A Balad intituled /A cold Pye for the Papistes,
Wherein is contayned: The Trust of true Subjectes for suppressyng of Sedicious Papistrie and
Rebellion: to the maintenance of the Gospell, and the publique Peace of Englande.
Made to be songe to Lassiamiza Noate.
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WHat Christian that the Lord doth feare,
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Can sobs & blubbering teares forbeare,
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the time to way uprightly?
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To se how subjects Ebbe and Flowe,
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Wherby great discord haps to growe,
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a thing God knowes unsightly:
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Wherby our Queene and Realme we see,
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By such (alas) disquiet be,
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But God cut short the rage of those,
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As seeke to be their Countreis Foes,
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Beat down their brags their boaste deface,
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Unto our Queene Lord graunt thy grace,
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That she the sword from sheath may draw
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To vanquish such as hate thy law,
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Then shall we be: from daunger free,
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Graunt heavenly God, thus it may be.
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The carelesse Crew the shameles Route,
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Of Papists proud whose harts most stoute,
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thy Gospell are disdaining:
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Who secretly in corners lurke,
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Much mischeife here and there to worke,
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within our land remayning:
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Deface deare God for Christes sake,
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Then shall their Trayterous Treason slake,
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Prevent their hope wherin they stay,
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And disanull their Golden day,
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Wherof they brag: and make great boast,
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Of Christ and his to scoure the Coast,
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They trust to treade thy Gospell downe,
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Against our Queene they fret and frowne,
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Thus thine and thee, contemned be,
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From all such Rebels, England free.
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And fortefie our Queene with grace,
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That she with sword from hence may chase,
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all those that have assented:
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Against thy word and truth to jarre,
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Who seek to rayse up Civill warre,
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as people discontented,
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With thy deare gifts so manifolde
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Which they and we do well behold,
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Styll given by thy good providence,
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Yet som withstand thy reverence,
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Thy worship Lord they do disdaine,
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They seeke (as Truth) Lies to maintaine,
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God graunt our Queene may looke about,
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From hence to weede, such Papists stout,
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Then shall we be, from daunger free,
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Graunt heavenly God so it may be.
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The discord in the North we knowe,
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Which through the Poape did spring and grow,
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was warely prevented:
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And some that his Advauncement sought,
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A Hempen Hatchet justly caught,
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Because they so assented:
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To take the Field agaynst all right
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Against the Trueth and Queene to fight:
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But if thy worde and Gospell deare,
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Had ben so taught and preached theare
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As it hath ben in London longe,
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They wolde have shund suche Treason stronge,
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And duely done Obedience:
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Unto our Queene: with reverence:
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Whose mercye may: procure alwaye,
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Her Subjectes Hartes in Trueth to staye.
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Yet many seeke for to despyse,
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The Fowntayne, whence suche Grace doth ryse,
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Our Queene and Soveraygne raygnynge:
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And up and downe they use to goe,
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Lyke Rebelles, Discorde for to sowe
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with Lyes of their owne faynynge:
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What? doth the Princesse Curteousie,
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Of you deserve suche Injurie?
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That suche Rewarde ye render now,
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To her, whiche so doth tender you?
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Shall her true love reape suche Disdaine?
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Or thinke ye now as Lordes to raygne?
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Our Queene beares not a Sworde for nought
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Your Duties now ye wyll be taught:
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I trust her Grace, within short space:
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All pervers Papists wyll hence chace.
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And where as mercye hath ben cause,
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That ye transgresse her Highnesse Lawes:
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I trust ye shall knowe truelye:
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That Justice Sworde shall cut you short,
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Whiche to worke mischiefe thinke it sport,
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As Rebelles most unrulye:
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Beware therfore, ye Papists prowde,
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Whiche seeke in Dennes your selves to shrowde,
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To worke your wiles as voide of feare,
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In casting Billes now here, now there,
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Which seemes our Queene and Crowne to touch
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And ye your selves cannot advouche,
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The hangman give you not such checkes,
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That Tiburne chaunce to breake your necks,
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Trust me ye may, if ye do play,
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The Rebels thus, you must that way.
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For when such Wicked plants are gone,
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Englande shall have no cause to mone,
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Nor future Foes be doutynge:
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God graunt the Sworde may shun the Sheathe,
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And by the Rootes suche Weedes bereave,
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For many here are scowtynge:
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Who seeke as muche as ere they maye,
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This lyttell Brittaine to betraye:
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And all because we Christ professe,
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As present tyme doth prove no lesse:
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But God confownde poore Englandes foes
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And safely keepe our Ryall Rose:
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From suche as woulde her highnesse harme,
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With NESTORS yeares her Person arme:
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Graunt her thy Grace, in every place,
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The force of Rebelles to deface.
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