A Paumflet compyled by G.L.
To master Smyth and Wyllyam G.
Prayenge them both, for the love of our Lorde,
To growe at last to an honest accorde.
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THe fynest wyt that is alyve
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Cannot devyse by tunge nor pen
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The spytefull malyce to descryve
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That reygneth now in dyverse men
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We maye perceyve by them that stryve
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For castynge out a carde of ten
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That charyte is set at nought
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So reygneth malyce in mannes thought.
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Whych thynge doth force me thus to wryte
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Concernynge the uncharyte
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Of two that nowe with hatefull spyte
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Do blame eche other openly
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To none of bothe I owe despyte
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Ner this is none Apology
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For nether parte: but stryfe to stent
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Is grounde of all myne argument.
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The stryfe I speake of, is betwyxt
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One master Smyth & Wyllyam G.
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Theyr wrytynges are confusely myxt
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With bytynge wordes, and vylany
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In eche of them, a wyll is fyxt
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To maynteyne styll his vanyte
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Which hath a very feble grounde
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Wherwith his enemy to confounde.
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All this began, fyrst by a knave
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I wote not who, that wrote a trolle
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Wherin he dyd but rage and rave
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He knewe full lytle of saynt Poule
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Which wrytte the love that men shuld have
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And for one dyd thys trolle controlle
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Lo master Smyth a boke hath pende
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This tryflynge troller to defende.
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Some saye, it was for flatterye
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And some do saye, it was for mede
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For to advaunce him selfe therby
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Such men (they saye) do soonest spede
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That least can skyll of modesty
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But what he meant, therby in dede
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If I shall judge, as I do take it
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Naught but malyce, made him make it.
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For thorow out his raylyng booke
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Of charyte no worde is spoken
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Tyll all his malyce purpose tooke
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For malyce, forthwith wylbe wroken
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And whoso lyst therin to looke
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Maye judge him well, by his owne token
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A raylynge knave, for to defende
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Is, in no wyse man to commende.
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If master Smyth had marked well
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The purpose of that foolyshe dawe
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Which trolde upon the Lorde Crumwell
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Wyth ragged ryme, not worth a strawe
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He myght have founde that wretch rebell
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Both ageynst God, and all good lawe
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And not have blamed Wyllyam G.
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For blamynge his uncharyte.
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But when W.G. dyd fele the prycke
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So threattyng and malycious
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I wonder not though he dyd kycke
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For why, it was too sclaunderous
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And for the kycke, was somwhat quycke
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Lo, he agayne as envyous
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A testy aunswere strayte dyd wryte
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With checke for checke, & spyte for spyte.
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But of this stryfe, the chefe effect
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That maynteyned is so knappyshly
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Is rysen by the great suspect
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Of popyshnes and heresye
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One sayth the other is infecte
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With such a spyce of knavery
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I wyll not judge, which it shulde be
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But bothe theyr wrytynges are to se.
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These sortes are both to dyscommende
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In any man, where they be founde
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For papistes do nought els pretende
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But Christes glorye to confounde
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And Heretykes, God them amende
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Have but a very feble grounde
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If that they preache, that is forbod
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Or dyffer from the worde of God.
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For heresye is nothynge elles
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But swarvyng from the true belefe
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As holy wrytte expresly telles
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And he is worse then any thefe
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That thereagaynst in ought rebelles
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Or he that seketh his relefe
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Of false goddes, and not of Christ
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Is no les then an Antechrist.
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But he that hathe a popyshe harte
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And wyll not unto Christ be wonne
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He seekyth not, but to subvert
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All that the kynge hathe well begonne
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No reason maye hys wyll convert
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But he wyll do, as he hathe done
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Wyth tothe and nayle, for to upholde
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Hys blynde belefe, and errors olde.
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I wryte not thys, meanyng therbye
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That master Smyth is of that sorte
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Ner I judge not that willyam G.
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Is soche as Smyth dothe hym reporte
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But wryte my mynde wyth charyte
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The partyes bothe for to exhorte
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That he that fyndes hym in the cryme
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May fyrst recante, hys raylynge ryme.
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But thys is for to dyscommende
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In master Smyth above althynge
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That he so rashlye wolde defende
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A braynles buz, in hys wrytynge
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And afterwarde styll forth contende
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Wyth malyce, and wyth threatenyng
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Agaynst that poore man wylliam G.
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Farre from all godlye charyte.
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Wrestyng the scriptures as hym lyst
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For his owne purpose out of frame
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But he that stryfe doth so resyst
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That perfect worde, he doth defame
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Wherin our helth doth whole consyst
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For that is it, the very same
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That teacheth us the love and drede
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To God and to the kynge our hede.
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Perchaunce that Smyth wyll take it yll
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That I judge him so openly
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No force for that, it shall not skyll
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For he is knowen suffyciently
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But I protest, that in my wyll
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I meane nothynge malycyously
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But yet men must, for all his heate
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Repute him hotte, that see him sweate.
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Lykewyse the other dyd offende
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Wyth wrytyng so impacientlye
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For that is no waye to amende
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An harte that cankers inwardly
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But he his cause, shulde styll defende
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Wyth mekenes and wyth charyte
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And not wyth malyce nor despyght
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But suffer mekely wronge and ryght
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Evyn as the Gospell dothe us teache
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Whych is oure chefe profession
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For Paule hymselfe dyd alwaye preache
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That, for the chefe confession
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Of christen heartes, to make them stretche
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Theyr fayth unto Christs passyon
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The only entry into healthe
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All other entryes are but stealth.
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Lo, thus I fynde them both to blame
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Wyshynge to eche with all myne heart
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An honest mendement, wythout shame
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And praye to Christ that he convert
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Oure judgementes all into such frame
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That they and we, in every parte
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Wythouten grudge, debate or grefe
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Maye fyrmly stande in one belefe.
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Whych teacheth us to love and dread
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Hym that hathe power under God
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I mean the kynge that is our head
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That here in earth doth beare the rod
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Of true justyce in Chrystes steade
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By precyse wordes we be forbod
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Hym to wythstande, or to wythsaye
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In every cause we must obaye.
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For whome, as for our only guyde
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Oure greatest helpe and chefest staye
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That daylye doth for us provyde
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To save us sounde wythout decaye
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In warre and peace on every syde
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Wyth one accorde let us all praye
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To sende hys grace, us here amonge
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Honour, encrease, good lyfe and longe.
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