%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> An Epitaphe vpon the death / Mayster Iohn Viron Preacher. Awdeley, John University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center Director Patricia Fumerton 1563-1563 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 04/30/2012 32082

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

S121709 THou soule whych on Christes brest, doest rest as Iohn loued, / And corps whych art lyke hys also, wyth earth en Viron ed: Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 18264 An Epitaphe vpon the death / Mayster Iohn Viron Preacher. An Epitaphe vpon the death [of] Mayster Iohn Viron Preacher. An Epitaph upon the death of Master John Viron Preacher. Awdeley, John Printer Iohn Awdely 1563-1563

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THou soule whych on Christes brest, doest rest as John loved, And corps whych art lyke hys also, wyth earth enVironed: Full joyfull mayst thou be, but we (alas) may wayle, Thy presence to forgo so soone, thy voyce so soone to fayle. But oh thy payne and toyle, in God thee prayse we shall, That thou ensample now mayst be, unto thy fellowes all. Whych ceasedst not at morne, at noone, nor yet at nyght, To preache Gods woorde, to beate downe vyce, and to put synne to flyght. Thyne native countrye thou, regardedst not a whyt, When God dyd call thee foorth to preache, but out thou wentst wyth it. Whych when in thyne owne toung, thou mightst not preache in Fraunce, Yet foorth thou wentst, and by God led, to us wast brought by chaunce. Where thou wyth paynefull watche, dydst learne our Englysh tounge, And wyth as paynefull diligence, dydst preache Gods truth among. No Tyraunt, nor fierce lawes, coulde make thee us forsake: But in the mydst of ragyng stormes, wyth Gods Sayntes part dydst take. And synce thou hast well shewde, whose servaunt thou hast bene, In preaching and in writyng both, whych to Gods prayse is sene. But now who shall lament? or who may joy now flee? Even every state from top to toe, both hygh and low degree. The poore may wayle hys mysse, whych wyth both tounge and hand, Dyd well refreshe theyr weary state, whych often they in stand. The ryche may mone wyth them, hys barkyng voyce to want, That kept from them that karking beast, whych rychesse dayly haunt. And though hys lyke yet lyve, and many suche there be: Yet shall we mysse hym in our lyfe, and nombers more then he. But oh London, London, thou oughtest chiefe to wayle, The people suche, and vyces great, may at hys want sore quayle. For twyse so many as there be, and myllions lyke to hym, Were not sufficient to draw backe, thy people from theyr synne. But shall I shewe the thankes, whych in thee he hath got? Oh London, London, Sodome was, not so yll unto Lot. His paynes deserved prayse, but some in thee hym gave: Obprobrious woordes, and sclaunders vyle, even to hys bodyes grave. But what for that they thus, have used hym so yll: Hys vertues were thereby more knowen, in spight of their yll wyll? And eke theyr lying blastes, are so layde in their face: That they may shame and weepe thereat, if they have any grace. But now thou flocke and folde, whych he in lyfe dyd guyde: What cause hast thou to wayle hys want, and count thee wo betyde? Whych hadst a Shepheard good, that dyd hys duty ryght: In saving Rammes from daunger neare, and helpyng Lambes to myght. From pasture unto pasture, he dyd thee bryng to feede, And never ceased to make thee from fayth to fayth proceede. There restes no more for you, hys paynes now to requite: But so to walke as he you taught, and speake of hym the ryght. And thou O England now, to ende and mone wyth theese: Lament thou mayst also wyth us, a woorkeman thus to leese. Thy harvest is so great, and Laborers so fewe, Yea of those fewe some Loyterers, full yll them selves do shewe. And let us here by take, a warning to us all, That seing harvest is so great, and woorkemens nomber small: Our fruit must needes be lost ourselves to famishe brought, Our Land layde lyke a wyldernes, and brought at length to nought. But thou O Lorde and God, of this our harvest great, Spare thou our woorkemen, and more send, that labour wil with sweate. That as we mone for John, enVironed by death, Thou wylt us glad wyth many a Paule, enspirde with heavenly breath.
Finis. Quod John Awdelie. Imprinted at London/ by John Awdely, dwellyng in lytle Britayne streete by great Saint Bartelmewes.