The true description of a monsterous Chylde /
Borne in the Ile of wight, in this present yeare of oure Lord God, M.D.
LXIIII. the month of October, after this forme with a cluster of
longe heare about the Navell, the Fathers name is
James Johnsun, in the parys of Freswater.
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FOr mercy Lorde, with one accorde,
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To the we call and crye:
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That so doth show, in earth below,
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Thy wonderous workes daylye.
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Within the rase, of fyve yeres space
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Moche monsterous sights hath byn:
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Of sundry kynde, man bare in mynde,
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And sone turne from thy syn.
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Repent and pray, amende I say,
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Leve of thy wicked wayes:
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The tyme drawes on, thou must be gone,
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Beholde this later dayes.
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Of Infans yonge, agone not longe,
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With calves and pigges which were:
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The tookens loo, mishappen soo,
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Whiche cryeth to us great feare.
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Now this late syght in Ile of Wight,
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Straungely it is to tell:
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Two children borne, never beforne,
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Suche wonders there befell.
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The one I fynde, of Woman kynde,
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Havyng her shape all right:
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The other is, transposed this,
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As pleaseth the Lorde of myght.
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Where natures art, doth not her part,
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In workyng of her skylle:
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To shape aright, eche lyvely wight,
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Beholde it is Gods wyll.
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Loo here you see, before your eye,
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A man childe to beholde:
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A babe gyltles, deformyd this,
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Moste wonderous to be tolde.
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No carver can, nor paynter then,
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The shape more ugly make:
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As itselfe dothe, declare the truthe,
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A syghte to make us quake.
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Let us all feare, and in mynde beare,
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This forme so monsterous:
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That no hurt wraught, nor evill hath thaught,
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What shall become of us.
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That doth still syn, and never lyn,
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As men heapyng up treasure:
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Agaynst the day, of wrath for aye,
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Of Gods heavy displeasure.
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Nowe praye wee all, bothe great and small,
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Unto the Lorde of might:
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To gyve us grace in Heaven a place,
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There to attayne his sight.
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ALl ye that dothe beholde and see, this monstrous sight so straunge,
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Let it to you a preachyng be, from synfull lyfe to chaunge:
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For in this latter dayes trulye, the Lord straunge syghts doth showe,
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By tokens in the Heavens hye, and on the yearth belowe.
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This dothe demonstrate to us, the lyfe whiche we lyve in,
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A Monster oughly to beholde, conceyved was in syn:
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In shape unparfett here to vewe, that nature hathe not drest,
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A chylde now borne by porte moste true, this from the mothers brest:
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For he that doth this shape beholde, and his owne state will knowe,
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Will make the proude Pecocke so bolde, beare downe his tayll full lowe:
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Nowe Lorde sende downe thy holy spryte, the Confortor of Joye,
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For to direct owr wayes aright, to dwell with thee for aye:
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And graunt we maye amende our lyfe, accordyng to thy worde,
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In every age bothe Manne and Wyfe, nowe graunt us this good Lorde.
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