A free admonition without any fees/
To warne the Papistes to beware of three trees.
|
IF that you be
|
not past all
|
grace,
|
O Papystes
|
heare mee
|
speake,
|
Let reason
|
rule, and
|
truth take
|
place,
|
Cease you from that you seeke.
|
Can you God or his woord deface?
|
Can you the truth wythstand?
|
Can you our noble Queene displace,
|
And yet lyve in England?
|
Take heede beware the Devyll is a knave
|
He wyl you sure begile:
|
In cruelty he would you have
|
To serve hym here awhile.
|
Wyth lying and hipocrisy,
|
His kyngdome to mayntayne:
|
Contemning truth and equity,
|
This is hys subtile trayne.
|
Let cursed Cain example be,
|
That slew Abel his brother:
|
Whom neither God with Majesty,
|
Could move to leave his murder
|
Nor yet the godly lyfe of hym,
|
That gave hym none offence,
|
Tyll he had heaped up hys synne,
|
In practesyng his pretence.
|
Let Core and Dathan come from hell
|
Where now they do remayne,
|
That they their minds at length mai tel
|
Wherfore they ther remain.
|
Namely, for that they did rebel
|
And would not be perswaded,
|
But would be Lordes in Israel,
|
Tyll hel had them devoured.
|
What could make Absalon meeke & tame
|
And to desist from rage?
|
His father Davids worthy fame,
|
Or yet his counsel sage?
|
No, no, these things wil not prevail
|
With hym that feares not God,
|
The force of doctrine ther doth fail,
|
Tyl God strike with his rod.
|
And as the Devil in these did rage,
|
To worke his wycked wyll,
|
That nothyng coulde theyr furye swage
|
Tyl they did it fulfyl.
|
So that the law of God and Man,
|
They sought to overthrow,
|
Even so of late I truly can
|
The lyke unto you show.
|
When Kyng Edward of worthy fame
|
Had Antichrist put downe,
|
And to the glory of Gods name,
|
Had placed truth in her roome:
|
The denshire dolts like Rebels ranck,
|
In rusty armour ranged,
|
But hangd wer som, their carions stanck,
|
The world was quickly changed.
|
And then dyd Ket the tanner stout
|
In Norffolke play his part,
|
Assemblyng such his Rebels rout,
|
That Innocents might smart.
|
But hanged he was, this was his end,
|
And so ende all the sort,
|
That Rebels are, and wyll not mend,
|
A rope be their comfort.
|
Such blessings as the Nortons had,
|
And such as Felton found,
|
God send them all that are so bad
|
Wyth heeles to blesse the ground.
|
If that you lyke not for to have,
|
This blessyng in a rope,
|
Leave of you Rebels for to rave
|
And cursse your Dad the Pope.
|
Which makes you oft such Crowes to pul
|
Then leaves you in the mire,
|
In sending you to such a Bull,
|
This is but symple hire.
|
Behold the end of thys attempt
|
That last here was begun,
|
Loe God your doyng doth prevent,
|
The Rebels race to run.
|
Synce God by grace doth guyde hys flock
|
That none can them anoy,
|
If you be grafted in this stocke,
|
He wyl you not destroy.
|
Feare God, flee syn, the truth embrace,
|
And seeke your Prince to please,
|
Obey the lawes and call for grace,
|
So shall you lyve at peace.
|
|
|
|
|
|