A ballad intituled, Prepare ye to the Plowe,
To the Tune, of Pepper is blacke.
The Queene holdes the Plow, to continew good seede.
Trustie Subjectes be readie to helpe if she neede.
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LOoke up my Lordes, and marke my wordes,
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and heare what I shall sing ye:
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And Subjects all, both great and small,
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Now marke what word I bring ye.
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Parnaso Hill, nor all the skill,
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Of Nimphs or Muses fayned:
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Can bring about that I finde out,
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By Christ himselfe ordayned.
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Let wisdom be, as it is I see,
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A gift most worth the telling:
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Which never was, so brought to passe,
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Where Pagans have ben dwelling.
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Is now in fine, by power devine,
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Among us English planted:
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Which many a day, was kept away,
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And many a one it wanted.
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And by that wisdom, have we had,
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Such proofe as yet was never:
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To Judge and deeme, both good and bad
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To our great comfort ever.
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Which sithes we have, now let us hold
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This Tutchstone is the triall:
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To beate the baggage from the Gold,
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and truth from false deniall.
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And by this knowledge we do know,
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That everything is vaine:
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Beneath the Sonn, which heare below,
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We covet to attaine.
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Let not the spright, geve us delight,
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To labour and attend us:
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To seke to have, before our Grave,
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The joy that Christe may send us.
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In seking that, then must we nat,
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Build on the Sandy Surges:
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Now sow our Seede, where every Weede,
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His grace and bounty urges.
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Nor put our hope, in Preeste or Pope,
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In Masse or other matters:
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Or by our Dole, to save our Soule,
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With filling empty Platters.
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Or by a Pardon, to appease,
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The Surfits of our sinning:
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Although our Fathers, had all thease,
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By wicked mens beginning
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Nor let us make our stock and store,
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A burden to accuse us:
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For doing so, so much the more,
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We tempt God to refuse us.
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Neither let us once presume so far,
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Of mercy or of meekenes:
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To counterfait, to make or mar,
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This Image or this likenesse.
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That our forefathers did beleve,
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Were Gods, to geve and guide them:
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Such follies did the Christians greeve,
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and Pagans now deride them.
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Remember once the latter law
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Left yet in Moyses Table:
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That Neighbourly to live in awe,
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It is most commendable.
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Then shouldst thou not desire to crave,
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Thy Neighbours losse or lacke:
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Neither excesse desire to have,
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That puts thy soule to wracke.
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Neither Usery, nor use at all,
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Of women, wealth, or Wine:
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Neither of aboundance, great or small,
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Ill gotten should be thine.
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Neither should contencion, craft increase,
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Nor swearing beare the sway:
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Nor God unserved men as beasts
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Would break the Sabboth day.
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Then would the honour duly hit,
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To Parents Lord or King:
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Then would ther be no doubt a whit,
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To have store of everything.
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All this the new Law, with the old
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Doth Nip us to remember:
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Even as the Frost, that waxeth cold,
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Doth Nip us in December.
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And as upon, a sodain heat,
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We soone forget that freesing:
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When God doth of his mercy great,
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Spare us for lack of leesing.
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So let us think, as Sommer shows
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Grene Grasse to our deliting:
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We se that all the Grasse that growes,
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Goth down with litle smiting.
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And when the Mowyer coms to Mowe,
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Tis sone both Ripe and Rotten:
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This tale I trust, of hye and low,
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Will never be forgotten.
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On Gods good Booke, then let us loke,
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For that which never faileth:
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Without which boke, by Hooke, or crooke,
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No worldly wit prevaileth.
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God save her grace that holds the Plow,
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To sowe this trusty treasure:
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Though many a one be stubborn now,
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And Harrow it but at leasure.
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God graunt that he that Harrowed Hell,
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In guardon still may have her:
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And send you grace, that thinke not well,
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Of God that so doth save hir.
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