humbly desyred,

To take uppon us. Wherto we dyd assente.
And so in all thynges, with one voyce agreable,
We have clerely fynyshed our foresayd parleament,
To your great welth, whyche shall be fyrme and stable,
And to our honour farre inestymable;
For syns theyr powers, as ours, addyd to our owne,
Who can, we say, know us as we shulde be knowne?

But now, for fyne, the rest of our entent,
Wherfore, as now, we hyther are dyscendyd,
Is onely to satysfye and content
All maner people whyche have been offendyd
By any wether mete to be amendyd,
Uppon whose complayntes, declarynge theyr grefe,
We shall shape remedye for theyr relefe.

And to gyve knowledge for theyr hyther resorte
We wolde thys afore proclaymed to be,
To all our people, by some one of thys sorte,
Whome we lyste to choyse here amongest all ye.
Wherfore eche man avaunce, and we shal se
Whyche of you is moste mete to be our cryer.

Here entreth Mery-reporte.

Mery-reporte. Brother, holde up your torche a lytell hyer!
Now, I beseche you, my lorde, loke on me furste.
I truste your lordshyp shall not fynde me the wurste.

Jupyter. Why! what arte thou that approchyst so ny?

Mery-reporte. Forsothe, and please your lordshyppe, it is I.

Jupyter. All that we knowe very well, But what I?

Mery-reporte. What I? Some saye I am I perse I.
But, what maner I so ever be I,
I assure your good lordshyp, I am I.

Jupyter. What maner man arte thou, shewe quickely.

Mery-reporte. By god, a poore gentylman, dwellyth hereby.

Jupyter. A gentylman! Thyselfe bryngeth wytnes naye,
Both in thy lyght behavour and araye.
But what arte thou called where thou dost resorte?

Mery-reporte. Forsoth, my lorde, mayster Mery-reporte.

Jupyter. Thou arte no mete man in our bysynes,
For thyne apparence is of to mych lyghtnes.

Mery-reporte. Why, can not your lordshyp lyke my maner
Myne apparell, nor my name nother?

Jupyter. To nother of all we have devocyon.

Mery-reporte. A proper lycklyhod of promocyon!
Well, than, as wyse as ye seme to be,
Yet can ye se no wysdome in me.
But syns ye dysprayse me for so lyghte an elfe,
I praye you gyve me leve to prayse my-selfe:
And, for the fyrste parte, I wyll begyn
In my behavour at my commynge in,
Wherin I thynke I have lytell offendyd,
For, sewer, my curtesy coulde not be amendyd;
And, as for my sewt your servaunt to be,
Myghte yll have bene myst for your honeste;
For, as I be saved, yf I shall not lye,
I saw no man sew for the offyce but I!
Wherfore yf ye take me not or I go,
Ye must anone, whether ye wyll or no.
And syns your entent is but for the wethers,
What skyls our apparell to be fryse or fethers?
I thynke it wisdome, syns no man forbad it,
With thys to spare a better—yf I had it!
And, for my name, reportyng alwaye trewly,
What hurte to reporte a sad mater merely?
As, by occasyon, for the same entent,
To a serteyne wedow thys daye was I sent,
Whose husbande departyd wythout her wyttynge,
A specyall good lover and she hys owne swettynge!
To whome, at my commyng, I caste suche a fygure,
Mynglynge the mater accordynge to my nature,
That when we departyd, above al other thynges,
She thanked me hartely for my mery tydynges!
And yf I had not handled yt merely,
Perchaunce she myght have taken yt hevely;
But in suche facyon I conjured and bounde her,
That I left her meryer then I founde her!
What man may compare to showe the lyke comforte
That dayly is shewed by me, Mery-reporte?
And, for your purpose, at this tyme ment,
For all wethers I am so indyfferent,
Without affeccyon, standynge so up-ryght,
Son-lyght, mone-lyght, ster-lyght, twy-light, torch-light,
Cold, hete, moyst, drye, hayle, rayne, frost, snow, lightnyng, thunder,
Cloudy, mysty, wyndy, fayre, fowle, above hed or under,
Temperate or dystemperate, whatever yt be,
I promyse your lordshyp, all is one to me.

Jupyter. Well, sonne, consydrynge thyne indyfferency,
And partely the rest of thy declaracyon,
We make the our servaunte and immediately
Well woll thou departe and cause proclamacyon,
Publyshynge our pleasure to every nacyon,
Whyche thynge ons done, wyth all dylygens,
Make thy returne agayne to this presens,

Here to receyve all sewters of eche degre;
And suche as to the may seme moste metely,
We wyll thou brynge them before our majeste,
And for the rest, that be not so worthy,
Make thou reporte to us effectually,
So that we may heare eche maner sewte at large.
Thus se thow departe and loke uppon thy charge!

Mery-reporte. Now, good my lorde god, our lady be wyth ye!
Frendes, a fellyshyppe, let me go by ye!
Thynke ye I may stande thrustyng amonge you there?
Nay, by god, I muste thruste aboute other gere!

Mery-reporte goeth out.

At thende of this staf the god hath a song played in his trone or Mery-reporte come in.

Jupiter. Now, syns we have thus farre set forth our purpose,
A whyle we woll wythdraw our godly presens,
To embold all such more playnely to dysclose,
As here wyll attende, in our foresayd pretens.
And now, accordynge to your obedyens,
Rejoyce ye in us with joy most joyfully,
And we our-selfe shall joy in our owne glory! [Jupiter here closes the curtains of his throne.]

Mery-reporte cometh in.

Mery-reporte. Now, syrs, take hede! for here cometh goddes servaunt!
Avaunt! carte[r]ly keytyfs, avaunt!
Why, ye dronken horesons, wyll yt not be?
By your fayth, have ye nother cap nor kne?
Not one of you that wyll make curtsy
To me, that am squyre for goddes precyous body?
Regarde ye nothynge myne authoryte?
No welcome home! nor where have ye be?
How be yt, yf ye axyd, I coulde not well tell,
But suer I thynke a thousande myle from hell,
And on my fayth, I thinke, in my consciens,
I have been from hevyn as farre as heven is hens,
At Lovyn, at London and in Lombardy,
At Baldock, at Barfolde, and in Barbary,
At Canturbery, at Coventre, at Colchester,
At Wansworth and Welbecke, at Westchester,
At Fullam, at Faleborne, and at Fenlow,
At Wallyngford, at Wakefeld, and at Waltamstow,
At Tawnton, at Typtre and at Totnam,
At Glouceter, at Gylford and at Gotham,
At Hartforde, at Harwyche, at Harowe on the hyll,
At Sudbery, Suth hampton, at Shoters Hyll,
At Walsingham, at Wyttam and at Werwycke,
At Boston, at Brystow and at Berwycke,
At Gravelyn, at Gravesend, and at Glastynbery,
Ynge Gyngiang Jayberd the paryshe of Butsbery.
The devyll hym-selfe, wythout more leasure,
Could not have gone halfe thus myche, I am sure!
But, now I have warned them, let them even chose;
For, in fayth, I care not who wynne or lose.

Here the gentylman before he cometh in bloweth his horne.

Mery-reporte. Now, by my trouth, this was a goodly hearyng.
I went yt had ben the gentylwomans blowynge!
But yt is not so, as I now suppose,
For womens hornes sounde more in a mannys nose.

Gentylman. Stande ye mery, my frendes, everychone.

Mery-reporte. Say that to me and let the rest alone!
Syr, ye be welcome, and all your meyny.

Gentylman. Now, in good sooth, my frende, god a mercy!
And syns that I mete the here thus by chaunce,
I shall requyre the of further acqueyntaunce,
And brevely to shew the, this is the mater.
I come to sew to the great god Jupyter
For helpe of thynges concernynge my recreacyon,
Accordynge to his late proclamacyon.

Mery-reporte. Mary, and I am he that this must spede.
But fyrste tell me what be ye in dede.

Gentylman. Forsoth, good frende, I am a gentylman.

Mery-reporte. A goodly occupacyon, by seynt Anne!
On my fayth, your maship hath a mery life.
But who maketh all these hornes, your self or your wife?
Nay, even in earnest, I aske you this questyon.

Gentylman. Now, by my trouth, thou art a mery one.

Mery-reporte. In fayth, of us both I thynke never one sad,
For I am not so mery but ye seme as mad!
But stande ye styll and take a lyttell payne,
I wyll come to you, by and by, agayne.
Now, gracyous god, yf your wyll so be,
I pray ye, let me speke a worde wyth ye.

Jupyter. My sonne, say on! Let us here thy mynde.

Mery-reporte. My lord, there standeth a sewter even here behynde,
A Gentylman, in yonder corner,
And, as I thynke, his name is Mayster Horner
A hunter he is, and cometh to make you sporte.
He woide hunte a sow or twayne out of thys sorte.

Here he poynteth to the women.

Jupyter. What so ever his mynde be, let hym appere.

Mery-reporte. Now, good mayster Horner, I pray you come nere.

Gentylman. I am no horner, knave! I wyll thou know yt.

Mery-reporte. I thought ye had [been], for when ye dyd blow yt,
Harde I never horeson make horne so goo.
As lefe ye kyste myne ars as blow my hole soo!
Come on your way, before the God Jupyter,
And there for your selfe ye shall be sewter.

Gentylman. Most myghty prynce and god of every nacyon,
Pleaseth your hyghnes to vouchsave the herynge
Of me, whyche, accordynge to [y]our proclamacyon,
Doth make apparaunce, in way of besechynge,
Not sole for myself, but generally
For all come of noble and auncyent stock,
Whych sorte above all doth most thankfully
Dayly take payne for welth of the comen flocke,
With dylygent study alway devysynge
To kepe them in order and unyte,
In peace to labour the encrees of theyr lyvynge,
Wherby eche man may prosper in plente.
Wherfore, good god, this is our hole desyrynge,
That for ease of our paynes, at tymes vacaunt,
In our recreacyon, whyche chyefely is huntynge,
It may please you to sende us wether pleasaunt,
Drye and not mysty, the wynde calme and styll.
That after our houndes yournynge so meryly,
Chasynge the dere over dale and hyll,
In herynge we may folow and to-comfort the cry.

Jupyter. Ryght well we do perceyve your hole request,
Whyche shall not fayle to reste in memory,
Wherfore we wyll ye set your-selfe at rest,
Tyll we have herde eche man indyfferently,
And we shall take suche order, unyversally,
As best may stande to our honour infynyte,
For welth in commune and ech mannys synguler profyte.

Gentylman. In heven and yerth honoured be the name
Of Jupyter, who of his godly goodnes
Hath set this mater in so goodly frame,
That every wyght shall have his desyre, doutles.
And fyrst for us nobles and gentylmen,
I doute not, in his wysedome, to provyde
Suche wether as in our huntynge, now and then,
We may both teyse and receyve on every syde.
Whyche thynge, ones had, for our seyd recreacyon,
Shall greatly prevayle you in preferrynge our helth
For what thynge more nedefull then our preservacyon,
Beynge the weale and heddes of all comen welth?

Mery-reporte. Now I besech your mashyp, whose hed be you?

Gentylman. Whose hed am I? Thy hed. What seyst thou now?

Mery-reporte. Nay, I thynke yt very trew, so god me helpe!
For I have ever bene, of a lyttell whelpe,
So full of fansyes, and in so many fyttes,
So many smale reasons, and in so many wyttes,
That, even as I stande, I pray God I be dede,
If ever I thought them all mete for one hede.
But syns I have one hed more then I knew,
Blame not my rejoycynge,—I love all thinges new.
And suer it is a treasour of heddes to have store:
One feate can I now that I never coude before.

Gentylman. What is that?

Mery-reporte. By god, syns ye came hyther,
I can set my hedde and my tayle togyther.
This hed shall save mony, by Saynt Mary,
From hensforth I wyll no potycary;
For at al tymys, when suche thynges shall myster
My new hed shall geve myne olde tayle a glyster.
And, after all this, then shall my hedde wayte
Uppon my tayle, and there stande at receyte.
Syr, for the reste I wyll not now move you,
But, yf we lyve, ye shall smell how I love yow.
And, sir, touchyng your sewt here, depart, when it please you
For be ye suer, as I can I wyll ease you.

Gentylman. Then gyve me thy hande. That promyse I take.
And yf for my sake any sewt thou do make,
I promyse thy payne to be requyted
More largely than now shall be recyted.

Mery-reporte. Alas, my necke! Goddes pyty, where is my hed?
By Saynt Yve, I feare me I shall be deade.
And yf I were, me-thynke yt were no wonder,
Syns my hed and my body is so farre asonder,

Entreth the Marchaunt.

Mayster person, now welcome by my life!
I pray you, how doth my maistres, your wyfe?

Marchaunt. Syr, for the presthod and wyfe that ye alledge
I se ye speke more of dotage then knowledge.
But let pas, syr, I wolde to you be sewter
To brynge me, yf ye can, before Jupiter.

[Mery-reporte.] Yes, Mary, can I, and wyll do yt in dede.
Tary, and I shall make wey for your spede. [Goes to Jupyter.]
In fayth, good lorde, yf it please your gracyous godshyp,
I muste have a worde or twayne wyth your lordship.
Syr, yonder is a nother man in place,
Who maketh great sewt to speke wyth your grace.
Your pleasure ones knowen, he commeth by and by.

Jupyter. Bryng hym before our presens, sone, hardely.

Mery-reporte. Why! where be you? shall I not fynde ye?
Come a-way, I pray god, the devyll blynde ye!

Marchaunt. Moste myghty prynce and lorde of lordes all,
Right humbly besecheth your majeste
Your marchaunt-men thorow the worlde all,
That yt may please you, of your benygnyte,
In the dayly daunger of our goodes and lyfe,
Fyrste to consyder the desert of our request,
What welth we bryng the rest, to our great care & stryfe,
And then to rewarde us as ye shall thynke best.
What were the surplysage of eche commodyte,
Whyche groweth and encreaseth in every lande,
Excepte exchaunge by suche men as we be?
By wey of entercours, that lyeth on our hande
We fraught from home, thynges wherof there is plente;
And home we brynge such thynges as there be scant.
Who sholde afore us marchauntes accompted be?
For were not we, the worlde shuld wyshe and want
In many thynges, whych now shall lack rehersall.
And, brevely to conclude, we beseche your hyghnes
That of the benefyte proclaymed in generall
We may be parte-takers, for comen encres,
Stablyshynge wether thus, pleasynge your grace,
Stormy, nor mysty, the wynde mesurable.
That savely we may passe from place to place,
Berynge our seylys for spede moste vayleable;
And also the wynde to chaunge and to turne,
Eest, West, North and South, as best may be set,
In any one place not to longe to sojourne,
For the length of our vyage may lese our market.

Jupyter. Right well have ye sayde, and we accept yt so,
And so shall we rewarde you ere we go hens.
But ye muste take pacyens tyll we have harde mo,
That we may indyfferently gyve sentens.
There may passe by us no spot of neglygence,
But justely to judge eche thynge, so upryghte
That ech mans parte maye shyne in the selfe ryghte.

Mery-reporte. Now, syr, by your fayth, yf ye shulde be sworne,
Harde ye ever god speke so, syns ye were borne?
So wysely, so gentylly hys wordes be showd!

Marchaunt. I thanke hys grace. My sewte is well bestowd.

Mery-reporte. Syr, what vyage entende ye nexte to go?

Marchaunt. I truste or myd-lente to be to Syo.

Mery-reporte. Ha, ha! Is it your mynde to sayle at Syo?
Nay, then, when ye wyll, byr lady, ye maye go,
And let me alone with thys. Be of good chere!
Ye maye truste me at Syo as well as here.
For though ye were fro me a thousande myle space,
I wolde do as myche as ye were here in place,
For, syns that from hens it is so farre thyther,
I care not though ye never come agayne hyther.

Marchaunt. Syr, yf ye remember me, when tyme shall come,
Though I requyte not all, I shall deserve some.

Exeat Marchaunt.

Mery-reporte. Now, farre ye well, & god thanke you, by saynt Anne,
I pray you, marke the fasshyon of thys honeste manne;
He putteth me in more truste, at thys metynge here,
Then he shall fynde cause why, thys twenty yere.

Here entreth the Ranger.

Ranger. God be here, now Cryst kepe thys company!

Mery-reporte. In fayth, ye be welcome, evyn very skantely!
Syr, for your comynge what is the mater?

Ranger. I wolde fayne speke with the god Jupyter.

Mery-reporte. That wyll not be, but ye may do thys—
Tell me your mynde. I am an offycer of hys.

Ranger. Be ye so? Mary, I crye you marcy.
Your maystership may say I am homely.
But syns your mynde is to have reportyd
The cause wherfore I am now resortyd,
Pleasyth your maystership it is so.
I come for my-selfe and suche other mo,
Rangers and kepers of certayne places,
As forestes, parkes, purlews and chasys
Where we be chargyd with all maner game.
Smale in our profyte and great is our blame.
Alas! For our wages, what be we the nere?
What is forty shyllynges, or fyve marke, a yere?
Many tymes and oft, where we be flyttynge,
We spende forty pens a pece at a syttinge.
Now for our vauntage, whyche chefely is wyndefale.
That is ryght nought, there bloweth no wynde at all,
Whyche is the thynge wherin we fynde most grefe,
And cause for my commynge to sew for relefe,
That the god, of pyty, al thys thynge knowynge,
May sende us good rage of blustryng and blowynge,
And, yf I can not get god to do some good,
I wolde hyer the devyll to runne thorow the wood,
The rootes to turne up, the toppys to brynge under.
A mischyefe upon them, and a wylde thunder!

Mery-reporte. Very well sayd, I set by your charyte
As mych, in a maner, as by your honeste.
I shall set you somwhat in ease anone.
Ye shall putte on your cappe, when I am gone.
For, I se, ye care not who wyn or lese,
So ye maye fynde meanys to wyn your fees.

Ranger. Syr, as in that, ye speke as it please ye.
But let me speke with the god, yf it maye be.
I pray you, lette me passe ye.

Mery-reporte. Why, nay, syr! By the masse, ye—

Ranger. Then wyll I leve you evyn as I founde ye.

Mery-reporte. Go when ye wyll. No man here hath bounde ye.

Here entreth the Water Myller and the Ranger goth out.

Water Myller. What the devyll shold skyl, though all the world were dum,
Syns in all our spekynge we never be harde?
We crye out for rayne, the devyll sped drop wyll cum.
We water myllers be nothynge in regarde.
No water have we to grynde at any stynt,
The wynde is so stronge the rayne cannot fall,
Whyche kepeth our myldams as drye as a flynt.
We are undone, we grynde nothynge at all,
The greter is the pyte, as thynketh me.
For what avayleth to eche man his corne,
Tyll it be grounde by such men as we be?
There is the loss, yf we be forborne.
For, touchynge our-selfes, we are but drudgys,
And very beggers save onely our tole,
Whiche is ryght smale and yet many grudges
For gryste of a busshell to gyve a quarte bole.
Yet, were not reparacyons, we myght do wele.
Our mylstons, our whele with her kogges, & our trindill
Our floodgate, our mylpooll, our water whele,
Our hopper, our extre, our yren spyndyll,
In this and mych more so great is our charge,
That we wolde not recke though no water ware,
Save onely it toucheth eche man so large,
And ech for our neyghbour Cryste byddeth us care.
Wherfore my conscience hath prycked me hyther,
In thys to sewe, accordynge to the cry,
For plente of raine to the god Jupiter
To whose presence I wyll go evyn boldely.

Mery-reporte. Sir, I dowt nothynge your audacyte,
But I feare me ye lacke capacyte,
For, yf ye were wyse, ye myghte well espye,
How rudely ye erre from rewls of courtesye.
What! ye come in revelynge and reheytynge,
Evyn as a knave might go to a beare-beytynge!

Water Myller. All you bere recorde what favour I have!
Herke, howe famylyerly he calleth me knave!
Dowtles the gentylman is universall!
But marke thys lesson, syr. You shulde never call
Your felow knave, nor your brother horeson;
For nought can ye get by it, when ye have done.

Mery-reporte. Thou arte nother brother nor felowe to me,
For I am goddes servaunt, mayst thou not se?
Wolde ye presume to speke with the great god?
Nay, dyscrecyon and you be to farre od!
Byr lady, these knaves must be tyed shorter.
Syr, who let you in? Spake ye with the porter?

Water Myller. Nay, by my trouth, nor wyth no nother man.
Yet I saw you well, when I fyrst began.
How be it, so helpe me god and holydam,
I toke you but for a knave, as I am.
But, mary, now, syns I knowe what ye be,
I muste and wyll obey your authoryte.
And yf I maye not speke wyth Jupiter
I beseche you be my solycyter.

Mery-reporte. As in that, I wyl be your well-wyller.
I perceyve you be a water myller.
And your hole desyre, as I take the mater,
Is plente of rayne for encres of water.
The let wherof, ye affyrme determynately,
Is onely the wynde, your mortall enemy.

Water Myller. Trouth it is, for it blowyth so alofte,
We never have rayne, or, at the most, not ofte.
Wherfore, I praye you, put the god in mynde
Clerely for ever to banysh the wynde.

Here entreth the Wynde Myller.

Wynde Myller. How! Is all the wether gone or I come?
For the passyon of god, helpe me to some.
I am a wynd-miller, as many mo be.
No wretch in wretchydnes so wrechyd as we!
The hole sorte of my crafte be all mard at onys,
The wynde is so weyke it sturryth not our stonys,
Nor skantely can shatter the shyttyn sayle
That hangeth shatterynge at a womans tayle.
The rayne never resteth, so longe be the showres,
From tyme of begynnyng tyl foure & twenty howres;
And, ende whan it shall, at nyght or at none,
An-other begynneth as soone as that is done.
Such revell of rayne ye knowe well inough,
Destroyeth the wynde, be it never so rough,
Wherby, syns our myllys be come to styll standynge,
Now maye we wynd-myllers go evyn to hangynge.
A myller! with a moryn and a myschyefe!
Who wolde be a myller? As good be a thefe!
Yet in tyme past, when gryndynge was plente,
Who were so lyke goddys felows as we?
As faste as god made corne, we myllers made meale.
Whyche myght be best forborne for comyn weale?
But let that gere passe, for I feare our pryde
Is cause of the care whyche god doth us provyde.
Wherfore I submyt me, entendynge to se
What comforte may come by humylyte.
And, now, at thys tyme, they sayd in the crye,
The god is come downe to shape remedye.

Mery-reporte. No doute, he is here, even in yonder trone.
But in your mater he trusteth me alone,
Wherein, I do perceyve by your complaynte,
Oppressyon of rayne doth make the wynde so faynte,
That ye wynde-myllers be clene caste away.

Wynde Myller. If Jupyter helpe not, yt is as ye say.
But, in few wordes to tell you my mynde rounde,
Uppon this condycyon I wolde be bounde,
Day by day to say our ladyes' sauter,
That in this world were no drope of water,
Nor never rayne, but wynde contynuall,
Then shold we wynde myllers be lordes over all.

Mery-reporte. Come on and assay how you twayne can agre—
A brother of yours, a myller as ye be!

Water Myller. By meane of our craft we may be brothers,
But whyles we lyve shal we never be lovers.
We be of one crafte, but not of one kynde,
I lyve by water and he by the wynde.

Here Mery-report goth out.

And, syr, as ye desyre wynde continuall,
So wolde I have rayne ever-more to fall,
Whyche two in experyence, ryght well ye se,
Ryght selde, or never, to-gether can be.
For as longe as the wynde rewleth, yt is playne,
Twenty to one ye get no drop of rayne;
And when the element is to farre opprest,
Downe commeth the rayne and setteth the wynde at reste.
By this, ye se, we can-not both obtayne.
For ye must lacke wynde, or I must lacke rayne.
Whertore I thynke good, before this audiens,
Eche for our selfe to say, or we go hens;
And whom is thought weykest, when we have fynysht,
Leve of his sewt and content to be banysht.

Wynde Myller. In fayth, agreed! but then, by your lycens,
Our mylles for a tyrne shall hange in suspens.
Syns water and wynde is chyefely our sewt,
Whyche best may be spared we woll fyrst dyspute.
Wherfore to the see my reason shall resorte,
Where shyppes by meane of wynd try from port to porte,
From lande to lande, in dystaunce many a myle,—
Great is the passage and smale is the whyle.
So great is the profile, as to me doth seme,
That no man's wysdome the welth can exteme.
And syns the wynde is conveyer of all
Who but the wynde shulde have thanke above all?

Water Myller. Amytte in this place a tree here to growe,
And therat the wynde in great rage to blowe;
When it hath all blowen, thys is a clere case,
The tre removeth no here-bred from hys place.
No more wolde the shyppys, blow the best it cowde.
All though it wolde blow downe both mast & shrowde,
Except the shyppe flete uppon the water
The wynde can ryght nought do,—a playne matter.
Yet maye ye on water, wythout any wynde,
Row forth your vessell where men wyll have her synde.
Nothynge more rejoyceth the maryner,
Then meane cooles of wynde and plente of water.
For, commenly, the cause of every wracke
Is excesse of wynde, where water doth lacke.
In rage of these stormys the perell is suche
That better were no wynde then so farre to muche.

Wynde Myller. Well, yf my reason in thys may not stande,
I wyll forsake the see and lepe to lande.
In every chyrche where goddys servyce is,
The organs beare brunt of halfe the quere, i-wys.
Whyche causeth the sounde, of water or wynde?
More-over for wynde thys thynge I fynde
For the most parte all maner mynstrelsy,
By wynde they delyver theyr sound chefly,
Fyll me a bagpype of your water full,
As swetely shall it sounde as it were stuffyd with wull.

Water Myller. On my fayth I thynke the moone be at the full,
For frantyke fansyes be then most plentefull.
Which are at the pryde of theyr sprynge in your hed,
So farre from our matter he is now fled.
As for the wynde in any instrument,
It is no percell of our argument,
We spake of wynde that comyth naturally
And that is wynde forcyd artyfycyally,
Whyche is not to purpose. But, yf it were,
And water, in dede, ryght nought coulde do there,
Yet I thynke organs no suche commodyte,
Wherby the water shulde banyshed be.
And for your bagpypes, I take them as nyfuls,
Your mater is all in fansyes and tryfuls.

Wynde Myller. By god, but ye shall not tryfull me of so!
Yf these thynges serve not, I wyll reherse mo.
And now to mynde there is one olde proverbe come,
One bushell of marche dust is worth a kynges raunsome,
What is a hundreth thousande bushels worth than?

Water Myller. Not one myte, for the thynge selfe, to no man.

Wynde Myller. Why shall wynde every-where thus be objecte?
Nay, in the hye wayes he shall take effecte,
Where as the rayne doth never good but hurt,
For wynde maketh but dust and water maketh durt.
Powder or syrop, syrs, whyche lycke ye best?
Who lycketh not the tone maye lycke up the rest.
But, sure, who-so-ever hath assayed such syppes,
Had lever have dusty eyes then durty lyppes.
And it is sayd, syns afore we were borne,
That drought doth never make derth of corne.
And well it is knowen, to the most foole here,
How rayne hath pryced corne within this vii. yeare.

Water Myller. Syr, I pray the, spare me a lytyll season.
And I shall brevely conclude the wyth reason.
Put case on somers daye wythout wynde to be,
And ragyous wynde in wynter dayes two or thre,
Mych more shall dry that one calme daye in somer,
Then shall those thre wyndy dayes in wynter.
Whom shall we thanke for thys, when all is done?
The thanke to wynde? Nay! Thanke chyefely the sone.
And so for drought, yf corne therby encres,
The sone doth comfort and rype all dowtles,
And oft the wynde so leyth the corne, god wot,
That never after can it rype, but rot.
Yf drought toke place, as ye say, yet maye ye se,
Lytell helpeth the wynde in thys commodyte.
But, now, syr, I deny your pryncypyll.
Yf drought ever were, it were impossybyll
To have ony grayne, for, or it can grow,
Ye must plow your lande, harrow and sow,
Whyche wyll not be, except ye maye have rayne
To temper the grounde, and after agayne
For spryngynge and plumpyng all maner corne
Yet muste ye have water, or all is forlorne.
Yf ye take water for no commodyte
Yet must ye take it for thynge of necessyte,
For washynge, for skowrynge, all fylth clensynge,
Where water lacketh what bestely beynge!
In brewyng, in bakynge, in dressynge of meate,
Yf ye lacke water, what coulde ye drynke or eate?
Wythout water coulde lyve neyther man nor best,
For water preservyth both moste and lest.
For water coulde I say a thousande thynges mo,
Savynge as now the tyme wyll not serve so;
And as for that wynde that you do sew fore,
Is good for your wynde-myll and for no more.
Syr, syth all thys in experyence is tryde,
I say thys mater standeth clere on my syde.

Wynde Myller. Well, syns thys wyll not serve, I wyll alledge the reste.
Syr, for our myllys I saye myne is the beste.
My wynd-myll shall grynd more corne in one our
Then thy water-myll shall in thre or foure,
Ye more then thyne shulde in a hole yere,
Yf thou myghtest have as thou hast wyshyd here.
For thou desyrest to have excesse of rayne,
Whych thyng to the were the worst thou couldyst obtayne.
For, yf thou dydyst, it were a playne induccyon
To make thyne owne desyer thyne owne destruccyon.
For in excesse of rayne at any flood
Your myllys must stande styll; they can do no good.
And whan the wynde doth blow the uttermost
Our wyndmylles walke a-mayne in every cost.
For, as we se the wynde in hys estate,
We moder our-saylys after the same rate.
Syns our myllys grynde so farre faster then yours,
And also they may grynde all tymes and howrs,
I say we nede no water-mylles at all,
For wyndmylles be suffycyent to serve all.

Water Myller. Thou spekest of all and consyderest not halfe!
In boste of thy gryste thou art wyse as a calfe!
For, though above us your mylles grynde farre faster,
What helpe to those from whome ye be myche farther?
And, of two sortes, yf the tone shold be conserved,
I thynke yt mete the moste nomber be served.
In vales and weldes, where moste commodyte is,
There is most people: ye must graunte me this.
On hylles & downes, whyche partes are moste barayne,
There muste be few; yt can no mo sustayne.
I darre well say, yf yt were tryed even now,
That there is ten of us to one of you.
And where shuld chyefely all necessaryes be,
But there as people are moste in plente?
More reason that you come vii. myle to myll
Then all we of the vale sholde clyme the hyll.
If rayne came reasonable, as I requyre yt,
We sholde of your wynde mylles have nede no whyt.

Entreth Mery-reporte.

Mery-reporte. Stop, folysh knaves, for your reasonynge is suche,
That ye have resoned even ynough and to much.
I hard all the wordes that ye both have hadde,
So helpe me god, the knaves be more then madde!
Nother of them both that hath wyt nor grace,
To perceyve that both myllys may serve in place.
Betwene water and wynde there is no suche let,
But eche myll may have tyme to use his fet.
Whyche thynge I can tell by experyens;
For I have, of myne owne, not farre from hens,
In a corner to-gether a couple of myllys,
Standynge in a marres betweene two hyllys,
Not of inherytaunce, but by my wyfe;
She is feofed in the tayle for terme of her lyfe,
The one for wynde, the other for water.
And of them both, I thanke god, there standeth nother;
For, in a good hour be yt spoken,
The water gate is no soner open,
But clap, sayth the wyndmyll, even strayght behynde!
There is good spedde, the devyll and all they grynde!
But whether that the hopper be dusty,
Or that the mylstonys be sumwhat rusty,
By the mas, the meale is myschevous musty!
And yf ye thynke my tale be not trusty,
I make ye trew promyse: come, when ye lyste,
We shall fynde meane ye shall taste of the gryst.

Water Myller. The corne at receyte happely is not good.

Mery-reporte. There can be no sweeter, by the sweet roode!
Another thynge yet, whyche shall not be cloked,
My watermyll many tymes is choked.

Water Myller. So wyll she be, though ye shuld burste your bones,
Except ye be perfyt in settynge your stones.
Fere not the lydger, beware your ronner.
Yet this for the lydger, or ye have wonne her,
Parchaunce your lydger doth lacke good peckyng.

Mery-reporte. So sayth my wyfe, & that maketh all our checkyng.
She wolde have the myll peckt, peckt, peckt, every day!
But, by god, myllers muste pecke when they may!
So oft have we peckt that our stones wax right thynne,
And all our other gere not worth a pyn,
For with peckynge and peckyng I have so wrought,
That I have peckt a good peckynge-yron to nought.
How be yt, yf I stycke no better tyll her,
My wyfe sayth she wyll have a new myller.
But let yt passe! and now to our mater!
I say my myllys lacke nother wynde nor water;
No more do yours, as farre as nede doth requyre.
But, syns ye can not agree, I wyll desyre
Jupyter to set you both in suche rest
As to your welth and his honour may stande best.

Water Myller. I praye you hertely remember me.

Wynde Myller. Let not me be forgoten, I beseche ye.

Both Myllers goth forth.

Mery-reporte. If I remember you not both alyke
I wolde ye were over the eares in the dyke.
Now be we ryd of two knaves at one chaunce.
By saynte Thomas, yt is a knavyshe ryddaunce.

The Gentylwoman entreth.

Gentylwoman. Now, good god, what a foly is this?
What sholde I do where so mych people is?
I know not how to passe in to the god now.

Mery-reporte. No, but ye know how he may passe into you.

Gentylwoman. I pray you let me in at the backe syde.

Mery-reporte. Ye, shall I so, and your fore syde so wyde?
Nay not yet; but syns ye love to be alone,
We twayne will into a corner anone.
But fyrste, I pray you, come your way hyther,
And let us twayne chat a whyle to-gyther.

Gentylwoman. Syr, as to you I have lyttell mater.
My commynge is to speke wyth Jupiter.

Mery-reporte. Stande ye styll a whyle, and I wyll go prove
Whether that the god wyll be brought in love.
My lorde, how nowe! loke uppe lustely!
Here is a derlynge come, by saynt Antony.
And yf yt be your pleasure to mary,
Speke quyckly; for she may not tary.
In fayth, I thynke ye may wynne her anone;
For she wolde speke with your lordshyp alone.

Jupyter. Sonne, that is not the thynge at this tyme ment.
If her sewt concerne no cause of our hyther resorte,
Sende her out of place; but yf she be bent
To that purpose, heare her and make us reporte.

Mery-reporte. I count women lost, yf we love them not well,
For ye se god loveth them never a dele.
Maystres ye can not speake wyth the god.

Gentylwoman. No! why?

Mery-reporte. By my fayth, for his lordship is ryght besy.
Wyth a pece of worke that nedes must be doone;
Even now is he makyng of a new moone.
He sayth your olde moones be so farre tasted,
That all the goodnes of them is wasted,
Whyche of the great wete hath ben moste mater
For olde moones be leake; they can holde no water.
But for this new mone, I durst lay my gowne,
Except a few droppes at her goyng downe,
Ye get no rayne tyll her arysynge,
Wythout yt nede, and then no mans devysynge
Coulde wyshe the fashyon of rayne to be so good;
Not gushynge out lyke gutters of Noyes flood,
But small droppes sprynklyng softly on the grounde;
Though they fell on a sponge they wold gyve no sounde.
This new moone shall make a thing spryng more in this while
Then a olde moone shal while a man may go a mile.
By that tyme the god hath all made an ende,
Ye shall se how the wether wyll amende.
By saynt Anne, he goeth to worke even boldely.
I thynke hym wyse ynough; for he loketh oldely!
Wherfore, maystres, be ye now of good chere;
For though in his presens ye can not appere,
Tell me your mater and let me alone.
Mayhappe I will thynke on you when you be gone.

Gentylwoman. Forsoth, the cause of my commynge is this:
I am a woman right fayre, as ye se;
In no creature more beauty then in me is;
And, syns I am fayre, fayre wolde I kepe me,
But the sonne in somer so sore doth burne me,
In wynter the wynde on every side me.
No parte of the yere wote I where to turne me,
But even in my house am I fayne to hyde me.
And so do all other that beuty have;
In whose name at this tyme, this sewt I make,
Besechynge Jupyter to graunt that I crave;
Whyche is this, that yt may please hym, for our sake,
To sende us wether close and temperate,
No sonne-shyne, no frost, nor no wynde to blow.
Then wolde we get the stretes trym as a parate.
Ye shold se how we wolde set our-selfe to show.

Mery-reporte. Jet where ye wyll, I swere by saynt Quintyne,
Ye passe them all, both in your owne conceyt and myne.

Gentylwoman. If we had wether to walke at our pleasure,
Our lyves wolde be mery out of measure.
One part of the day for our apparellynge
Another parte for eatynge and drynkynge,
And all the reste in stretes to be walkynge,
Or in the house to passe tyme with talkynge.

Mery-reporte. When serve ye God?

Gentylwoman. Who bosteth in vertue are but dawes

Mery-reporte. Ye do the better, namely syns there is no cause.
How spende ye the nyght?

Gentylwoman. In daunsynge and syngynge
Tyll mydnyght, and then fall to slepynge.

Mery-reporte. Why, swete herte, by your false fayth, can ye syng?

Gentylwoman. Nay, nay, but I love yt above all thynge.

Mery-reporte. Now, by my trouth, for the love that I owe you,
You shall here what pleasure I can shew you.
One songe have I for you, suche as yt is,
And yf yt were better ye should have yt, by gys.

Gentylwoman. Mary, syr, I thanke you even hartely.

Mery-reporte. Come on, syrs; but now let us synge lust[e]ly.

Here they singe.

Gentylwoman. Syr, this is well done; I hertely thanke you.
Ye have done me pleasure, I make God avowe.
Ones in a nyght I long for suche a fyt;
For longe tyme have I bene brought up in yt.

Mery-reporte. Oft tyme yt is sene, both in court and towne,
Longe be women a bryngyng up & sone brought downe.
So fet yt is, so nete yt is, so nyse yt is,
So trycke yt is, so quycke yt is, so wyse yt is.
I fere my self, excepte I may entreat her,
I am so farre in love I shall forget her.
Now, good maystres, I pray you, let me kys ye—

Gentylwoman. Kys me, quoth a! Why, nay, syr, I wys ye.

Mery-reporte. What! yes, hardely! Kys me ons and no more.
I never desyred to kys you before.

Here the Launder cometh in.

Launder. Why! have ye alway kyst her behynde?
In fayth, good inough, yf yt be your mynde.
And yf your appetyte serve you so to do,
Byr lady, I wolde ye had kyst myne ars to!

Mery-reporte. To whom dost thou speake, foule hore? canst thou tell?

Launder. Nay, by my trouth! I, syr, not very well!
But by conjecture this ges I have,
That I do speke to an olde baudy knave.
I saw you dally with your symper de cokket
I rede you beware she pyck not your pokket.
Such ydyll huswyfes do now and than
Thynke all well wonne that they pyck from a man.
Yet such of some men shall have more favour,
Then we, that for them dayly toyle and labour.
But I trust the god wyll be so indyfferent
That she shall fayle some parte of her entent.

Mery-reporte. No dout he wyll deale so gracyously
That all folke shall be served indyfferently.
How be yt, I tell the trewth, my offyce is suche
That I muste reporte eche sewt, lyttell or muche.
Wherfore, wyth the god syns thou canst not speke,
Trust me wyth thy sewt, I wyll not fayle yt to breke.

Launder. Then leave not to muche to yonder gyglet.
For her desyre contrary to myne is set.
I herde by her tale she wolde banyshe the sonne,
And then were we pore launders all undonne.
Excepte the sonne shyne that our clothes may dry,
We can do ryght nought in our laundrye.
An other maner losse, yf we sholde mys,
Then of suche nycebyceters as she is.

Gentylwoman. I thynke yt better that thou envy me,
Then I sholde stande at rewarde of thy pytte.
It is the guyse of such grose quenes as thou art
With such as I am evermore to thwart.
By cause that no beauty ye can obtayne
Therfore ye have us that be fayre in dysdayne.

Launder. When I was as yonge as thou art now,
I was wythin lyttel as fayre as thou,
And so myght have kept me, yf I hadde wolde,
And as derely my youth I myght have solde
As the tryckest and fayrest of you all.
But I feared parels that after myght fall,
Wherfore some busynes I dyd me provyde,
Lest vyce myght enter on every syde,
Whyche hath fre entre where ydelnesse doth reyne.
It is not thy beauty that I dysdeyne,
But thyne ydyll lyfe that thou hast rehersed,
Whych any good womans hert wolde have perced.
For I perceyve in daunsynge and syngynge,
In eatyng and drynkynge and thyne apparellynge,
Is all the joye, wherin thy herte is set.
But nought of all this doth thyne owne labour get;
For, haddest thou nothyng but of thyne owne travayle,
Thou myghtest go as naked as my nayle.
Me thynke thou shuldest abhorre suche ydylnes
And passe thy tyme in some honest besynes;
Better to lese some parte of thy beaute,
Then so ofte to jeoberd all thyne honeste.
But I thynke, rather then thou woldest so do,
Thou haddest lever have us lyve ydylly to.
And so, no doute, we shulde, yf thou myghtest have
The clere sone banysht, as thou dost crave:
Then were we launders marde and unto the
Thyne owne request were smale commodyte.
For of these twayne I thynke yt farre better
Thy face were sone-burned, and thy clothis the swetter,
Then that the sonne from shynynge sholde be smytten,
To kepe thy face fayre and thy smocke beshytten.
Syr, howe lycke ye my reason in her case?

Mery-reporte. Such a raylynge hore, by the holy mas,
I never herde, in all my lyfe, tyll now.
In dede I love ryght well the ton of you,
But, or I wolde kepe you both, by goddes mother,
The devyll shall have the tone to fet the tother.

Launder. Promyse me to speke that the sone may shyne bryght,
And I wyll be gone quyckly for all nyght.

Mery-reporte. Get you both hens, I pray you hartely;
Your sewtes I perceyve and wyll reporte them trewly
Unto Jupyter, at the next leysure,
And in the same desyre, to know his pleasure;
Whyche knowledge hadde, even as he doth show yt,
Feare ye not, tyme enough, ye shall know it.

Gentylwoman. Syr, yf ye medyll, remember me fyrste.

Launder. Then in this medlynge my parte shal be the wurst.

Mery-reporte. Now, I beseche our lorde, the devyll the burst.
Who medlyth wyth many I hold hym accurst,
Thou hore, can I medyl wyth you both at ones.

Here the Gentylwoman goth forth.

Launder. By the mas, knave, I wold I had both thy stones
In my purs, yf thou medyl not indyfferently,
That both our maters in yssew may be lyckly.

Mery-reporte. Many wordes, lyttell mater, and to no purpose,
Suche is the effect that thou dost dysclose,
The more ye byb the more ye babyll,
The more ye babyll the more ye fabyll,
The more ye fabyll the more unstabyll,
The more unstabyll the more unabyll,
In any maner thynge to do any good.
No hurt though ye were hanged, by the holy rood!

Launder. The les your sylence, the lesse your credence,
The les your credens the les your honeste,
The les your honeste the les your assystens,
The les your assystens the les abylyte
In you to do ought. Wherfore, so god me save,
No hurte in hangynge such a raylynge knave.

Mery-reporte. What monster is this? I never harde none suche.
For loke how myche more I have made her to myche,
And so farre, at lest, she hath made me to lyttell.
Wher be ye Launder? I thynke in some spytell.
Ye shall washe me no gere, for feare of fretynge
I love no launders that shrynke my gere in wettynge,
I praye the go hens, and let me be in rest.
I wyll do thyne erand as I thynke best.

Launder. Now wolde I take my leve, yf I wyste how.
The lenger I lyve the more knave you.

Mery-reporte. The lenger thou lyvest the pyte the gretter,
The soner thou be ryd the tydynges the better!
Is not this a swete offyce that I have,
When every drab shall prove me a knave?
Every man knoweth not what goddes servyce is,
Nor I my selfe knewe yt not before this.
I thynke goddes servauntes may lyve holyly,
But the devyls servauntes lyve more meryly.
I know not what god geveth in standynge fees,
But the devyls servaunts have casweltees
A hundred tymes mo then goddes servauntes have.
For, though ye be never so starke a knave,
If ye lacke money the devyll wyll do no wurse
But brynge you strayght to a-nother mans purse.
Then wyll the devyll promote you here in this world,
As unto suche ryche yt doth moste accord.
Fyrste pater noster qui es in celis,
And then ye shall sens the shryfe wyth your helys.
The greatest frende ye have in felde or towne,
Standynge a-typ-to, shall not reche your crowne.

The Boy cometh in, the lest that can play.

Boy. This same is even he, by al lycklyhod.
Syr, I pray you, be not you master god?

Mery-reporte. No, in good fayth, sonne. But I may say to the
I am suche a man that god may not mysse me.
Wherfore with the god yf thou wouldest have ought done
Tell me thy mynde, and I shall shew yt sone.

Boy. Forsothe, syr, my mynde is thys, at few wordes,
All my pleasure is in catchynge of byrdes,
And makynge of snow-ballys and throwyng the same;
For the whyche purpose to have set in frame,
Wyth my godfather god I wolde fayne have spoken,
Desyrynge hym to have sent me by some token
Where I myghte have had great frost for my pytfallys,
And plente of snow to make my snow-ballys.
This onys had, boyes lyvis be such as no man leddys.
O, to se my snow ballys lyght on my felowes heddys,
And to here the byrdes how they flycker theyr wynges
In the pytfale! I say yt passeth all thynges.
Syr, yf ye be goddes servaunt, or his kynsman,
I pray you helpe me in this yf ye can.

Mery-reporte. Alas, pore boy, who sent the hether?

Boy. A hundred boys that stode to-gether,
Where they herde one say in a cry
That my godfather, god almighty,
Was come from heven, by his owne accorde,
This nyght to suppe here wyth my lorde,
And farther he sayde, come whos[o] wull,
They shall sure have theyr bellyes full
Of all wethers who lyste to crave,
Eche sorte suche wether as they lyste to have.
And when my felowes thought this wolde be had,
And saw me so prety a pratelynge lad,
Uppon agrement, wyth a great noys,
"Sende lyttell Dycke," cryed al the boys.
By whose assent I am purveyd
To sew for the wether afore seyd.
Wherin I pray you to be good, as thus,
To helpe that god may geve yt us.

Mery-reporte. Gyve boyes wether, quoth a! nonny, nonny!

Boy. Yf god of his wether wyll gyve nonny,
I pray you, wyll he sell ony?
Or lend us a bushell of snow, or twayne,
And poynt us a day to pay hym agayne?

Mery-reporte. I can not tell, for, by thys light,
I chept not, nor borowed, none of hym this night.
But by suche shyfte as I wyll make
Thou shalte se soone what waye he wyll take.

Boy. Syr, I thanke you. Then I may departe.

The Boy goth forth.

Mery-reporte. Ye, fare well, good sonne, wyth all my harte,
Now suche an other sorte as here hath bene
In all the dayes of my lyfe I have not sene.
No sewters now but women, knavys, and boys,
And all theyr sewtys are in fansyes and toys.
Yf that there come no wyser after thys cry
I wyll to the god and make an ende quyckely.
Oyes, yf that any knave here
Be wyllynge to appere,
For wether fowle or clere,
Come in before thys flocke
And be he hole or syckly,
Come, shew hys mynde quyckly,
And yf hys tale be not lyckly
Ye shall lycke my tayle in the nocke.
All thys tyme I perceyve is spent in wast,
To wayte for mo sewters I se none make hast.
Wherfore I wyll shew the god all thys procys
And be delyvered of my symple offys.
Now, lorde, accordynge to your commaundement,
Attendynge sewters I have ben dylygent,
And, at begynnyng as your wyll was I sholde,
I come now at ende to shewe what eche man wolde.
The fyrst sewter before your selfe dyd appere,
A gentylman desyrynge wether clere,
Clowdy nor mysty, nor no wynde to blowe,
For hurte in hys huntynge; and then, as ye know,
The marchaunt sewde, for all of that kynde,
For wether clere and mesurable wynde
As they maye best bere theyr saylys to make spede.
And streyght after thys there came to me, in dede,
An other man who namyd hym-selfe a ranger,
And sayd all of hys crafte be farre brought in daunger,
For lacke of lyvynge, whyche chefely ys wynde-fall.
But he playnely sayth there bloweth no wynde at al,
Wherfore he desyreth, for encrease of theyr fleesys,
Extreme rage of wynde, trees to tere in peces.
Then came a water-myller and he cryed out
For water and sayde the wynde was so stout
The rayne could not fale, wherfore he made request
For plenty of rayne, to set the wynde at rest.
And then, syr, there came a wynde myller in,
Who sayde for the rayne he could no wynde wyn,
The water he wysht to be banysht all,
Besechynge your grace of wynde contynuall.
Then came there an other that wolde banysh all this
A goodly dame, an ydyll thynge iwys.
Wynde, rayne, nor froste, nor sonshyne, wold she have,
But fayre close wether, her beautye to save.
Then came there a-nother that lyveth by laundry,
Who muste have wether hote & clere here clothys to dry.
Then came there a boy for froste and snow contynuall,
Snow to make snow ballys and frost for his pytfale,
For whyche, god wote, he seweth full gredely.
Your fyrst man wold have wether clere and not wyndy;
The seconde the same, save cooles to blow meanly;
The thyrd desyred stormes and wynde moste extremely;
The fourth all in water and wolde have no wynde;
The fyft no water, but al wynde to grynde;
The syxt wold have none of all these, nor no bright son;
The seventh extremely the hote son wold have wonne;
The eyght, and the last, for frost & snow he prayd.
Byr lady, we shall take shame, I am a-frayd!
Who marketh in what maner this sort is led
May thynke yt impossyble all to be sped.
This nomber is smale, there lacketh twayne of ten,
And yet, by the masse, amonge ten thousand men
No one thynge could stande more wyde from the tother;
Not one of theyr sewtes agreeth wyth an other.
I promyse you, here is a shrewed pece of warke.
This gere wyll trye wether ye be a clarke.
Yf ye trust to me, yt is a great foly;
For yt passeth my braynes, by goddes body!

Jupyter. Son, thou haste ben dylygent and done so well,
That thy labour is ryght myche thanke-worthy.
But be thou suer we nede no whyt thy counsell,
For in ourselfe we have foresene remedy,
Whyche thou shalt se. But, fyrste, departe hence quyckly
To the gentylman and all other sewters here
And commaunde them all before us to appere.

Mery-reporte. That shall be no longer in doynge
Then I am in commynge and goynge.

Mery-reporte goth out.

Jupyter. Suche debate as from above ye have herde,
Suche debate beneth amonge your selfes ye se;
As longe as heddes from temperaunce be deferd,
So longe the bodyes in dystemperaunce be,
This perceyve ye all, but none can helpe save we.
But as we there have made peace concordantly,
So woll we here now gyve you remedy.

Mery-reporte and al the sewters entreth.

Mery-reporte. If I hadde caught them
Or ever I raught them,
I wolde have taught them
To be nere me;
Full dere have I bought them,
Lorde, so I sought them,
Yet have I brought them,
Suche as they be.

Gentylman. Pleaseth yt your majeste, lorde, so yt is,
We, as your subjectes and humble sewters all,
Accordynge as we here your pleasure is,
Are presyd to your presens, beynge principall
Hed and governour of all in every place,
Who joyeth not in your syght, no joy can have.
Wherfore we all commyt us to your grace
As lorde of lordes us to peryshe or save.

Jupyter. As longe as dyscrecyon so well doth you gyde
Obedyently to use your dewte,
Dout ye not we shall your savete provyde,
Your grevys we have harde, wherfore we sent for ye
To receyve answere, eche man in his degre,
And fyrst to content most reason yt is,
The fyrste man that sewde, wherfore marke ye this,

Oft shall ye have the wether clere and styll
To hunt in for recompens of your payne.
Also you marchauntes shall have myche your wyll.
For oft-tymes, when no wynde on lande doth remayne,
Yet on the see pleasaunt cooles you shall obtayne.
And syns your huntynge maye rest in the nyght,
Oft shall the wynde then ryse, and before daylyght

It shall ratyll downe the wood, in suche case
That all ye rangers the better lyve may;
And ye water-myllers shall obtayne this grace
Many tymes the rayne to fall in the valey,
When at the selfe tymes on hyllys we shall purvey
Fayre wether for your wyndmilles, with such coolys of wynde
As in one instant both kyndes of mylles may grynde.

And for ye fayre women, that close wether wold have,
We shall provyde that ye may suffycyently
Have tyme to walke in, and your beauty save;
And yet shall ye have, that lyveth by laundry,
The hote sonne oft ynough your clothes to dry.
Also ye, praty chylde, shall have both frost and snow,
Now marke this conclusyon, we charge you arow.

Myche better have we now devysed for ye all
Then ye all can perceve, or coude desyre.
Eche of you sewd to have contynuall
Suche wether as his crafte onely doth requyre,
All wethers in all places yf men all tymes myght hyer,
Who could lyve by other? what is this neglygens
Us to atempt in suche inconvenyens.

Now, on the tother syde, yf we had graunted
The full of some one sewt and no mo,
And from all the rest the wether had forbyd,
Yet who so hadde obtayned had wonne his owne wo.
There is no one craft can preserve man so,
But by other craftes, of necessyte,
He muste have myche parte of his commodyte.

All to serve at ones and one destroy a nother,
Or ellys to serve one and destroy all the rest,
Nother wyll we do the tone nor the tother
But serve as many, or as few, as we thynke best;
And where, or what tyme, to serve moste or leste,
The dyreccyon of that doutles shall stande
Perpetually in the power of our hande.

Wherfore we wyll the hole worlde to attende
Eche sorte on suche wether as for them doth fall,
Now one, now other, as lyketh us to sende.
Who that hath yt, ply it, and suer we shall
So gyde the wether in course to you all,
That eche wyth other ye shall hole remayne
In pleasure and plentyfull welth, certayne.

Gentylman. Blessed was the tyme wherin we were borne,
Fyrst for the blysfull chaunce of your godly presens.
Next for our sewt was there never man beforne
That ever harde so excellent a sentens
As your grace hath gevyn to us all arow,
Wherin your hyghnes hath so bountyfully
Dystrybuted my parte that your grace shall know,
Your selfe sooll possessed of hertes of all chyvalry.

Marchaunt. Lyke-wyse we marchauntes shall yeld us holy,
Onely to laude the name of Jupyter
As god of all goddes, you to serve soolly;
For of every thynge, I se, you are norysher.

Ranger. No dout yt is so, for so we now fynde;
Wherin your grace us rangers so doth bynde,
That we shall gyve you our hertes with one accorde,
For knowledge to know you as our onely lorde.

Water Myller. Well, I can no more, but "for our water
We shall geve your lordshyp our ladyes sauter."

Wynde Myller. Myche have ye bounde us; for, as I be saved,
We have all obteyned better then we craved.

Gentylwoman. That is trew, wherfore your grace shal trewly
The hertes of such as I am have surely.

Launder. And suche as I am, who be as good as you,
His hyghness shall be suer on, I make a vow.

Boy. Godfather god, I wyll do somewhat for you agayne.
By Cryste, ye maye happe to have a byrd or twayne,
And I promyse you, yf any snow come,
When I make my snow ballys ye shall have some.

Mery-reporte. God thanke your lordshyp. Lo, how this is brought to pas!
Syr, now shall ye have the wether even as yt was.

Jupyter. We nede no whyte our selfe any farther to bost,
For our dedes declare us apparauntly.
Not onely here on yerth, in every cost,
But also above in the hevynly company,
Our prudens hath made peace unyversally,
Whyche thynge we sey, recordeth us as pryncypall
God and governour of heven, yerth, and all.
Now unto that heven we woll make retourne,
When we be gloryfyed most tryumphantly,
Also we woll all ye that on yerth sojourne,
Syns cause gyveth cause to knowe us your lord onely,
And nowe here to synge moste joyfully,
Rejoycynge in us, and in meane tyme we shall
Ascende into our trone celestyall.

Finis.

Printed by W. Rastell.

1533.

Cum privilegio.