University of Virginia Library

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.
Then Cutbert Scot of Briton bloud, a newe sprong starre indede,
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.
But now my Muse thou dost begyn wide from thy mark to runne,
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.
A world it was to here thy words, now thou away art wrong.
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.

A Reply by Thomas Drant.

Vhilst raging Rome that ruthfull rocke, ye rēt & sunk ye sales,
And brast ye barge of frēdles faith & fraight her flete wt tales
whilst tales wer taught for trusty truth, & trodē truth did shrink,
Whilst painted pope our holy syre, dyd geue vs errours drinke:
Whilst error had through Britain land his mysty mātles spred
Whilst syn brought gain, & truth broght pain, whilst al vnclenes bred
One Cutbert Scot the Chester flock auctorised to kepe
Let louse the wolfes, & he most wolfe, with rauin rent his shepe
A cuttyng Cutbert sure he was, a cutter for the nones,
He cut the fleece, supt vp the mylke, & broylde the flesh & bones.
His sorie calends came at length: the princesse dyd require,
If that were fedyng of the flocke, to make them fede the fyre.
Cutbert that coulde enough of craft more then of learned skill,
Disloyall to her royaltie dothe worke to wraste her will.
These shepe (quod he) these wicked shepe in such case will not stand
As Corydon bad me, they shuld, the lord of Latin land
What Corydon a keper here? let him kepe in his boundes:
He ought not, nether shal (quod she) haue īterest in these groūds
Ought not quod she: he ought quod he, he hath it done of yore:
Som thing is that, not much (quod she) but harke to me therfore
Whilom there was in Nazareth a sheparde of great fame,
Not earth cā hold, nor heauens can shroud, ye proces of his name
There is of his a pamphlet pende, a pamphlet of great price,
He telthe what foode, & who shuld fede, and how diseases ryse.
If thou or thyn by words of his canst proue that pastors strange
Permitted are to rule our costes, and here as lordes to raunge:
In worde of prince we promise thee, we wyll hym not resyst,
Let Corydon cast on his curres, and byte where as he lyst.
Bothe parties condescended tho: the Iudges, tyme, and place,
Assigned were, and those assignde that should debate the case.
Eche herdmā left as then his charge, no shepefold had his guide
Both more and lesse to London straight to se the matches tride.
Up was the golden tressed sonne, come was the daisment day,
That prīce wt pope shuld stād in plea, which shuld on shepe bear sway.
Great was ye worthy audiēce, ye iudges sage & graue,
The parties fully priuileged the scriptures for to raue.
Stepte to the barre a noble route as chalengers of myght,
wt wepō whet of scriptures sharp, to win their souerains right.
No pope, no popyshe champion, no Scot gaue onset there,
Theyr wrangling argued ignorance their cauills argued feare.
Then truth that lōg exiled was, whē murthred wer her knights
Exilyng feare put forth her head, & peerde to most mens sights:
The princesse doth her well entreate, the people her imbrace,
And now they rue that euer erst, they pleasurde in that face.
That face ye fained Romish face, whose leames of glorious hue
Do yet bewitche the wicked world, apparant styll for true.
Ah Frāce to fond & blynd wt toys thou mightst by this haue seen
But that duke Guyse (disguised deuil) did so bedimme thyn eien
Alack with bloud of barons bold how purpled was thy soyle,
For amours of an apyshe hoore was kyndled all that broyle.
But let him dye embrued with blood, ye such dissention brewde:
A noble paterne for the rest, how they become so lewde.
And Andwarpe if the case so stode, that Ioue wold now bewray
His wil to the by preachers mouths, O Andwarpe doo not stay:
Iwis those preachers be not dogs that bark to fyll ye panche,
The poet raues whose frātike soule no vain of words cā stanch.
No golden Andwerpe, no of truth they seke no gold of thyne,
A cheat of thanks for popysh priests to cram their prolling pine.
Let England now a flouryng land to peace and blysse affyde,
Teach thee, what extreme ruth it is, in Romysh leage to abide,
The princesse of such perfect skil, the pieres stand in such steade
That sect nor scisme can sooner crepe, then nipped is her head:
Sects crepe (quod Shaklock) vncontrold: lo shitle Shaklock lo:
She blames, they blame, & yet vnblamd, go folish Shaklock go.
The prince she anchors ful on Christ, we stray not in ye stream,
Her faith to Christ, our faith to both, hath wroght a passīg realm
O happy days, promotions now fall not to tryflyng boyes,
Nor pulpits serue not shaued syres, there to vnlode their toys,
Both old & yong of fyled tongue, and of surpassyng lore:
Are lymited to preache in prease the scriptures, and no more.
In few: since Corydon and his were conquerde in the playne,
England in cuttyng of the pope cut of a rakehell trayne.
Cut of was Cutbert at that stroke, he cut the fomyng leas,
And lurkt in Louain loytringly his princesse to displease.
Ay me, what mēt this saint to flee? why went lord Scot away?
Age broke his wyt, he had forgot to byde his martyrs day.
A mistresse proude agaynst his wyll parforce he dyd obay,
Speake plainly Papistes, who was that? our heresy you say.
A stately dame our heresy, nay then a symple mayde,
And by the princesse only meanes, both she and hers wer stayde.
Nothyng she can, nothing she could, he ment the princesse state,
The cause why he presumde to check, she gaue the pope a mate
But fell shall be his finall fate, that loues to mell so hye,
The heauens tremble & the gods, when Ioue but lokes awry.
But now no more of thūdring words, of force laugh must we al
So Shaklock wills: for Scot our whip hath felt his fatall fall.
A gallow tree a whippe A bolt an hāmer was this Scot.
He hangde he scourgde he stroke wt tong he maide vnto the potte.
The true the shepe ye godly guides the lambes of little might,
Lyke Appie Aiax Gracchi both Like Boner bloudy wight
Suche grace dwelt in his taūtyng tong the gospel to deface,
That likly now he lieth bereft of promisde gospells grace.
A world to here his graceles grace, how it disgraced the man
True grace refusde, Gods gifts abusde, the people hedlong ran,
In latin or in english tong such processe dyd he ryng,
That he wold leade the noosled foles, as it were with a string
Me thinks he dyd enchant & charme & dusk our eies wt dreames,
Sens prechers bad vs boldly view the gospels blasing beames,
Scot was in eloquence a kyng, whiles that he lyued here,
And therfore dyeng left a crowne, but now who shall it weare?
Aske Shaklock student in the law, his wisedom stretcheth farre
Ah gentle hart, he is content to geue it doctour Carre.
Carre is the beautie of our yeares, most dere vnto our towne,
Great ruth it wer, ye golden Carre shold seke your laurel crown
The poete passeth in this poynt, whether he blame or prayse:
He bredeth grefe: yet of the two good Shaklock me disprayse.
But out alas, dead is this lorde, gone is theyr pyller stone,
He was the best iudge on the rest, and deme them all by one
A pyller of small constancie: At Duresme or els where
He dyd recant, whatsoeuer he had chaunted many a yere.
Wel louely Louaine, wel art thou, thou doest his bones inhold,
And well is hym that he may slope so swete in sacred moulde.
Alas good Louain how thou wepes? our papists how thei murn
Poore Shaklock moists in such excesse to water he will turne,
Fye pensife Poete do not so, the Pope is god as here,
And he wil raise agayne this Scot, when gyns agayn this yere.
Whyles that vnrudely I presume a salue to you to sende:
A soueraigne salue in hope it wyl your flowing dropsy mend.
If these my verses to pervse, you wyll but take the peynes,
These humors spred, eftsones no dout wil muster in your veins
Your gripyng grefe doth grate my heart, pitie doth me compel:
To tender you with hasty help, take these and fare ye well.

To the vnknowen Translater of Shaklockes verses.

Trāslator ye trāslates these things, what mening hath ye same?
Thou translates them: & they from the trāslate away thy name,
I smell thy popyshe malady, I know thou art not sounde,
I would so well I knew thy selfe, as well I know thy wound.
I am a rude Chirurgian perhaps I should ther strayne,
Fayn would I ease small ease to thee, to fele so great a payne.
I rubbe so rough, I ransacke depe, I cut vnto the core:
More healthfull for to haue my helpe, more easefull to be sore.

To Shaklocks Portugale.

Shaklock , a man of noble welth, supposyng vs but poore,
For countrey loue, dyd to transport of Portugals great store,
Such princely portugals (sayth he,) such perles of pride & price,
That not the best artificer their value can deuyse:
Nowe are not we a welthy folke, and at substanciall stay?
We haue so much of better thyngs, we cast these perles away.
And sely Shaklock, sely mā, may praise his pearles els wheare,
England a pereles Iland now allowthe no popyshe geare.