The Conuercyon of swerers (The Conversion of Swearers) — Reading Notes

A Poet’s Humble Frame

Hawes establishes his authority by disclaiming it. He calls himself 'lytell or nought expert' and says his pen 'dothe quake to presume to endyte,' yet he presses on, driven by hope and the desire to 'deuoyde ydlenesse.' This rhetorical posture is conventional for medieval and early Tudor poets, but Hawes gives it a personal edge by linking his own idleness—'I with the same ryght gretely infecte'—to the sin he condemns. The poem thus becomes a kind of self-cure, as he writes 'to eschewe ydlenesse.' The opening stanzas also serve as a mini-ars poetica: Hawes praises 'scyence' (knowledge) as stable and profitable, unlike worldly riches which are 'often transmutable.' This defense of learning prepares the ground for the moral lesson to follow, suggesting that the poem itself is an act of intellectual and spiritual discipline.

The Body Torn by Oaths

The central image of the poem is the physical tearing of Christ’s body by swearers. Hawes writes that they 'god assayle / On euery syde his swete body to tere / With terryble othes as often as they swere.' The verb 'tere' (tear) is visceral, repeated to emphasize the violence of blasphemy. This is not a metaphorical wound but a literal rending, as if each oath is a claw. The poem’s structure reinforces this: the opening praise of learning gives way to a lament that shifts abruptly into accusation. The swearers are 'cruell,' and their oaths are 'terryble,' suggesting both fearfulness and terror. Hawes does not describe the swearers’ motives or social context; instead, he focuses on the act itself, making the body of Christ the central site of injury. This image recurs throughout the excerpts, tying the poem’s moral argument to a stark, physical emblem.

Grace as Medicine

Alongside the imagery of tearing, Hawes introduces a counter-image of healing. He describes himself as 'Lykely to deye tyll grace by medecyne / Recured my sekenes my payne to abiecte.' Grace is figured as a physician who 'Commaundynge me by her hye power deuyne / To drawe this treatyse for to enlumyne / The reders therof by penytencyall pyte.' The poem itself becomes a medicinal text, intended to cure both the author and his readers. This medical metaphor extends the structure: the diagnosis is the tearing of Christ, the remedy is the poem’s penitential call. Hawes asks for pardon for his 'rudnesse' and submits to the reader’s 'benygnyte,' closing the frame he opened. The movement from sickness to cure mirrors the conversion promised in the title, though the excerpts do not show any swearer actually converting.

The Printer’s Colophon and the Poem’s Occasion

The colophon reveals that the poem was 'Enprynted at London, in Fletestrete, at the sygne of the Sonne, by Wynken de Worde' in 1509, the first year of Henry VIII’s reign. This places the work at a specific historical moment, when the new king’s court might have been a target for moral reform. Hawes identifies himself as 'groome of the chambre of our souerigne lorde Kyng Henry the seuenth,' a position that gave him access to the royal household. The poem’s attack on swearing may reflect courtly concerns, though the text itself does not specify an audience. The colophon also notes that the poem was 'made and compyled' by Hawes, suggesting both original composition and compilation of sources. The physical book, with its archaic spellings and abbreviations, reminds modern readers of the distance between Hawes’s world and our own, a distance that the poem’s vivid imagery partly bridges.

Readers approaching The Conuercyon of swerers should attend to its dual movement: the poet’s self-presentation as a reluctant, sinful writer and the urgent, physical language of blasphemy. The poem is short—just over 6,000 words—and its stanzas move quickly from praise of learning to lament to admonition. Hawes’s reliance on the image of tearing and the metaphor of medicine gives the work a coherence that transcends its occasional nature. The archaic spelling and typography of the original print may slow a modern reader, but the poem’s central concern—the power of words to harm or heal—remains immediate.

Lately I’ve been thinking about that 1509 poem, how the poet calls himself “lytell expert” and still sets about mending something. There’s a comfort in that—work done gently, without certitude. It reminds me of the quiet companionship found in Lyra Frivola — A Reader’s Guide, which feels less like a guide than an old friend’s margin notes, kept for no one in particular.