%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> A discription of Nortons falcehod / of Yorke shyre, and of his fatall farewel. / The fatal fine of Traitours loe: / By Iustice due, deseruyng soe. Gibson, William University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center Director Patricia Fumerton 1570-1570 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 04/30/2012 32269

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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

S121786 OF late (alas) the great vntruth / Of Traitours, how it sped Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 18305 A discription of Nortons falcehod / of Yorke shyre, and of his fatall farewel. / The fatal fine of Traitours loe: / By Iustice due, deseruyng soe. A discription of Nortons falcehod of Yorke shyre, and of his fatall farewel. The fatal fine of Traitours loe: by Iustice due, deseruyng soe. A description of Norton's falsehood of Yorkshire, and of his fatal farewell. The fatal fine of traitors low: by justice due, deserving so. Gibson, William Printer Alexander Lacie 1570-1570 Henrie Kyrkeham

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OF late (alas) the great untruth Of Traitours, how it sped Who list to know, shal here [?]ave How late allegeance fled. If Rivers rage against the Sea. And swell with soddeine rayne: How glad are they to fall agayne, And trace their wonted traine? If fire by force wolde forge the fall Of any sumptuouse place, If water floods byd him leave of, His flames he wyll disgrace. If God command the wyndes to cease, His blastes are layd full low: If God command the seas to calme, They wyll not rage or flow. All thinges at Gods commandement be, If he their state regarde: And no man lives whose destinie By him is unpreparde. But when a man forsakes the ship, And rowles in wallowing waves: And of his voluntarie wyll, His owne good hap depraves: How shal he hope to scape the gulfe? How shal he thinke to deale? How shal his fansie bring him sound To Safties shore with sayle? How shall his fraight in fine succede? Alas what shall he gayne? What feare by storms do make him quake How ofte subjecte to payne? How sundrie times in Dangers den Is throwne the man unwyse? Who climes withouten holde on hye, Beware, I him advize. All such as trust to false contracts, Or secret harmes conspire? Be sure, with Nortons they shal taste A right deserved hire. They can not looke for better speede, No death for such too fell? God grant the justice of the worlde Put by the paynes of hell. For such a pensive case it is, That English harts did dare To passe the boundes of duties lawe, Or of their cuntrie care. And mercie hath so long releast Offendours (God doth know) And bountie of our curteous Queene Too long hath spared her foe. But God, whose grace inspires her harte, Wyll not abyde the spight Of Rebels rage, who rampe to reach From her, her title quight. Although shee flowe in pitifull zeale, And loveth to sucke no blood: Yet God a caveat wyll her lend Tappease those Vipers moode. A man that sees his house on fire, Wyll seke to quench the flame: Els from the spoyle some parte convey, Els seke the heate to tame. Who seee a penthouse wether beate, And heares a boistrouse wynde: But heedefull safetie of himselfe, Wyll force him succour fynde? The pitifull pacient Pellican, Her blood although shee shed: Yet wyll shee seme her date to end, Or care her young be sped. The Eagle flynges her yong ones downe That sight of sunne refuse: Unperfect fowles shee deadly hates, And rightly such misuse.
The Crane wolde flye up to the Sunne, I heard it once of olde: And with the kyng of byrdes did strive By Fame, I heard it tolde And do woe she wolde not fal f[?]e no, But higher styll did moun[t]: Til past her reach (saith olde reporte) Shame made a backe recoun[?] I touch no Armes herein at all [?] But shew a fable wyse: Whose morall sence doth repr[?] Of clymers hye the guyse. Who buyldes a house of many [?], and laith not ground work[?] But doth extorte the ground b[?]g, His buildyng can not dure[?] Who sekes surmising to disp[?] a Ruler sent by GOD: Is subject sure, devoide of grace[?] The cause of his owne rod. A byrde that wyll her nest defyle By right should loose a wyng: And then is shee no flying fowle, But slow as other thyng. And he that loseth all at games, Or spendes in fowle excesse: And hopes by haps to heale his harme, Must drinke of deare distresse. To speake of brydles to restrayne This wylfull wayward crewe: They care not for the booke of God, To Princes, men untrue. To cuntrye, causers of much woe, To faithfull freendes, a fall: And to their owne estates, a styng, To others, sharpe as gall. O Lorde, how long these Lizerds lurkt, Good GOD, how great a whyle Were they in hand with feigned harts Their cuntrye to defyle? How did they frame their furniture? How fit they made their tooles: How Symon sought our englysh Troie To bryng to Romaine scooles. How Simon Magus playd his parte, How Babilon bawde did rage: How Basan bulles begon to bell, How Judas sought his wage. How Jannes and Jambres did abyde The brunt of brainesicke acts, How Dathan, Chore, Abiram seemd To dash our Moyses facts. How Romaine marchant set a fresh His pardons brave a sale, How alwayes some against the Truth Wolde dreame a senceles tale. Gods vicar from his god receaved The keyes to lose and bynd: Baals chaplein thoght h[?] fire wold [?]e Such was his pagan mynd. Good Lorde how hits the text their [?]ts That saith such men shall bee In their religion hot nor colde Of much varietie. And sundry sorts of sects surt[?] Division shall appeare: Against the father, sonne sha[?]yve, Gainst mother, daughter [?]re. Is it not come to passe trow y[?]? Yea, bastards sure they bee, Who our good mother Queene of [?] Withstand rebelliouslie. Can God his vengeance long retain[?] Where his true servants feele Injuriouse spights of godlesse men, Who turne as doth a wheele?
No no, his suffryng long (be sure) Wyll pay his foes at last: His mercye moved once away, He shall them quight out cast With sentence just for their untruth, And breakyng of his wyll: The fruits of their sedicious seeds, The barnes of earth shall fyll. Their soules God wot sore clogd with crime And their posteritie Bespotted sore with their abuse, And stand by their follie. Their livyngs left their name a shame, Their deedes with poyson sped: Their deathes a wage for want of grace Their honours quite is dead. Their flesh to feede the kytes and crowes Their armes a maze for men: Their guerdon as examples are To dash dolte Dunces den. Throw up your snouts you sluggish sorte You mumming maskyng route: Extoll your exclamations up, Baals chapleines, champions stoute. Make sute for pardons, papists brave, For traitours indulgence: Send out some purgatorie scraps, Some Bulls with Peter pence. O swarme of Drones, how dare ye styl With labouryng Bees contend? You sought for honie from the hives, But gall you found in end. These waspes do wast, their stings be out Their spight wyll not avayle: These Peacocks proude are naked lefte Of their displayed tayle. These Turkye cocks in cullour red, So long have lurkt aloofe: The Beare (although but slow of foote) Hath pluct his wynges by proofe. The Moone her borowed light hath lost, Shee wayned as we see: Who hoped by hap of others harmes, A full Moone once to bee. The Lyon suffred long the Bull, His noble mynd to trye: Untyll the Bull was rageyng wood, And from his stake did hye. Then time it was to bid him stay Perforce, his hornes to cut: And make him leave his rageing tunes In scilence to be put. And all the calves of Basan kynd Are weaned from their wish: The Hircan Tigers tamed now, Lemathon eates no fish. Beholde before your balefull eyes The purchace of your parte, Survey your sodeine sorrowful sight With sighes of dubble harte. Lament the lacke of your alies Religious rebells all: Bewepe that yll successe of yours, Come curse your sodeine fall. And when ye have your guiles out sought And all your craft approved, Peccavimus shall be your song Your ground worke is removed. And looke how Nortons sped their wills Even so their sect shall have, No better let them hope to gayne But gallowes without grave.
FINIS. quod William Gibson. Imprinted at London by Alexander Lacie, for Henrie Kyrkeham, dwellyng at the signe of the blacke Boye, at the middle North dore of Paules church.