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EBBA 32094

Huntington Library - Britwell
Ballad XSLT Template
An Epitaphe declaryng the lyfe and end
of D. Edmund Boner etc.

LO now the lingering hope is past,
that late the Papistes had:
Their braggyng brests which boild in hate,
their hartes with care have clad.

They looked long for wished tyme,
of Antichristes returne:
When they in wonted wise might spoyle,
and heapes of Martyrs burne.

But see the providence of God,
their malice to asswage:
He hath bereft these Papistes proud,
the piller of their rage.

Their whip, their sword, their fire brand,
of wrath their chefest stay:
The spoyler of the Christian flocke,
of whom he made a praye.

For bloudy burnyng Boner now,
hath made exchaunge of lyfe:
That whilelome was the murtherer,
of infant, man, and wife.

Yet sometyme he a favorer,
and did professe the troth:
Defiyng Pope and Popishnes,
five tymes with solemne oth:

And letted not for to accuse,
and note of haynous crime:
Such as were slacke to do the lyke,
duryng Lord Cromwels tyme.

A learned Epistle eke he wrat,
in prayse and in defence:
Of Byshop Gardiners worke the booke,
of true obedience.

Wherin he doth accuse the Pope,
his Churche and Romish rable:
Of haynous crimes right horrible,
and deedes detestable.

As tyranny, usurpyng state,
reprochefull unto God:
Of England eke a very spoyle,
to Christ his flocke a rod.

He names the Pope a greedy wolfe,
he joyes in his decay:
Hopyng the truth long troden downe,
at length should beare the sway.

He prayseth much the noble Prince,
and calles K. Henry vertuous:
That in suppressyng Popish power,
he is so studious.

Wherby most playnly may appeare,
how Boner had a tast:
Of Christ and of his Gospell pure,
tho he them scorned at last.

In Denmarke eke Ambassadour,
he published with speede:
The booke and Epistle named before,
as worthy workes in deede.

Then sent Ambassador to Fraunce,
from Henry puisaunt Kyng:
He furthered with free consent,
the English Bibles Printyng.

And caused divers of the same,
it semed of godly zeale:
For to be plast within Paules Church,
Christes truth for to reveale.

He causde five hundred Testamentes,
be Printed, this I know:
And those as precious jewels did,
upon his frendes bestow.

But as a wavering weather cocke,
Lord Cromwell beyng dead:
Forsaking Christ and all his lawes,
to papistry he fled.

And of a Paule became a Saule,
a Herode thirsting blood:
As on young Mekins well was sene,
his cruell killing moode.

For when one quest had cleard the boy,
and judgd him giltles quite:
He causd another Quest be cald,
and him condemnd by might.

Thus drave he forth kyng Henries dayes,
but when his noble sonne:
In fathers place to regall throne,
by due desent was come.

Then cald to count for his offence,
as justice thought it fit:
In humble wise before the Lordes,
himselfe he did submit.

But afterward most stubburnly,
with great contempt and scorne:
He did deny his former facte,
as one, ere then forsworne,

For which offence in prison cast,
where he with wealth was fedde:
Without regard of God or prince,
a perverst lyfe he ledde.

But when in brothers sacred seate,
God would Queene Mary place:
This wilfull man from prison cald,
by her especiall grace,

Abusing much the lenitie,
and mercy of the Queene:
Such bloody broyles began to brue,
as earst was never seene.

And lyke a roaring Lion he,
of Plutoes poysoned band:
Made havocke of the saintes of God,
his Christ he did withstand.

He trode his gospell under foote,
as much as in him lay:
With tormoyle great, and torments huge,
the Church he did affray.

And pitie none would he alow,
no mercy might him move:
His broyling brest enflamed so,
with popish fathers love.

With coales and candle light also,
of some the handes he brent:
Of some the haire, from of their face,
with cruell clawes he rent.

Some men he beate upon the face,
but some, most like a beast:
He scourgd with whips & rods (O wretch)
that dede, all men detest.

And breathing forth his tiranny,
consumde with fire and flame:
The olde, the yong, the riche, the poore,
the halt, the blinde, and lame.

What should I say, my hart it rues,
the peoples teares recorde:
The wayled woes for saintes so slayne,
which is to be abhorde.

But all this might not move his mynde,
for witte gave place to will:
Both grace and reason fled him fro,
his hart was hardened still.

But when God of his providence,
our famous Queene did sende:
To stay the rage of tiranny,
and wastfull wreakes to ende.

The mercy of Elizabeth,
tho it doth farre exceede:
Could not reclaime his cureles hart,
which errors still did feede.

But that he usde unreverently,
with scoffes in mocking wise:
Her graces high Commissioners,
both worthy, grave, and wise.

So when the people prayd for him,
reprochefull wordes he gave:
Most vile, not christianlike, as one
that had a soule to save.

The second tyme to prison brought,
where he his lyfe did leave:
Where learned men persuaded him,
unto the truth to cleave,

And flie the fancies of the fonde,
wherwith he was abusde:
Unwilling still to heare them speake,
good Councell he refusde.

So that untill his dying houre,
he shewed no perfect signe:
Of a repentaunt hart or mynde,
that would from sinne decline.

But as he livde a lothed lyfe,
unconstant, vile, and vayne:
Forsaking faith and natures kynde,
which God hath in disdayne.

His glory aye the peoples griefe,
the poore mans payne his pride:
(A wofull flocke where such a wolfe,
appointed was for guide)

Even so his ende was dolefull to,
wherin did well appeare:
On him the judgement just of God,
right wonderfull to heare.

For dead his face as blacke as coale,
and monstruous withall:
His grisly looke so terrible,
as might a man appall.

Was to the good a very glasse,
wherin they all may learne:
To shunne, the way that Boner went,
and better path deserne.

Yet tho in lyfe he would not graunt,
Christes mercy for to crave:
He wild his wretched Corps with pompe,
brought should be to the grave.

Unto the Church whereas sometyme,
a Prelate plast was he:
Even there his solemne obsiquies,
and funerals to be.

But sith it was so farre unmeete,
a place for him more fitt:
Within the Churchyard of S. George,
he hath a homely pitt.

And sith he loved not the light,
but did the same despise:
At midnight was he buryed there,
from vewe of peoples eyes.

Wherfore ye Papistes all beware,
forsake this Romish whore:
And feare the Judgementes of the Lord,
which will you els devoure.

Recant ye all your heresies,
and leave your perverse way:
Wherin you walkt so stubburnely,
so long and many a day.

Love God, obey your soveraine,
and pray for her estate:
Renounce ye all your Maummetry,
least ye repent to late.


Finis.
T. Bro. the younger.
Imprinted at London, by John
Daye, dwellyng over Aldersgate.
Cum gratia & Privilegio Regiae Majestatis.

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