The Complaint and Testament of a Popinjay, Title page – Prologue
¶The complaynte and testament of a Popiniay
Which lyeth sore wounded and maye not dye, tyll eueryevery man hathe herd what he sayth:
Wherfore gentyll readers haste you yt he were oute of his payne.
❧
Incipit prologus.
_page missingppose I had ingyne angelicall
page missingith sapience super salomonicall
… not what mater put in memory
The poetis olde in stile heroycall
In breue subtile termes rethoricall
Of euerylk mater tragedie and story
So ornatly to their hie laude and glory
Hath done indite whose supreme sapience
Transcendeth fer, the dull intelligence.
Of poetis now in tyll oure vulgar toung
For why the bell of retorik is roung
By Chaucer Goweir and Lidgate laureate
Who dare presume these poetis till impoung
Whose swete sentence through Albion bene soung
Or who can now the werkes contrefate
Of kennedy with termis aureate
Or of dumbar whylk language had at large
As may be sene in till his goldin targe
Quintyne / Me…r / …wle / Henderson / Hay / & holland
Though they bene deed her libellis bene lyuand
Whilke to reherse makes reders to reioyse
Alas for one whilk lampe was of this land
Of eloquence the flowyng balmy strand
And in our Inglysshe rethoryk the roise
As of rubeis the charbuncle bene choise
And as Phebus doth sinthea precell
So Gawane douglase byshop of dunkell,
Had when he was in to this lande on lyue
Aboue vulgare poetes prerogatyue
Both in practik and speculation
I saye no more good reders may descryue
His worthy werkes in nomber mo than fyue
And specially in the true translation
Of Uirgyll whilk bene consolation
To cunnyng men to knowe his great ingyne
As well in naturall science as diuyne
And in the court bene present in this dayes
That balletes breuis lustely and layes
Whylkes to our prince dayly they do present
Who can say more than syr Iames Inglysshe sayes
In ballattes farssis and in plesand playes
But Culrose has his pen made impotent
Kid in cunnyng and practik ryght prudent
And steward whilk desiris a stately style
Full ornate werkes dayly doth compyle.
Steward of lorn wyll carp ryght curiously
Galbrayt kinloch when they lyst them apply
In to that art ar crafty of ingyne
But now of late is stert vp hastely
A cunnyng clerk whilk wryteth craftely
A plant of poetes callid ballantyue
Whose ornate werkes my wyt can not defyne
Get he in the court auctorite
He wyll precell Quintyne and kenedy.
So though I had ingyne as I hauehave none
I wote not what to write be sweit saynt Iohane
page missingy in all the garth of eloquence
page missing nothing lefte but barayne stok and stone
The polit termes / are pullid eueryevery one
Be these fornamid poetis of prudence
And seing I find none other new sentence
I shall declare or I depart you fro
The complant of a woundid papingo.
Wherfore because my mater bene so rude
Of sentence and of rethorik denude
To rurale folk my dityng bene direct
Fer flemit frome the sight of men of gud
For cunning men I know will sone conclude
It dow nothing but for to be deiect
And when I here my mater bene detract
Than shall I swere I made it but in mowes
To vplandishe lassis whilk kepeth kye and yowes
Here endis the prologue And begynnis the complant.