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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A Reply by Thomas Drant. |
 | Impii cvivsdam epigrammatis qvod edidit Richardus Sbaklockus in mortem Cuthberti Scoti, quonda[m] praesulis Cestrensis Apomaxis |  |
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
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.
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:
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?
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.
| Impii cvivsdam epigrammatis qvod edidit Richardus Sbaklockus in mortem Cuthberti Scoti, quonda[m] praesulis Cestrensis Apomaxis | |