EBBA 36269
Society of Antiquaries of London - Broadsides
Ballad XSLT Template
An answere to maister Smyth
servaunt to the kynges most royall majestye. And clerke of the
Quenes graces counsell / though most unworthy.
Whether ye trolle in or els trolle out
ye trolle untruly / loke better about.
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WHereas of late two thinges ye parused
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Concerning the treason of Thomas Crumwell
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Undoubtedly both your wyt and your syght were confused
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Lackyng a medecyne / blyndnesse to expell
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Put on your spectacles and marke it well
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Than shall you se / and say / maugre your hart
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That trolle in / hath played a true subjectes part
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For whereas trolle a way (as ye say) tolde trouth
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Declaring the offences / wherin Crumwell offended
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It was not the thyng / wherwith troll in was wroth
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For in that poynt / Troll in / Troll away commended
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But this was the mater / wherfore they contended
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Trolle away / under pretence of trollyng against treason
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Practised proude popery / as appereth by reason.
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And ye supporting the same / your pen runneth at large
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Boldly as blynde bayerd / ye write in his defence
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And in your myschevous maner / ye lay falsly to my charge
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Sayeng / who that craftely coloureth any others offence
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Of lykelyhode in his owne hert / hath the same pretence
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But here ye speke of lykelyhode / and so blyndly go by gesse
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your fondnesse is the folyssher / and my faute is the lesse.
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An horse beyng nothing galled / of force ye may make to kycke
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With spurryng and with prickinge / more than reason wolde requyre
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But if the horse were lustye / coragious and also quycke
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ye might be the fyrst perchaunce / that might lye in the myre
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As wyse as ye / have ben drowned in their owne desyre
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Many a man / anothers mischefe / of malyce wyll prepare
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And yet him selfe the fyrst / that is caught in the snare.
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Bycause of making stryfe (ye say) ye wyll take neither parte
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But here ye breke promyse / for agaynst all reason and right
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Speking with your mouth / that you thinke not with your harte
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Agaynst trolle in / ye take trolle awayes parte / with all your myght
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Thus all thinges lyghtly that ye make / amonge themselves do fyght
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Wherfore whatsoever ye write or saye / gretly it shall not skyll
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For if ye speke anything wysely / I thinke it be agaynst your wyll.
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Ve illi per
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qem scan-
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dalum venit,
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Luce, xvii.
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But blyndly have ye sclaundred me / good maister Thomas Smyth
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Scraping togither scriptures / your madnesse to mayntayne
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Truly your rude rowsty reason / being so farre from the pyth
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Had nede of suche a cloke / to kepe it from the rayne
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For all the worlde may perceyve / how falsly ye forge and fayne
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yet styll you affyrme your falshed / as though ye knew thinges presysely
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Christes blessyng on your hert / forsoth ye have done full wysely.
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ye rumble amonge the scryptures / as one that were halfe mad
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Wrestyng and writhyng them / accordyng to your owne purpose
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Facyonyng and framyng them / to your sayenges good and bad
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Lyke as the holy Papystes / were wont to paynt their popysshe glose
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Do ye take the holy scripture to be lyke a shypmans hose:
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Nay nay / although a shypmans hose / wyll serve all sortes of legges
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yet Christes holy scrypture / wyll serve no rotten dregges.
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Counsell with some tayler / whan that ye wryte nexte
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Take measure of divinyte / before ye cut the facyon
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So shall ye square your scryptures / and the better trym your texte
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And than shall men of lernyng / commende your operacyon
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But howe shulde he be connyng / that knoweth not his occupacyon
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Howe shuld a cobler cut a cote / or a smyth tast good wyne
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Or how shulde you scarsely a clerke / be nowe a good devyne?
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What lyvyng man (excepte it were you) beynge in his right wyttes
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Wolde write as ye have written / and all not worth a myte
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I thinke it be some pevysshe pange / that cometh over your hert by fyttes
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Under the coloure of charyte / to worke your cruell spyte
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If men wolde marke your madnesse / and beholde your develyssh delyte
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Shuld se how ye wrest the scriptures to your sayeng / not worth .ii. chippes
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And joyne them all togither / as just as Germans lyppes.
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Whan ye have spytte your poyson / and sayde even the worst ye can
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Than come ye in with charite / wyllyng all stryfe to cease
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But surely good maister Smyth / ye speke lyke a mery man
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Moche lyke a comen pyke quarell / that stryfe wolde encrease
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Continually cryeng in frayes / holde / kepe the kynges pease
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But those be prety peace makers / in dede for every daye
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That styll bestowe mo strokes / than they that began the fraye.
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What wyse man wolde not laugh / for to here you bragge and boste
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Of your name / your servyce / of your offyce and all this gere
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As though ye were prymrose perelesse / and a ruler of the roste
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By the declaryng wherof / ye thinke to put pore men in fere
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But your braggyng and your bostyng / shall neyther be here nor there
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As longe as I may indifferently / be suffred to use my pen
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ye shall never be able to face me out / with a carde of ten.
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Qui fe lau-
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dat stercore
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coronabitur,
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A wyse man wolde have praysed god / and than prayed for the kyng
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The which of their gret goodnesse / to your offyce dyd you call
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And not to have bragged therof / and than put it out in printyng
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For ye stande not yet so sure / but it is possyble ye may fall
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And though your offyce be great / I trust your power be but small
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Or els parchaunce ye wold quickly thurst a poore man among the thornes
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But god almyghty provydeth well to sende a shrewde cow short hornes.
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Christ preserve the kynges most noble grace / & sende him longe lyfe
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Even Henry the eight (next under god) of this church / the hed supreme
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Christ preserve & kepe quene Katheryn / his most lawfull wyfe
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Christ preserve Prince Edwarde / the very right heyre of this realme
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Christ styll ensence their noble counsell / with the influence of heaven
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Christ for his tendre mercy / amende all thing that is amys
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Christ sende maister Smyth more charite / whan his good pleasure is.
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By me a poore man whose herte if ye knewe
Wolde be the kynges servaunt as fayne as you.
W.G.
Imprinted at London by me Rychard Bankes / Cum privilegio ad
imprimendum solum. And be to be solde in Pater noster rowe
by Johnn Turke / at the sygne of the Rose.
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