The braineles blessing of the Bull
The hornes, the heads and all,
Light on their squint eyed skonses full
That boweth their knees to Ball.
The cancred curse that wolde consume this realme with wracke and ruine,
Returne to Rome with fyre and fume, to bryng the Pope in tune:
If neither curse, nor blessyng bare, may mend these parties throwe,
I then bequeath (curst as they are) to Plutoes kyngdome nowe.
|
WAS never worlde so farre from orders rule,
|
That men durst speake such sawcie words of Kings
|
Nor never Pope so lyke an Asse or Mule,
|
Or dunghyll Cocke to crow and clap his winges.
|
Stand backe good dogs, the Bul he leapes & flinges
|
He bleates and bleathes as he a baightyng were,
|
And fomes at mouth, lyke Boare with bristled heare.
|
A beastlye sound, comes runnyng from his paunch,
|
He beates the ground with foote, with hip and haunch:
|
As though hell gates should open at his call,
|
And at his becke, the heavens high should fall.
|
O Sathans sonne, O Pope puft up with pryde,
|
What makes thee clayme the clowdes where God doth dwel?
|
When thou art knowne the glorious greedie guyde
|
That leades in pompe poore seelye soules to hell.
|
The pumpe of ship hath not so fowle a smell
|
As hath the smoke and fume that flames from thee,
|
O graceles grace, O rotten hollow tree.
|
The branches bud, but never bryng forth leaves,
|
Thy corne is dead, when Reaper lookes for sheaves:
|
Thy golde is glasse, and glistereth gay awhyle,
|
Tyll tromperie comes, and makes the worlde to smyle.
|
Who bad thee blisse? O Buzzarde blynd of sight,
|
Buylt God his church upon such clots of clay?
|
Thou doest blaspheme thereby the GOD of might,
|
And robbest with craft his honour cleane away.
|
Curse whome thou list, he better thryves that day,
|
Blesse whome thou wylt, and I dare gage my head:
|
For all thy charmes, he brynges a foole to bed.
|
Booke bell and syse, are bables fit for those
|
That gape for flyes, where Waspes and Hornets blowes,
|
The pardonles boxe, wherein thy reliques lye,
|
Doth smell lyke Fox, or Swyne shut up in stye.
|
A Pope was wont to be an odious name
|
Within our land, and scrapt out of our scroules,
|
And now the Pope is growne so farre past shame
|
That he can walke with open face in Poules.
|
Go home mad Bull to Rome, and pardon soules
|
That pyne away in Purgatorie paynes,
|
Go triumph there, where credit most remaines.
|
Thy date is out in England long ago,
|
For Ridley gave the Bull so great a blow
|
He never durst apeach this land tyll now,
|
In bullyng time, he met with Hardyngs Cow.
|
A Calfe or twayne hath here ben gotten since,
|
Whose heades were solde of late in butcher row
|
Come cheape Calves heads, and bring in Peter pence,
|
Though some are bought, our butchers looke for mo.
|
For Walthams calves, to Tiburne needes must go
|
To sucke a bull, and meete a butchers axe,
|
The Shambles full is stuft, with prettie knacks:
|
As Goate, and Lambe, and Shepe of threescore yeare,
|
We have good hope, calves heads wyll not be deare
|
If Hardyngs cow be bulled as shee ought,
|
Calves heads enough for little wyll be bought.
|
The Pope doth nought, but practize mischeif styll,
|
And lets his Bul runne ryot for his ease:
|
But whiles his Calves are drawne up Holborne hyll,
|
Both Bull and Cow are safe beyond the seas.
|
O that it might our holy father please
|
To come himselfe, and hang but halfe an hower,
|
With such poore freendes as here maintaine his power.
|
I say no more, for feare the babes awake
|
That holde with Pope, and hang for Hardyngs sake,
|
Some knackes now lurkes, that we shal know ful playne,
|
When Hoballes Oxe bulles Hardyngs cow agayne.
|
I scorne to write a vearce in any frame,
|
To answer wordes that rayled have so much
|
Yet baightyng oft, may make a Bull so tame
|
That every dog that comes, may have a twitch.
|
I here protest, if that my power were such
|
By pen or skyll, to chaffe the Bull at stake,
|
I wolde be glad some further sporte to make.
|
But since I want the cunnyng and the arte,
|
To baight the beast, and play the Mastiffs parte:
|
Let this suffise to let you thinke indeede,
|
I hate the Bull, and all the Romish breede.
|
|
|
|
|
|