University of Virginia Library

Homo natus,
Came to heauen gatus:
Sir you doe come to latus,
With your shorne patus.
Frequentia falsa Euangelij,
For the loue of your bealie,
Cum 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 venenosa pestis,
Fur, periurus, latro mechus,
Homicidus 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,
Lōg 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 Flāders,
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.
Unto the Pope your hedde,
That Boner is thus dedde,
And buried in a misers graue,
Like a common k.
Lo, lo, now is he dedde,
That was so well fedde,
And had a softe bedde.
Estote fortis in bella.
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 Louē
And steale awaie this flouen,
You are so full of Ire,
And Popishe desire:
And Romishe derision,
And hellishe deuision.
Therefore I am sure,
Your kyngdome will not dure.
Crescit rancor, crescit ira,
Crescit & inuidia,
Totus Louen in errorem,
Uoluiter in caligine,
Nullus curat obidire,
Verbis Iesu Christi,
Fides ī Roma nō apparet,
Totus Louen fide carit.
Thus he must tourne to duste,
In Louen there is none to truste.
As slipperie as Eles,
The worlde doe run on wheles,
Now helpe old frendes of Poules
And praie for our soules:
This is our desire,
From these flames of fire.
Iam in Purgatorij,
Oh. L.R.G. and F. be sorie,
Breuis eius dies sunt,
He breathed ouer Poules Funte
Ridiant me inimici,
But all you that bee wisie,
Beware of Papistrie all,
The Chequer, & westminster hall
And all the Innes of Courte,
I doe not scoffe nor sporte.
And all this greate citie,
It is greate pitie:
That I Edmonde Boner,
Against Goddes greate honor,
Haue drawen you from truthe,
Oh this is greate ruthe.
Comissa mea pauesco,
Et ante te tremesco,
Dum veneris iudicare,
Quare, quare, quare, quare.
Fremuerunt Gentes.
I beshrowe the Popes dentes
In cathedra Moysi impij sedent,
Therefore repent, repent, repent
Tempus est vos reuertendi,
Tempus est nobis non penitendi,
Tempus est vos redeundi,
Ab errore falsi mundi
False Papistes, and false theeues
Shall euer haue paines & greues,
Thus did Boner sore lamente,
Mouyng Christes to repente.