For by what meanes could Skelton that Laureat poet, or Erasmus that great and learned clarke have uttered their mindes so well at large, as thorowe their clokes of mery conceytes in wryting of toyes and foolish theames? as Skelton did by 'Speake Parrot1, 'Ware the hauke', 'The Tunning of Elynour rumming', 'Why come ye not to the Courte?' 'Phillip Sparrowe', and such like, yet what greater sense of better matter can be, that is in this ragged ryme contayned? or who would haue hearde his fault so playnely tolde him if not in such a gibyng sorte?