tratlynge tales telles
Agaynst our holy prelacie
And holy churches dygnitie,
Sayinge it is but papistrie,
Yea, fayned and hipocrisy,
Erronious and heresye,
And taketh theyr aucthoritie
Out of the holy Euangelie,
All customes ceremoniall
And rytes ecclesiasticall,
Not grounded on Scripture,
No longer to endure?
And thus, ye maye be sure,
The people they alure
And drawe them from your lore,
The whiche wyll greve you sore;
Take hede, I saye, therfore,
Your nede was neuer more.
But sens ye be so slacke,
It greueth me, alacke,
To heare behynde your backe
Howe they wyll carpe and cracke,
And none of you that dare
With[150] one of them compare.
Yet some there be that are
So bolde to shewe theyr ware,
And is no priest nor deacon,
And yet wyll fyre his becone
Agaynst suche fellowes frayle,
Make out with tothe and nayle,
And hoyste vp meyne sayle,
And manfully to fyght,
In holy prelates ryght,
With penne and ynke and paper,
And lyke no triflynge iaper
To touche these felowes indede
With all expedient spede,
And not before it nede:
And I indede am he
That wayteth for to se
Who dare so hardy be
To encounter here with me;
I stande here in defence
Of some that be far hence,
And can both blysse and sence,
And also vndertake
Ryght holy thynges to make,
Yea, God within a cake;
And who so that forsake
His breade shall be dowe bake;
I openly professe
The holy blyssed masse
Of strength to be no lesse
Then it was at the fyrst:
But I wolde se who durst
Set that amonge the worst,
For he shulde be accurst
With boke, bell, and candell,
And so I wolde hym handell
That he shulde ryght well knowe
Howe to escape, I trowe,
So hardy on his heade,
Depraue our holy breade,
Or els to prate or patter
Agaynst our holy watter.
This is a playne matter,
It nedeth not to flatter:
They be suche holy thynges
As hath ben vsed with kynges;
And yet these lewde loselles,
That bragge vpon theyr Gospelles,
At ceremonies swelles,
And at our christined belles,
And at our longe gownes,
And at your shauen crownes,
And at your typ[i]ttes fyne,
The iauelles wyll repyne.
They saye ye leade euyll lyues
With other mennes wyues,
And wyll none of your owne,
And so your sede is sowne
In other mennes grounde,
True wedlocke to confounde:
Thus do they rayle and raue,
Callynge euery priest knaue,
That loueth messe to saye,
And after ydle all daye:
They wolde not haue you playe
To dryue the tyme awaye,
But brabble on the Byble,
Whiche is but impossible
To be learned in all your lyfe;
Yet therin be they ryfe,
Whiche maketh all this stryfe,” &c.
From The Vpcheringe of the Messe: Inprinted at Lōdon by John Daye and Willyam Seres, 12mo, n. d.
“Who hath not knowen or herd
How we were made afeard
That, magre of our beard,
Our messe shulde
