A discription of Nortons falcehod
of Yorke shyre, and of his fatall farewel.
The fatal fine of Traitours loe:
By Justice due, deservyng soe.
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OF late (alas) the great untruth
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Of Traitours, how it sped
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Who list to know, shal here [?]ave
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How late allegeance fled.
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If Rivers rage against the Sea.
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And swell with soddeine rayne:
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How glad are they to fall agayne,
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And trace their wonted traine?
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If fire by force wolde forge the fall
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Of any sumptuouse place,
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If water floods byd him leave of,
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His flames he wyll disgrace.
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If God command the wyndes to cease,
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His blastes are layd full low:
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If God command the seas to calme,
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They wyll not rage or flow.
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All thinges at Gods commandement be,
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If he their state regarde:
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And no man lives whose destinie
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By him is unpreparde.
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But when a man forsakes the ship,
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And rowles in wallowing waves:
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And of his voluntarie wyll,
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His owne good hap depraves:
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How shal he hope to scape the gulfe?
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How shal he thinke to deale?
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How shal his fansie bring him sound
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To Safties shore with sayle?
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How shall his fraight in fine succede?
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Alas what shall he gayne?
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What feare by storms do make him quake
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How ofte subjecte to payne?
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How sundrie times in Dangers den
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Is throwne the man unwyse?
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Who climes withouten holde on hye,
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Beware, I him advize.
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All such as trust to false contracts,
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Or secret harmes conspire?
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Be sure, with Nortons they shal taste
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A right deserved hire.
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They can not looke for better speede,
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No death for such too fell?
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God grant the justice of the worlde
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Put by the paynes of hell.
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For such a pensive case it is,
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That English harts did dare
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To passe the boundes of duties lawe,
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Or of their cuntrie care.
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And mercie hath so long releast
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Offendours (God doth know)
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And bountie of our curteous Queene
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Too long hath spared her foe.
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But God, whose grace inspires her harte,
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Wyll not abyde the spight
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Of Rebels rage, who rampe to reach
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From her, her title quight.
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Although shee flowe in pitifull zeale,
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And loveth to sucke no blood:
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Yet God a caveat wyll her lend
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Tappease those Vipers moode.
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A man that sees his house on fire,
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Wyll seke to quench the flame:
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Els from the spoyle some parte convey,
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Els seke the heate to tame.
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Who seee a penthouse wether beate,
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And heares a boistrouse wynde:
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But heedefull safetie of himselfe,
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Wyll force him succour fynde?
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The pitifull pacient Pellican,
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Her blood although shee shed:
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Yet wyll shee seme her date to end,
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Or care her young be sped.
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The Eagle flynges her yong ones downe
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That sight of sunne refuse:
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Unperfect fowles shee deadly hates,
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And rightly such misuse.
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The Crane wolde flye up to the Sunne,
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I heard it once of olde:
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And with the kyng of byrdes did strive
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By Fame, I heard it tolde
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And do woe she wolde not fal f[?]e no,
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But higher styll did moun[t]:
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Til past her reach (saith olde reporte)
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Shame made a backe recoun[?]
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I touch no Armes herein at all [?]
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But shew a fable wyse:
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Whose morall sence doth repr[?]
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Of clymers hye the guyse.
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Who buyldes a house of many [?],
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and laith not ground work[?]
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But doth extorte the ground b[?]g,
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His buildyng can not dure[?]
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Who sekes surmising to disp[?]
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a Ruler sent by GOD:
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Is subject sure, devoide of grace[?]
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The cause of his owne rod.
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A byrde that wyll her nest defyle
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By right should loose a wyng:
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And then is shee no flying fowle,
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But slow as other thyng.
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And he that loseth all at games,
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Or spendes in fowle excesse:
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And hopes by haps to heale his harme,
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Must drinke of deare distresse.
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To speake of brydles to restrayne
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This wylfull wayward crewe:
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They care not for the booke of God,
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To Princes, men untrue.
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To cuntrye, causers of much woe,
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To faithfull freendes, a fall:
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And to their owne estates, a styng,
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To others, sharpe as gall.
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O Lorde, how long these Lizerds lurkt,
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Good GOD, how great a whyle
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Were they in hand with feigned harts
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Their cuntrye to defyle?
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How did they frame their furniture?
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How fit they made their tooles:
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How Symon sought our englysh Troie
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To bryng to Romaine scooles.
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How Simon Magus playd his parte,
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How Babilon bawde did rage:
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How Basan bulles begon to bell,
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How Judas sought his wage.
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How Jannes and Jambres did abyde
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The brunt of brainesicke acts,
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How Dathan, Chore, Abiram seemd
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To dash our Moyses facts.
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How Romaine marchant set a fresh
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His pardons brave a sale,
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How alwayes some against the Truth
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Wolde dreame a senceles tale.
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Gods vicar from his god receaved
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The keyes to lose and bynd:
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Baals chaplein thoght h[?] fire wold [?]e
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Such was his pagan mynd.
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Good Lorde how hits the text their [?]ts
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That saith such men shall bee
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In their religion hot nor colde
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Of much varietie.
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And sundry sorts of sects surt[?]
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Division shall appeare:
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Against the father, sonne sha[?]yve,
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Gainst mother, daughter [?]re.
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Is it not come to passe trow y[?]?
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Yea, bastards sure they bee,
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Who our good mother Queene of [?]
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Withstand rebelliouslie.
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Can God his vengeance long retain[?]
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Where his true servants feele
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Injuriouse spights of godlesse men,
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Who turne as doth a wheele?
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No no, his suffryng long (be sure)
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Wyll pay his foes at last:
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His mercye moved once away,
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He shall them quight out cast
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With sentence just for their untruth,
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And breakyng of his wyll:
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The fruits of their sedicious seeds,
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The barnes of earth shall fyll.
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Their soules God wot sore clogd with crime
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And their posteritie
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Bespotted sore with their abuse,
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And stand by their follie.
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Their livyngs left their name a shame,
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Their deedes with poyson sped:
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Their deathes a wage for want of grace
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Their honours quite is dead.
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Their flesh to feede the kytes and crowes
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Their armes a maze for men:
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Their guerdon as examples are
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To dash dolte Dunces den.
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Throw up your snouts you sluggish sorte
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You mumming maskyng route:
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Extoll your exclamations up,
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Baals chapleines, champions stoute.
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Make sute for pardons, papists brave,
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For traitours indulgence:
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Send out some purgatorie scraps,
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Some Bulls with Peter pence.
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O swarme of Drones, how dare ye styl
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With labouryng Bees contend?
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You sought for honie from the hives,
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But gall you found in end.
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These waspes do wast, their stings be out
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Their spight wyll not avayle:
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These Peacocks proude are naked lefte
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Of their displayed tayle.
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These Turkye cocks in cullour red,
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So long have lurkt aloofe:
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The Beare (although but slow of foote)
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Hath pluct his wynges by proofe.
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The Moone her borowed light hath lost,
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Shee wayned as we see:
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Who hoped by hap of others harmes,
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A full Moone once to bee.
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The Lyon suffred long the Bull,
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His noble mynd to trye:
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Untyll the Bull was rageyng wood,
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And from his stake did hye.
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Then time it was to bid him stay
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Perforce, his hornes to cut:
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And make him leave his rageing tunes
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In scilence to be put.
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And all the calves of Basan kynd
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Are weaned from their wish:
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The Hircan Tigers tamed now,
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Lemathon eates no fish.
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Beholde before your balefull eyes
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The purchace of your parte,
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Survey your sodeine sorrowful sight
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With sighes of dubble harte.
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Lament the lacke of your alies
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Religious rebells all:
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Bewepe that yll successe of yours,
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Come curse your sodeine fall.
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And when ye have your guiles out sought
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And all your craft approved,
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Peccavimus shall be your song
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Your ground worke is removed.
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And looke how Nortons sped their wills
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Even so their sect shall have,
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No better let them hope to gayne
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But gallowes without grave.
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