The most Rare and excellent History,
Of the Dutches of Suffolks Calamity.
To the Tune of, Queen Dido,
|
WHen God had taken for our sin,
|
that prudent Prince K. Edward away,
|
Then bloody Bonner did begin
|
his raging malice to bewray:
|
All those that did Gods word profess,
|
He persecuted more or less.
|
Thus whilst the Lord on us did lowre,
|
many in prison he did throw,
|
Tormenting them in Lollards Tower
|
whereby they might the truth forgo:
|
Then Cranmer, Ridley, and the rest,
|
Where burning in the fire, that Christ profest.
|
Smithfield was then with Faggots fill'd,
|
and many places more beside,
|
At Coventry was Saunders kill'd,
|
at Woster eke good Hooper dy'd:
|
And to escape this bloody day,
|
Beyond S[e]a many fled away.
|
Amonst the rest that sought relief,
|
and for their Faith in danger stood
|
Lady Elizabeth was cheif,
|
King Henries daughter of Royal blood,
|
Which in the Tower did Prisoner lye,
|
Looking each day when she should dye.
|
The Dutchess of Suffolk seeing this,
|
whose life likewise the Tyrant sought,
|
Who in the hopes of Heavenly bliss,
|
within Gods words her comfort wrought:
|
For fear of Death was forc'd to flye,
|
And leave their house most secretly.
|
That for the love of God alone,
|
her Land and Goods she left behind;
|
Seeking still for that presious stone,
|
the word and truth so rare to find:
|
She with her Nurse Husband and child,
|
In poor array their sighs beguil'd.
|
Thus through London they passed along.
|
each one did take a several street,
|
Thus all along escaping wrong,
|
at Billingsgate they all did meet,
|
Like people poor in Graves end- Barge,
|
They simple went with all their charge.
|
And all along from Gravesend-Town,
|
with Journeys short on foot they went,
|
Unto the Sea-coast came they down,
|
to pass the Seas was their intent.
|
And God provided so that day,
|
That they took Ship and sail'd away,
|
And with a prosperous gale of wind,
|
in Flanders rhey did safe arrive
|
This was to their great ease of mind,
|
and from their heavy heart much woe did drive,
|
And so with thanks to God on high,
|
They took their way to Germany.
|
Thus as they travel'd still disguis'd,
|
upon the highway suddenly,
|
By cruel thieves they were surpriz'd
|
assayling their small company:
|
And all their treasures and their store,
|
They took away and beat them sore.
|
The Nurse in midst of all their fight
|
laid down the Child upon the ground,
|
She ran away out of their sight,
|
and never after that was found,
|
Then did the Dutchess make great moan,
|
With her good Husband all alone.
|
The thieves had there their Horses kill'd,
|
and all their money quite had took,
|
The pritty Baby almost spoil'd,
|
was by the Nurse likewise forsook:
|
And they far from their friends did stand,
|
And succourless in a strange Land.
|
The Sky likewise began to scowl,
|
it hail'd and rain'd in piteous sort,
|
The way was long and wondrous foul,
|
then may I now full well report,
|
Their grief and sorrow was not small,
|
When this unhappy chance did fail.
|
SOmetimes the Dutchess bore the child,
|
as wet as ever she could be,
|
And when the Lady kind and mild,
|
was weary, then the child bore he,
|
And thus they one another eas'd,
|
And with their fortunes well was pleas'd.
|
And After many a weary step,
|
all wet-shod both in dirt and mire.
|
After much grief their hearts yet leaps,
|
for labour doth some rest require,
|
A Town before them they did see,
|
But lodged there they could not be.
|
From house to house then they did go,
|
seeking that night where they might lye,
|
But want of money was there woe,
|
and still their babe with cold doth cry,
|
With Cap and knee they courtesie make,
|
But one of them would pitty take.
|
Loe here a Princess of great blood,
|
doth pray a Peasant for relief,
|
With tears bedewed as she stood,
|
yet few or none regard her grief,
|
Her speech they could not understand,
|
But gave her money in her hand.
|
When all in vain her speeches spent,
|
and that they could no house-room get,
|
Into a Church Porch then they went,
|
to stand out of the rain and wet:
|
Then said the Dutches to her dear,
|
O that we had some fire here.
|
Then did her Husband so provide,
|
that fire and coals they got with speed,
|
She sat down by the fire side,
|
to dress her Daughter that had need:
|
And whilst she drest it in her lap,
|
Her Husband made the Infant pap.
|
Anon the Serton thither came,
|
and finding them there by the fire,
|
The Drunken Knave all void of shame,
|
to drive them out was his desire,
|
And spurned out the noble Dame,
|
Her Husbands wrath he did inflame.
|
And all in fury as he stood,
|
he wrong the Church-keys out of his hand
|
And struck him so that all the blood,
|
his head ran down as he did stand,
|
Wherefore the Serton presently,
|
For aid and help aloud did cry.
|
Then came the Officers in haste,
|
and took thk Dutches and her child,
|
And with her Husband thus they past,
|
like Lambs beset with Tygers wild:
|
And to the Governer were brought,
|
Who understood them not in ought.
|
Then Master Bertue brave and bold,
|
in Latine made a gallant speech,
|
Which all their misers did unfold,
|
and their high fovour did beseech.
|
With that a Docter sitting by,
|
Did know the Dutches presently.
|
And thereupon arsing straight,
|
with wo[r]ds abashed at this sight,
|
Unto them all that their did wait,
|
he thus broke forth in words aright
|
Behold within your sight, quoth he,
|
A Princes of most high degree,
|
With that the Governour and all the rest.
|
were much amaz'd the same to hear,
|
Who Welcomed this new-come Guest,
|
with reverence great, and princely chear,
|
And afterwards convey'd they were,
|
Unto their Friend Prince Cassimere.
|
A Son she had in Germany
|
Peregrine Bertue call'd by name;
|
Surnam'd the good Lord Willoughby,
|
of courage great and worthy fame:
|
Her Daughter young that with her went,
|
Was afterwards Countess of Kent.
|
For when Queen Mary was deceast,
|
the Dutches home return'd again,
|
Who was of sorrow quite releast,
|
by Queen Elizabeths happy Reign:
|
Whose Godly Life and Piety,
|
We may praise continually.
|
|
|
|
|
|