Whan that Bachus, the myghti lorde,
And Juno eke, both by one accorde,
Hath sette a-broche of myghti wyne a tone,
And after wardys in to the brayn ran
Of Colyn Blobolle, whan he had dronke a tante
Bothe of Teynt and of wyne Alycaunt,
Till he was drounke as any swyne;
And after this, with a mery chere,
He rensyd had many an ale picher,
That he began to loken and to stare,
Like a wode bole or a wilde mare;
So toty was the brayn of his hede,
That he desirid for to go to bede,
And whan he was ones therin laide,
With hym self mervailously he fraide;
He gan to walow and turn up and downe,
And for to tell in conclucioun,
Sore he spwed, and alle vppe he kest
That he had recevyd in his brest,
So that it was grete pité for to here
His lametacionne and his hevy chere.
An hors wold wepe to se the sorow he maide,
His evy countenaunces and his colour fade.
I trow he was infecte certeyn
With the faitour, or the fever lordeyn,
Or with a sekenesse called a knave ateynt;
And anon his herte he gan to faynt,
And after ward their toke hym many a throw
Of good ale bolys that he had i-blowe;
He lokyd furyous as a wyld catt,
And pale of hew like a drowned ratte;
And in his bake their toke hym one so felle,
That after ward folowed a very stynkyng smell,
That for to cast was more vnholsam
Than aurum potab[i]le or aurum pimentum.
And whan his angwyssh some what gan apese,
He recovered of his dronken dessese;
He set hym vppe and sawe their biside
A sad man, in whom is no pride,
Right a discrete confessour, as I trow,
His name was called sir John Doclow;
He had commensed in many a worthier place
Then ever was Padow, or Boleyne de Grace;
Of so grete reverens werre the universities,
That men toke entrie knelyng on their knees;
In suche places his fader for hym had ben,
Whate shuld I tell you? ye wotte where I mene.
And yet in phisike he cowth no skylle at alle,
Whiche men callen baas naturalle;
Good drynke he lovyd better than he did wepit,
Men called hym maister John-with-the-shorte-tipet.
Hereby menne may welle understonde and see,
That in scolys he had take degré,
And was welle laboured in the rough byble,
Ffor he loved in no wise to be idele;
An able man to be aboute a pope,
Because he coude a conscience so welle grope,
And make an man to bryng out his mynde
Every thing that he had left behynde.
He gaf me many a good certacion,
With right and holsom predicacion,
That he had laboured in Venus secrete celle,
And me exponyd many a good gossepelle,
And many a right swete epistell eke,
In hem perfite and not for to seke;
And he had them i-lerneid and i-rade,
And alle were good, I trow their were none bade.
And right like an hevynly instrument
Unto me ever his tounge wente,
It was joie for to here and see
The fructuons talkyng that he had to me;
He behavyd hym so lich a gostly leche,
Both in countenaunce and in his speche,
And bad I shuld, by cause I was seke,
Unto Lucina and to Ciraa eke
My soule byqueth, or I hens deperte,
As I wold have his prayers after ward.
He promysyd me also, that he wold syng
Foure devoite masses at my biryng,
On of Bachus, anothir of Lucina,
The third of Juno, the fourth of Ciria,
And at Venus temple with grette devocion,
I have to you so grette dilection;
And for my soule ryng many a mery pele,
In Venus temple and eke in hir chapelle,
And also in many an othir holy stede,
Where Spade may not helpe women at ther nede;
And bad me eke be of right good chere
Alle the wyle I shold abyde here,
And for any thing that he coude feele,
That was in me, I sholde do right wele.
And yet he said: Be myne avisment,
Withoute tarying ye make your Testament,
And by good avice alle thing welle besett,
Loke ye do soo: for ye shalle fare the bette;
Whylis ye have your right memorie,
Calle unto you your owne secretory,
Maister Grombold, that cane handelle a pen,
For on booke he skrapith like an hen,
That no man may his letters know nor se,
Allethough he looke trughe spectacles thre.
Lete such a man writte your Testament,
For he shalle best folow your entent.


In Bachus Nomine, Amen!

I Colyn Blowbolle, all thinges to fulfille,
Wol that this be my last welle:
First, I bequeth my goost that is bareyn,
Whan it is depertid from the careyne,
Unto the godesse called Lucina,
And to hir sustir called Ciria;
For Lucina hath the governale
Of the salt flodes, wher many a ship doith saile,
And ofentymes ther they gone to wrake;
That causeth the stormes and the wawes blake;
And Ciria eke, as Fulgenes tellys,
Abideth moste in flodis and spring wellys.
And for be cause I have sette my plesaunce
In plenté of drynke, I shalle haue in penaunce
To dwelle in wayters as for a purgatory,
Whan I deperte from this world transetory,
Unto the tyme, that Dyane of hir grace
List ordeyn me an other dwellyng place;
But every sin must have his purgacion
Here or in an nothir habitacion.
And for the swete wynes that arn so myghti,
In whom I have sette alle my glorie,
Therefor of right it must nedis be thus,
My soule to dwelle in waters troublous,
That ben salt and bitter for taste,
And them to take as for my repaste;
Ffor of right, and as old bookes doon trete,
Sharpe sawce was ordeigned for swete mete.
And I bequeth also my wrecchid cors,
Whiche of the soule gafe litelle fors,
In the temple of Bachus to have his sepulture,
That alwey hath done his best cure,
To serve hym best with alle his hole entent,
Erly and late and ay right diligent;
The cause why I shalle to you devyne,
Ffor Bachus is called the god of wyne;
And for that licour is so presious,
That oft hath made [me] dronke as any mous,
Therfor I wille that ther it beryd be
My wrecchid body afore this god, pardé,
Mighti Bachus, that is myn owen lorde,
Without variaunce to serve hym, or discorde.
And after that another throw hym toke,
And therwith alle his body alle to-shooke,
Lyke as a fever that bernned hym so hote,
And was to hym grete payne, I wote;
And other whiles such a f-- he lete,
That men wend verely he had shete;
Ther ys no storme ne tempest ay doth lest;
But also sone as his anwhushe was past,
He procedid to performe his wille:
And byqueth, as it was right and skille,
Unto the abbasse of this monestary,
I mene of Bachus, that myghti lorde in glorie;
Alas Sloth, that devoute woman,
Whiche hath the propreté of a swan,
Evyr to be in plenté of licour,
And in the morenyng by viij. was his houre
To be as dronke as any swyne,
With wyne, or ale, or some licour devyne,
And to her sustres of that condicioun,
Wheir ever they dwelle, in citie or in towne,
Alle the londys and possessions
That I have lying within the bowns
Of Southwerke and of the stwes syde,
As wynde-melles and water-milles eke,
With alle their purtenaunces lying on every syde,
That be there redy and ar not for to seke,
Sufficient i-nough, yf they were alle told,
Ffor to serve many a grete houshold,
By a charter to have and to hold,
Under my seale of lede made the mold,
And written in the skyne of swyne,
What that it is made in parchemyne,
Be cause it shuld perpetually endure,
And unto them be both stable and sure,
Sauf only a certeyn quyte-rent,
Which that I have gevyn with good entent
To pay for me, unto my confessour,
That called is a man of grette honoure,
At the stewes side and their fast by,
To have an hous and dwelle therin yerely;
And to be paid of penaunce ten or twelve,
As good livers as he is hym selfe,
To fete it their, whan he hath need therto:
It is my wille right evyn that it be so;
And of this rent, yf that he doith faile,
I gyve hym powre to skore on the tale,
And take an[d] stresse, yf that nede be,
Upon the grounde, one, two, or thre,
And with hym home his stressis fo[r] to cary,
And in his chamber to make them for to tary,
Tille he be paid fully of the quyte-rent,
And wel i-plesid after hys owyn entent.
And at his forsaid charter maykyng,
And also at the possess