%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> Of the endes and deathes of two Prisoners, / lately pressed to death in Newgate. 1569. University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center Director Patricia Fumerton 1569-1569 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 04/30/2012 32408

The University of California makes a claim of copyright only to original contributions made by Early Modern Center participants and other members of the university community. The University of California makes no claim of copyright to the original text. Permission is granted to download, transmit or otherwise reproduce, distribute or display the contributions to this work claimed by The University of California for non-profit educational purposes, provided that this header is included in its entirety. For inquiries about commercial uses, please contact:

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

S121815 TRue Preachers which God liketh well, / To you I runne wyth all my hart, Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 18321 Of the endes and deathes of two Prisoners, / lately pressed to death in Newgate. 1569. Of the endes and deathes of two Prisoners, lately pressed to death in Newgate. 1569. Of the ends and deaths of two prisoners, lately pressed to death in Newgate. 1569. Printer Iohn Awdely 1569-1569

This document follows the guidelines specified for TEI.

XML Generated Automatically at 4/30/2012 12:33:20 PM Using EMC

XBallad Parsing Engine developed by Carl Stahmer.

TEI Template developed by Gerald Egan and Modified by Carl Stahmer

All apostrophes are encoded as '.

Any dashs occurring in line breaks have been removed;

All dashs are encoded as ‐ and all em dashes as —.

 Early Modern Center Ballad Project Keyword Taxonomy advice affliction/ health alcohol Americas animals/ nature Bible/ biblical figures buildings/ architecture catastrophe children class clothing/ appearance country/ nation crime death economics/ commerce entertainments family folklore gender holidays/ seasons infidelity labor/ craft law London love maritime marriage military/ war monstrosity mythology/ Classical news nobility/ court politics/ government procreation punishment race/ ethnicity religious concepts religious figures religious groups royalty rural life servitude sex/ sexuality supernatural/ magic travel trickery/ deceit urban life vice violence virtue vulgar humor youth/ age Library of Congress Subject Heading Taxonomy 4/30/2012 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America punishment religious concepts religious figures Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 4/30/2012 12:33:20 PM XBallad Kroeze, Kathryn Created XML Version of Ballad 4/30/2012 12:33:20 PM Transcription Supervisor Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/30/2012 12:33:20 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/30/2012 12:33:20 PM Transcriptionist Two Bell, Erik Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/30/2012 12:33:20 PM Transcriptionist One Wong, Bethany Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/7/2011 Checker Jonathan Forbes Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 7/29/2011 Checker Jonathan Forbes Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 5/11/2011 Bibliographer Grafals Michael Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created 5/11/2011 Checker Grafals Michael Edited Ballad Catalogue Record
<seg n="1" rend="left">Of the endes and deathes of two Prisoners/</seg> <seg n="2" rend="left">lately pressed to death in Newgate. 1569.</seg>
TRue Preachers which God liketh well, To you I runne wyth all my hart, Your wordes with me are like to dwell, Untyll thys lyfe I shall depart. As for the rest whose tounges are tyde, To them who runs, he runs far wyde. What so doth best commend the truth, All falshood lykewyse discommendes, I know you Preachers tender youth, And visits them lyke faythfull frendes. Yet if there hap a dismoll day, The Wolves would teare your lives away But they that humbly do you heare, And eke well beare your woordes away, Having their understandinges cleare, Needes never feare the dismoll day. Nor wyll seeke peace here in this lyfe, Where nought is found but war and strife. So they that do, nor yet wyll heare, When they be cald, and truth is told, Ill haps to them unwares is neare, Yet blindnes maketh Bayardes bold. But they that warned are in tyme, Halfe armed are gainst daungerous crime. A tryall fust I found of late, Where Preachers dyd them selves addresse, To spend the day within Newgate, To comfort two whom Law had presse. There did I see that comfort great, Whereof our Preachers oft intreat. There saw I more, do what they might, Sharpe judgement pass, the Presse at hand, The one would not remyt hys spight But doth the same to understand, By blasphemies most horrible, And countenaunce most terrible. Ne would beleve that he should dye, Which playnly dyd to us appeare, By toyish countenaunce smylingly, Which seemed very monstrous geare. And yet he was of perfect mynde, But thus he shewed hys divelish kynde. Wyth hym perswasions would not serve, In all my lyfe I saw none sutch: He sware great othes he would not sterve, If ought there were within the hutch. And to it he went full egerly, As one that thought he should not dye. Anon there came a prisoner in, That yrons had clapt on good store. Gods hart quoth Wat, you wyl not lyn, These partes you playd lyke slaves before. And up he snatch hot coales in hand, To throw at one that by did stand. This stander by a Keeper was, That hardly handled him alwayes: Wherefore if he myght bring to pas, That Keeper should now end hys dayes. Though he did burne in hell therefors. Sutch Keepers should keepe there no more. This desperate foole intreated was, By Master Yong and others there, To pray for them that dyd trespas, And to forgeve, sithe death is neare. Gods woundes quoth he, it is shame for ye, That cry not agaynst this tyrannye.
Why wyll not bolts or fetters serve, Thinke you (quoth Wat) to hold this man? He hath no money though he sterve, Hys hose and doublet must trudge than. If hell there be, or plages to fall, These Villains wyll be plaged all. For my part if I boyle in lead, I cannot hold but braivle this out. Would I might fight how ever I sped, Chuld course that Ore and fleering Lout. No more good Wat, quoth Master Yong, Thou hurt it thy selfe most with that tong. Thus parted be and Master Yong, Much greved for hys senceles soule. But I remayned and used my tong, As God dyd force vice to controle, But Wat no chaungeling would not rest, But fell a fresh unto a test. As I might then I did erhort, Them both with me to go and pray, Where I would speake to their comfort, If that the Lord dyd not say nay, The time is short, therefore quoth I, Let us seeke the Lord whiles he is nye. I pray you be content quoth Wat, The Lord hath mercy inough in store, I may yet have my part of that, As he to others hath geven before. You must repent and cal for grace, (Quoth I) els never looke to see Gods face. Then was the tother glad of me, And gave to God great thankes and prayse, That he might have my companye, With hym for to remayne alwayes. Wherein such comfort great he found, That teares of joy dropt to the ground. I see now God is good (quoth he) And wyll not have my soule be lost, But hath provided you for me, Not sparing any payne nor cost. You come from God, your words ar swete, I feele Gods grace my hart doth mete. I would I had knowen you beforne, But now it is in ryght good tyme: For though my carcas be forlorne, My soule to God I feele doth clyme. Oh heare me (sayth he) to the rest, Ill haps to me is for the best. Heare how this misery hath wrought, The taming of my flesh so proud: My soule to God that hath it bought, I do commend with voyce so loud. Knowing that he doth heare my cry, And pardons me immediately, Would God the world dyd heare my voyce And would be warned by my death, Then would they not in evyll rejoyce, But prayse the Lord whyles they have breath. And love hym that hath loved them well, Who hath redeemed their soules from hell. O God (quoth he) is thys thy kynde, To care for hym that knew not thee? I never had thee earst in mynde, Yet now thy grace hath healed me. Due thankes to thee I cannot geve, That hast now made me to beleve.
O tell me I pray, what is your name, Sayth he to me unknowen you are: To you lykewyse I am the same, But God that knowes us is not far. He wyll reward you this I trust, Sith I cannot that dye needes must. So God dealt with me yester day, A frend he sent us in Limbo: Whose good estate God blesse alway, For that good lore that came him fro. Hys name was Draper Alderman, Which was my comfort great as than. He prayed wyth us most earnestly, No scorne was in hys velvet cote, Wyth teares he kyst us lovingly, And went with mourning chere God wote. So doth the power of the Lord, Make divers men in truth accord. Thus God hath found me out at length, And stayed me of my wicked race And me moved with perfect strength No tong can rightly prayse such grace I would my death were much more vile That others might beware therwhile. So then we prayed ech one for other Wyth trickling teares of joye and greefe In truth I tooke him for my brother Though never so much he were a theefe. Then death to him could not come ill, For of Gods grace he had his fill. Then foorth we went and made a fyre, I dyned there wyth bread and cheese: To sing some Psalmes was his desyre, So ech man soonge in their degrees. O Lord turne not away thy face, From hym that lyes prostrate in place. But Watson fell unto hys foode As one that hungry was in deede And merely eate that he thought good, But threw the rest the dogs to feede. I saw no thought that he did take, Nor lykelyhoode from sinne to wake. Then up came Maister Yong agayne Their deathes now being at the doore But Watson could not yet refrayne, But laughes it out still more and more, Still all in vayne to hym was sayd, Yet all the rest downe kneeling prayde. Then Skarlet tooke hym by the hande And preached, though small to his regarde Yet all the rest might understande, Hys woordes deserved to be harde. And yet he could not holde but smyles, Indeede he was begylde therwhyles. A Prisoners tale that he dyd trust Made hym that way to loose hys lyfe So there the matter was discust, The presse at length did end their stryfe. He trusted that which was untrue, Untill it was to late to rue. Lo thus much I thought good to wryte For those that warned yet will be That they in evill no more delyght, Nor to such councell do agree. Who dyd this yll one so pervarte, That heavy presse burst Watsons harte.
Imprinted at London by John Awdely, dwellyng in little Britaine streete without Aldersgate.