The pope in his fury doth answer returne,
To a letter the which to Rome is late come,
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I Doe esteme your kyndnes much
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For sendyng worde so sone,
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Your diligence it hath ben such
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It is arived at Rome:
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But when I had perusd your byl
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In that you set thereto your wyl
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And eke your mynd applyed untyl
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The writyng of the same.
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I did beleve it to be true
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But surely I must say to you
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It greved mee those lines to vew
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Were wrtten in your name.
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And sure it is no marvell loe
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For daylye I doe heare,
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The matter semeth to be so
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As amply doth appeare:
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For every man doth tell for true
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The same that late was sent of you
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But out alas, your tidynges new
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Doth much appall my spirite.
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And makes me sweare and makes me teare
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To pull and hale, and rend my heare
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And brynges me dayly in dispaire
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To thinke on this despite.
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But sith there is no remedye
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That mine obedient chylde,
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Is hanged up upon a tree
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And to to much revylde:
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What shoulde I doe but curse and ban
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And hurte them toe the worst I can
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For hanging up so good a man
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That bare mee such good wyll?
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But yf I had him here at Rome
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His body should be shryned soone
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And masse at mornyng and at noone
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With chantyng of each bell.
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Forever shoulde be sayd and soung
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The devyls to controule,
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And prayers all aboute his tombe
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With senceyng for his soule:
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That never a devyll so deepe in hell
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Shoulde once presume with him to mell
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Nor once approch his body tyll
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To vexe him any way.
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And I wolde kepe his body so
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That it from hence should never go
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And dyvers of my fryers mo
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For him should dayly pray.
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And gladly wolde I be revengd
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On England yf I might,
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Because they have toe much abusd
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My Bull with great despight:
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And make thereat a laughing game
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And set but little by my name
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And much my holynes defame
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And dayly me dispyse.
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Their Queene hath chast the rebels all
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That loved to bow their knees to Ball
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And hanged their quarters on the wall
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As meat for crowes and pyes.
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But I wyll walke and dayly seke
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My Purgatorie thorow,
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And cause all the devyls at my becke
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To me their knees to bow:
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And where as I may any fynde
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That to their Prince have ben unkynde
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Be sure, with mee they shall be shrynde
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As they deserved have.
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And cheefly now John Felton hee
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Shall ever be beloved of mee
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Because that he so lovinglye
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My Bull did seeme to save.
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But yf that I coulde have at once
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The paryng of his toe,
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His head, his quarters, or his bones
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That with the wynde doe bloe:
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Then shoulde they be layd up by mee
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As reliques of great dignitie
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For every man that comes to see
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Those Jewels of such grace.
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The Nortons bones should so be shrynd
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That now hanges wavering in the wynd
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Yf that I coulde devyse or fynd
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To bryng them to this place.
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And I wyll curse and ban them all
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That speake against my powre,
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And seekes to make my kyngdome fall
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My curse shall them devowre:
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And yf that here I might you see
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For wrytyng lately unto mee
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Be sure, ye should rewarded bee
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As best I coulde bethynke.
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And as for Wylliam Elderton
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That lately sent me worde to Rome
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Be sure that he should have lyke dome
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To bye him pen and ynke.
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Take this as written from our grace
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That unto you we send,
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Because we want both time and place
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To recompence you frend:
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As for the boyes that frump and scoff
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And at my holynes doe laugh
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I mynd to dresse them wel enough
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Yf case I had them here.
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And for my servants that abyde
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And long have had their pacience tryde
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From Romaine faith that wyl not slyde
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I wysh them all good chere.
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