%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> A Lamentation from Rome, how the Pope doth / bewayle, That the Rebelles in England can not preuayle, Preston, Thomas 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 32480

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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

S121835 ALl you that newes would here, / Geue eare to me poore Fabyn Flye, Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 18330 A Lamentation from Rome, how the Pope doth / bewayle, That the Rebelles in England can not preuayle, A Lamentation from Rome, how the Pope doth bewayle, That the Rebelles in England can not preuayle, A Lamentation from Rome, how the Pope doth bewail, That the Rebels in England cannot prevail, Preston, Thomas Printer Wylliam Gryffith 1570-1570

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<seg n="1" rend="left">A Lamentation from Rome, how the Pope doth</seg> <seg n="2" rend="left">bewayle, That the Rebelles in England can not prevayle,</seg> <lb/> <seg n="3" rend="left">To the tune of Rowe well ye Mariners.</seg>
ALl you that newes would here, Geve eare to me poore Fabyn Flye, At Rome I was this yere, And in the Pope his nose dyd lye, But there I could not long abide, He blew me out of every side: For furst when he had harde the newes, That Rebelles dyd their Prince misuse, Then he with joye, Did sporte him selfe with many a toye, he then so stout, From that his nose he blew me out. But as he was aslepe, Into the same againe I goot: I crept there in so depe, That I had almost burnt my coote, New newes to him was brought that night. The Rebelles they weare put to flight, But Lord how then the Pope toke one, And called for a Mary bone, up howgh make hast: My lovers all be like to waste, ryse Cardnall, up priest, Saint Peter he doth what he lest. So then they fell to Messe, The Fryers one their Beades dyd praye, The Pope began to blesse, At last he weist not what to saye. It chanced so the next day morne, A Post came blowing of his Horne, Saying Northomberland is take, But then the Pope began to quake. he then rubd nose, With Pilgrome salve be noynt his hose, runne here, runne there, His nayles for anger gan to pare. Not Northomberland alone, But many of his wicked ayd: Such as thought not to grone, They hoped well for to aplayd, There partes to have there hartes desire, But now is quenched there flames of fire, The greatest and the meane beside, With other youths fast bound must ride, Ketch fast, kepe well, There youthfull bloud they long to sell, trust this dere Pope, What is it than wherfore ye hope. When he perceaved well, The newes was true to him was brought, Upon his knees he fell, And then Saint Peter he be sought, That he would stand his frend in this, To helpe to ayd those servauntes his, And he would do as much for him, But Peter sent him to Saint Simme.
So then he snuft, the Fryers all about he cuft, He roard he cryde, the preists they durst not once abide. The Cardnalles they beginnes, To stay and take him in there arme, He spurnd them on the shinnes, Away the trudgd for feare of harme. So there the pope was left alone, Good Lord how he dyd make his mone, The Stooles against the Walles he threwe, And me out of his nose he blewe. I hopt I skipt, From place to place about I whipt, he swore he tare, Till from his Crowne he pold the heare. He courst me so about, In the house I could finde no rome, Loth I was to go out, And shrind my selfe under a Brome. Then by and by downe he was set, with anger he was one a swet, He rubd his elbowe on the Wall, So fell a rayling on Saint Paule. Fye fye bloud harte, He scratchde him selfe till he dyd smart, poll nose rube eye, Grash the teth drawe mouth awrye. He wept and wrong his handes, yea worse and worse began to fret: Thus radging still he standes, then out at doore I dyd me get, I was not soner gone from thence, But worse and worse was his pretence, The post he plucked from the house, he left no harbour for a Mouse, thus now the popes mad. Because no better lucke they had, forlorne molest, that they so yll their meate disgest. When I had vewed all, To bring this newes my winges I spred, to this parplict he is fall. I wish some would go hold his head. For certainely he doth yll fare, yet for the same I do not care, For God his power will convince, And ayd with right his beloved prince. then Pope radge thou, The God in heaven hath made avowe, to kepe all his, That God is just our stay he is.
Finis. quod Thomas Preston. Imprinted at London, in Fletestrete at the signe of the Faulcon by Wylliam Gryffith, and are to be sold at his shoppe in Sainte Dunstones Churchyard. 1570.