auro & argento,
You loued the rules of Lento,
Whiche the Pope did inuento:
You are spurius de muliere.
Not legittimate nor lawful here:
O quam[153] venenosa pestis,
Fur, periurus, latro, mechus,
Homicidis[154] tantum decus!
De salute animarum,
Of Christes flocke thou hadest small carum:
Thou art filius populi:
Go, go to Constantinopoli,
To your maister the Turke;
There shall you lurke
Emong the heathen soules.
Somtyme your shorne brethren of Poules
Were as blacke as moules,
With their cappes fower forked,
Their shoes warme corked;
Nosed like redde grapes,
Constant as she apes,
In nature like blacke monkes,
And shoote in sparowes trunkes,
And boule when thei haue dinde,
And kepe them from the winde;
And thei whiche are not able
Doe sitte still at the table,
With colour scarlet pale,
So small is their good ale:
Thus from God thei did tourne,
Long before their church did burne.
Then when riche men wer sicke,
Either dedde or quicke,
Valde diligenter notant
Vbi diuites egrotant;
Ibi currunt, nec cessabunt
Donec ipsos tumilabunt;
Oues alienas tondunt,
Et perochias confundunt.
These felowes pilde as ganders,
Muche like the friers of Flanders,
Whiche serue Sathan about the cloisters,
Thei loue red wine and oisters.
Qui vult Satanæ seruire,
Claustrum debet introire,
And euer haue suche an hedde
As bastarde Boner that is dedde.
He would for the Pope take pain;
Therfore help, you friers of Spain,
You enquisiters, take paine:
It is a greate maine
Vnto the Pope, your hedde,
That Boner is thus dedde,
And buried in a misers graue,
Like a common k[naue].
Lo, lo, now is he dedde,
That was so well fedde,
And had a softe bedde!
Estote fortis in bello,
Good Hardyng and thy fellowe;
If you be papistes right,
Come steale hym awaie by night,
And put hym in a shrine;
He was the Popes deuine;
Why, shall he be forgotten,
And lye still and rotten?
Come on, and doe not fainte;
Translate with spede your sainct,
And put hym in a tombe:
His harte is now at Rome.
Come forth, you loughtes of Louen,
And steale awaie this slouen:
You are so full of ire,
And popishe desire,
And Romishe derision,
And hellishe deuision,
Therefore I am sure
Your kyngdome will not dure.”
Sig. B iii.
…
“Responde.
Ne recorderis peccata,
But open heauen gata,
Sainct Peter, with your kaies;
Shewe my lorde the right waies:
He dwelt ones at Poules,
And had cure of our soules:
I wisse, he was not a baste,
But holie, meke, and chaste;
It is a greate pitie
That he is gone from our citie;
A man of greate honor;
O holy sainct Boner!
You blessed friers
That neuer wer liers,
And you holy nunnes
That neuer had sonnes,
Set this child
