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