A letter to Rome, to declare to the Pope,
John Felton his freend is hangd in a rope:
And farther, a right his grace to enforme,
He dyed a Papist, and seemd not to turne.
To the tune of Row well ye Mariners.
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WHo keepes Saint Angell gates?
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Where lieth our holy father say?
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I muze that no man waytes,
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Nor comes to meete me on the way.
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Sir Pope I say? yf you be nere,
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Bow downe to me your listning eare:
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Come forth, besturre you then a pace,
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Fo I have newes to show your grace.
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Stay not, come on,
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That I from hence were shortly gon:
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Harke well, heare mee,
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What tidings I have brought to thee
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The Bull so lately sent
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To England by your holy grace,
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John Felton may repent
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For settyng up the same in place:
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For he upon a goodly zeale
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He bare unto your common weale
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Hath ventured lyfe to pleasure you,
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And now is hangd, I tell you true.
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Wherfore, sir Pope,
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In England have you lost your hope.
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Curse on, spare not,
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Your knights are lyke to go to pot.
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But further to declare,
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He dyed your obedient chylde:
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And never seemd to spare,
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For to exalt your doctrine wylde:
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And tolde the people every one
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He dyed your obedient sonne
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And as he might, he did set forth,
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Your dignitie thats nothyng worth.
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Your trash, your toyes,
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He toke to be his onely joyes:
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Therfore, hath wonne,
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Of you the crowne of martirdome.
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Let him be shryned then
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Accordyng to his merits due,
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As you have others doen
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That prove unto their Prince untrue:
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For these (sir Pope) you love of lyfe,
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That with their Princes fall at stryfe:
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Defendyng of your supreame powre,
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Yet som have paid ful deare therfore.
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As now, lately,
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Your freend John Felton seemd to try
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Therfore, I pray,
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That you a masse for him wyll say.
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Ryng all the belles in Rome
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To doe his sinful soule some good,
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Let that be doen right soone
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Because that he hath shed his blood,
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His quarters stand not all together
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But ye mai hap to ring them thether
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In place where you wold have them be
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Then might you doe as pleaseth ye.
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For whye? they hang,
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Unshryned each one upon a stang:
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Thus standes, the case,
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On London gates they have a place.
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His head upon a pole
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Stands wavering in the wherling wynd,
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But where shoulde be his soule
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To you belongeth for to fynd:
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I wysh you Purgatorie looke
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And search each corner with your hooke,
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Lest it might chance or you be ware
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The Devyls to catce him in a snare.
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Of ye, him see,
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From Purgatorie set him free:
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Let not, trudge than,
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Fetch Felton out and yf ye can.
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I wysh you now sir Pope
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To loke unto your faithful freendes,
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That in your Bulles have hope
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To have your pardon for their sinnes,
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For here I tell you, every Lad
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Doth scoff & scorne your bulles to bad,
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And thinke they shall the better fare
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For hatyng of your cursed ware.
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Now doe, I end,
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I came to show you as a frend:
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Whether blesse, or curse,
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You send to me, I am not the worse.
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