An Epitaphe declaryng the lyfe and end
of D. Edmund Boner etc.
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LO now the lingering hope is past,
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that late the Papistes had:
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Their braggyng brests which boild in hate,
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their hartes with care have clad.
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They looked long for wished tyme,
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of Antichristes returne:
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When they in wonted wise might spoyle,
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and heapes of Martyrs burne.
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But see the providence of God,
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their malice to asswage:
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He hath bereft these Papistes proud,
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the piller of their rage.
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Their whip, their sword, their fire brand,
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of wrath their chefest stay:
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The spoyler of the Christian flocke,
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of whom he made a praye.
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For bloudy burnyng Boner now,
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hath made exchaunge of lyfe:
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That whilelome was the murtherer,
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of infant, man, and wife.
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Yet sometyme he a favorer,
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and did professe the troth:
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Defiyng Pope and Popishnes,
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five tymes with solemne oth:
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And letted not for to accuse,
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and note of haynous crime:
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Such as were slacke to do the lyke,
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duryng Lord Cromwels tyme.
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A learned Epistle eke he wrat,
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in prayse and in defence:
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Of Byshop Gardiners worke the booke,
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of true obedience.
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Wherin he doth accuse the Pope,
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his Churche and Romish rable:
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Of haynous crimes right horrible,
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and deedes detestable.
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As tyranny, usurpyng state,
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reprochefull unto God:
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Of England eke a very spoyle,
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to Christ his flocke a rod.
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He names the Pope a greedy wolfe,
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he joyes in his decay:
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Hopyng the truth long troden downe,
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at length should beare the sway.
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He prayseth much the noble Prince,
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and calles K. Henry vertuous:
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That in suppressyng Popish power,
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he is so studious.
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Wherby most playnly may appeare,
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how Boner had a tast:
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Of Christ and of his Gospell pure,
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tho he them scorned at last.
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In Denmarke eke Ambassadour,
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he published with speede:
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The booke and Epistle named before,
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as worthy workes in deede.
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Then sent Ambassador to Fraunce,
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from Henry puisaunt Kyng:
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He furthered with free consent,
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the English Bibles Printyng.
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And caused divers of the same,
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it semed of godly zeale:
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For to be plast within Paules Church,
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Christes truth for to reveale.
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He causde five hundred Testamentes,
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be Printed, this I know:
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And those as precious jewels did,
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upon his frendes bestow.
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But as a wavering weather cocke,
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Lord Cromwell beyng dead:
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Forsaking Christ and all his lawes,
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to papistry he fled.
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And of a Paule became a Saule,
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a Herode thirsting blood:
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As on young Mekins well was sene,
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his cruell killing moode.
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For when one quest had cleard the boy,
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and judgd him giltles quite:
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He causd another Quest be cald,
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and him condemnd by might.
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Thus drave he forth kyng Henries dayes,
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but when his noble sonne:
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In fathers place to regall throne,
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by due desent was come.
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Then cald to count for his offence,
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as justice thought it fit:
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In humble wise before the Lordes,
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himselfe he did submit.
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But afterward most stubburnly,
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with great contempt and scorne:
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He did deny his former facte,
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as one, ere then forsworne,
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For which offence in prison cast,
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where he with wealth was fedde:
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Without regard of God or prince,
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a perverst lyfe he ledde.
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But when in brothers sacred seate,
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God would Queene Mary place:
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This wilfull man from prison cald,
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by her especiall grace,
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Abusing much the lenitie,
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and mercy of the Queene:
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Such bloody broyles began to brue,
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as earst was never seene.
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And lyke a roaring Lion he,
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of Plutoes poysoned band:
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Made havocke of the saintes of God,
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his Christ he did withstand.
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He trode his gospell under foote,
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as much as in him lay:
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With tormoyle great, and torments huge,
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the Church he did affray.
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And pitie none would he alow,
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no mercy might him move:
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His broyling brest enflamed so,
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with popish fathers love.
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With coales and candle light also,
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of some the handes he brent:
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Of some the haire, from of their face,
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with cruell clawes he rent.
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Some men he beate upon the face,
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but some, most like a beast:
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He scourgd with whips & rods (O wretch)
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that dede, all men detest.
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And breathing forth his tiranny,
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consumde with fire and flame:
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The olde, the yong, the riche, the poore,
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the halt, the blinde, and lame.
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What should I say, my hart it rues,
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the peoples teares recorde:
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The wayled woes for saintes so slayne,
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which is to be abhorde.
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But all this might not move his mynde,
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for witte gave place to will:
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Both grace and reason fled him fro,
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his hart was hardened still.
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But when God of his providence,
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our famous Queene did sende:
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To stay the rage of tiranny,
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and wastfull wreakes to ende.
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The mercy of Elizabeth,
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tho it doth farre exceede:
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Could not reclaime his cureles hart,
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which errors still did feede.
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But that he usde unreverently,
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with scoffes in mocking wise:
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Her graces high Commissioners,
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both worthy, grave, and wise.
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So when the people prayd for him,
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reprochefull wordes he gave:
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Most vile, not christianlike, as one
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that had a soule to save.
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The second tyme to prison brought,
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where he his lyfe did leave:
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Where learned men persuaded him,
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unto the truth to cleave,
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And flie the fancies of the fonde,
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wherwith he was abusde:
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Unwilling still to heare them speake,
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good Councell he refusde.
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So that untill his dying houre,
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he shewed no perfect signe:
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Of a repentaunt hart or mynde,
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that would from sinne decline.
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But as he livde a lothed lyfe,
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unconstant, vile, and vayne:
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Forsaking faith and natures kynde,
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which God hath in disdayne.
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His glory aye the peoples griefe,
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the poore mans payne his pride:
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(A wofull flocke where such a wolfe,
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appointed was for guide)
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Even so his ende was dolefull to,
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wherin did well appeare:
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On him the judgement just of God,
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right wonderfull to heare.
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For dead his face as blacke as coale,
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and monstruous withall:
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His grisly looke so terrible,
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as might a man appall.
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Was to the good a very glasse,
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wherin they all may learne:
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To shunne, the way that Boner went,
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and better path deserne.
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Yet tho in lyfe he would not graunt,
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Christes mercy for to crave:
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He wild his wretched Corps with pompe,
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brought should be to the grave.
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Unto the Church whereas sometyme,
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a Prelate plast was he:
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Even there his solemne obsiquies,
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and funerals to be.
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But sith it was so farre unmeete,
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a place for him more fitt:
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Within the Churchyard of S. George,
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he hath a homely pitt.
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And sith he loved not the light,
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but did the same despise:
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At midnight was he buryed there,
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from vewe of peoples eyes.
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Wherfore ye Papistes all beware,
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forsake this Romish whore:
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And feare the Judgementes of the Lord,
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which will you els devoure.
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Recant ye all your heresies,
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and leave your perverse way:
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Wherin you walkt so stubburnely,
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so long and many a day.
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Love God, obey your soveraine,
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and pray for her estate:
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Renounce ye all your Maummetry,
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least ye repent to late.
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