Impii cvivsdam epigrammatis qvod edidit Richardus Sbaklockus in mortem Cuthberti Scoti, quonda[m] praesulis Cestrensis Apomaxis Thoma Dranta Cantabrigiensi authore. Also certayne of the speciall Articles of the Epigramme, refuted in Englyshe by T. D. [i.e. Thomas Drant] |
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An Epitaphe vpon the death of Cuthbert Scotte, whilom Bishop of
Chester, deuised by Richard Shaklocke, and translated into Englyshe by an vncertayne Authour. |
 | Impii cvivsdam epigrammatis qvod edidit Richardus Sbaklockus in mortem Cuthberti Scoti, quonda[m] praesulis Cestrensis Apomaxis |  |
An Epitaphe vpon the death of Cuthbert Scotte, whilom Bishop of Chester, deuised by Richard Shaklocke, and translated into Englyshe by an vncertayne Authour.
Vhilst heresy the hound of hell, the Englyshe harts did teare,And spred her poyson perillously in places farre and neare,
Whilst good religious men it rackt, and holy houses rent,
And caught into her clynkyng chaynes the good and innocent,
Whilst euery thing it did displace, and heauen with earth confoūd,
And ledde the easy way to synne, to geue our soule a wound.
At Chester very painfully his faithfull flocke dyd fede.
But heresy not yet content, wyth bloud which she had shedde,
Began to spoyle thunspotted shepe, which this good shepard fed,
This shepard warred against the wolfe & to his charge he stands
When he might well haue toke his fete, he toke him to his hāds
With reason he doth pleade his cause, she mesures all with might,
Reply doth he, deny doth she, and thus they long do fyght.
Farre better learned the byshop was, but errour dyd excell,
By force, and by the peoples voice she bare away the bell.
For settyng foorth to waueryng wits, with lyes her forged ware,
Inueigled soone lyght credite heads, to fall into her snare.
Lyke as a drabbe or strumpet, which a matrone chast would seme,
Dothe fayne her face, & line her loke, ye thall her men may deme.
O heresy so full of fraude, an ape I may thee calle,
In forgyng truthe, thy sugred cups are myxt with bytter gall.
Through thy deceite France famous is wyth false & woūded lies,
Alack the day, besprent and staynd with blood of noble Guyse.
Through thy deceit, a ragyng rout which dwelt in Andwarp town
With stones did aide an heretike & thwackt ye Margraues down
The citie feared least in thy broyle thou shouldest her betray,
And least vnto the gredy dogges, she should become a pray.
But myghty Ioue dyd put his hande, betyme to quenche the flame
And sent the people which wer mad home to their houses tame.
Wel golden Andwerpe, take thou hede, be circūspect and waight,
For with thy goodes all heresy intendes her ships to fraight.
Let England now whiche is a ieste in all the worlde so wyde,
Teach thee what maner faut it is, from Romayn fayth to slyte.
Dothe not there crepe so many sectes and no man dare them blame
As there be fyshes in the Thames, a floud of noble fame.
Ay me promotions of great pryse do chaunce to tryflyng boyes,
All pulpits places for them be, to vtter out their toyes.
And whylst she byds the babblyng boys to prattle what they wyll,
She wylls old men to locke theyr lypps, and lyue in sylence styll.
Whilst onely Britayn brutyshly on Onely fayth takes holde
Fayr worde in dede do giue som heat, good worke do quake for cold
Fayr worde in dede do giue som heat, good worke do quake for cold
In brefe to speake whilst holy thyngs, it changeth for prophane,
An angle of all heresy, our Anglia, dothe remayne.
Procede to shewe thend of him, with whom thou fyrst be gunne.
When diuers ventures were deuourde, and tossyng tempests past,
Then heresye this lorde subdude, and wan the field at last.
What should trow you this byshop doo, whan he was left alone?
What shift might now this shepard make, whā al his flock was gon?
This stately dame constrained him to yeld against his will
His body bound must nedes obey, his mynd kept freedom still.
Restraynde he was, depriude he was, and had in small regard,
Imprisonment fell to his share, in stede of great rewarde.
The sunne fyue tymes dyd runne his race, & made his circle mete:
Whilst this good lord was forst to faynt in thaire of foysly Flete.
O Cuthbert great, in compasse small, a great whyle thou didst lye,
Sore langyng for ye lingring day, whē thou for Christ shuldst die.
Whilste thou doste long to lese thy lyfe, and looked for the blocke,
A pardon came to go abrode, vnopened was thy locke.
Thus disappointed was thy hope, thou soughtest a martyrs hyre,
But lēgthned lyfe made hope com short, of her long sought desire.
What shuldst thou do now father sage, since deth was nere at hād?
By natures course and to go out, the doore dyd open stande,
But take thy flight vnto this towne to fynde an holy graue:
For mete it was that holy earth, suche blessed bones shuld haue.
O louely Louane happy towne in whom this corps dothe rest:
And happy man whose sacred bones with sacred mould ar prest.
Now laugh these englyshe heretikes, and skreke into the skye,
That Cutbert is cut of by death, and pale in graue doth lye.
I meruaile not, for theues do laugh, when gibbets do ware scant,
And dogs do hop when whips ar broke, & boys whē rods do wāt
An hammer of all heresies thou wart, whilste life dyd last,
Out of thy mouth gainst heresies there came a stingyng blast.
A burnyng blast when thou the foes of holy church dydst chace:
But whē precepts thou didst propoūd, frō thee there cam a grace:
Euen as an other Chrysostom, the countrey dyd thee take,
For golden words with hony voice, to them thou often spake.
If englysh talke or Latine speche to vs thou foorth dyd bryng,
Me thought the hearers on thy lyppes, dyd hang as by a stryng.
Me thinkes like dogges our heretikes do barke against their kynd,
So oft as thy well fyled tongue, I call into my mynde.
O Carre the crowne of eloquence is due vnto thy tong.
The Tullie of the Briton bloud, would Carre were here this day,
That worthy thankes with lerned lips to Louane, he might pay.
Behold how Louane doth lament and helpeth vs to morne,
What meaneth this? are we beguyld, was he in Louain borne?
Nay nay as though he were in Louain borne and bred,
With great renoume vnto his graue, he is of Louain led.
O kyndnes to be worshypped in euery song of myne,
O worthy to be sent to God in euery vowe of thyne.
Though thou triūph aboue ye starres, frō empire heauē loke downe
Desyre God gently to deale with this same gentle town.
Pray for our cure of countrey men with errours now infecte,
That they may loue the anciēt faith, which they do now neglect.
That our good quene mai spy ye wolues which in lābs skins do lurk
And may preuent with policie, their false and wyly worke.
Pray God vnto the faithfull flocke good constant hartes to gyue,
Of whome great numbre at this day amyd the wolues do lyue.
Farewel Cutbert frō earth caught vp, with God in heauē to dwel,
New gryping grief doth stop my voice, yet once agayn farewell.
FINIS.
| Impii cvivsdam epigrammatis qvod edidit Richardus Sbaklockus in mortem Cuthberti Scoti, quonda[m] praesulis Cestrensis Apomaxis | |