%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> A Paumflet compyled by G.C. / To master Smyth and Wyllyam G. / Prayenge them both, for the loue of our Lorde, / To growe at last to an honest accorde. C., G. University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center English Broadside Ballad Archive (EBBA) Director Patricia Fumerton Associate Director Carl G Stahmer 1540-1540 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 10/18/2018 36273

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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

S2989 THe fynest wyt that is alyue / Cannot deuyse by tunge nor pen Society of Antiquaries of London - Broadsides Editor none none none none Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 12 A Paumflet compyled by G.C. / To master Smyth and Wyllyam G. / Prayenge them both, for the loue of our Lorde, / To growe at last to an honest accorde. A Pamphlet compiled by G.C. To master Smyth and William G. Praying them both, for the love of our Lord, To grow at last to an honest accord. C., G. Printer Rycharde Bankes 1540-1540

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 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 Featured 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 10/18/2018 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 10/18/2018 12:19:15 PM XBallad Ward, Jayne Created XML Version of Ballad 10/18/2018 12:19:15 PM Transcription Supervisor McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/18/2018 12:19:15 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/18/2018 12:19:15 PM Transcriptionist Two Messner, Milena Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/18/2018 12:19:15 PM Transcriptionist One Raychawdhuri, Anita Transcription of ballad manuscript 8/21/2017 Bibliographer Kristen McCants Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created 7/9/2018 Checker Kristen McCants Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 12/6/2017 Checker Kristen McCants Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 12/6/2017 Checker Kristen McCants Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 12/13/2017 Checker Kristen McCants Edited Ballad Catalogue Record
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THe fynest wyt that is alyve Cannot devyse by tunge nor pen The spytefull malyce to descryve That reygneth now in dyverse men We maye perceyve by them that stryve For castynge out a carde of ten That charyte is set at nought So reygneth malyce in mannes thought. Whych thynge doth force me thus to wryte Concernynge the uncharyte Of two that nowe with hatefull spyte Do blame eche other openly To none of bothe I owe despyte Ner this is none Apology For nether parte: but stryfe to stent Is grounde of all myne argument. The stryfe I speake of, is betwyxt One master Smyth & Wyllyam G. Theyr wrytynges are confusely myxt With bytynge wordes, and vylany In eche of them, a wyll is fyxt To maynteyne styll his vanyte Which hath a very feble grounde Wherwith his enemy to confounde. All this began, fyrst by a knave I wote not who, that wrote a trolle Wherin he dyd but rage and rave He knewe full lytle of saynt Poule Which wrytte the love that men shuld have And for one dyd thys trolle controlle Lo master Smyth a boke hath pende This tryflynge troller to defende. Some saye, it was for flatterye And some do saye, it was for mede For to advaunce him selfe therby Such men (they saye) do soonest spede That least can skyll of modesty But what he meant, therby in dede If I shall judge, as I do take it Naught but malyce, made him make it. For thorow out his raylyng booke Of charyte no worde is spoken Tyll all his malyce purpose tooke For malyce, forthwith wylbe wroken And whoso lyst therin to looke Maye judge him well, by his owne token A raylynge knave, for to defende Is, in no wyse man to commende. If master Smyth had marked well The purpose of that foolyshe dawe Which trolde upon the Lorde Crumwell Wyth ragged ryme, not worth a strawe He myght have founde that wretch rebell Both ageynst God, and all good lawe And not have blamed Wyllyam G. For blamynge his uncharyte.
But when W.G. dyd fele the prycke So threattyng and malycious I wonder not though he dyd kycke For why, it was too sclaunderous And for the kycke, was somwhat quycke Lo, he agayne as envyous A testy aunswere strayte dyd wryte With checke for checke, & spyte for spyte. But of this stryfe, the chefe effect That maynteyned is so knappyshly Is rysen by the great suspect Of popyshnes and heresye One sayth the other is infecte With such a spyce of knavery I wyll not judge, which it shulde be But bothe theyr wrytynges are to se. These sortes are both to dyscommende In any man, where they be founde For papistes do nought els pretende But Christes glorye to confounde And Heretykes, God them amende Have but a very feble grounde If that they preache, that is forbod Or dyffer from the worde of God. For heresye is nothynge elles But swarvyng from the true belefe As holy wrytte expresly telles And he is worse then any thefe That thereagaynst in ought rebelles Or he that seketh his relefe Of false goddes, and not of Christ Is no les then an Antechrist. But he that hathe a popyshe harte And wyll not unto Christ be wonne He seekyth not, but to subvert All that the kynge hathe well begonne No reason maye hys wyll convert But he wyll do, as he hathe done Wyth tothe and nayle, for to upholde Hys blynde belefe, and errors olde. I wryte not thys, meanyng therbye That master Smyth is of that sorte Ner I judge not that willyam G. Is soche as Smyth dothe hym reporte But wryte my mynde wyth charyte The partyes bothe for to exhorte That he that fyndes hym in the cryme May fyrst recante, hys raylynge ryme. But thys is for to dyscommende In master Smyth above althynge That he so rashlye wolde defende A braynles buz, in hys wrytynge And afterwarde styll forth contende Wyth malyce, and wyth threatenyng Agaynst that poore man wylliam G. Farre from all godlye charyte.
Wrestyng the scriptures as hym lyst For his owne purpose out of frame But he that stryfe doth so resyst That perfect worde, he doth defame Wherin our helth doth whole consyst For that is it, the very same That teacheth us the love and drede To God and to the kynge our hede. Perchaunce that Smyth wyll take it yll That I judge him so openly No force for that, it shall not skyll For he is knowen suffyciently But I protest, that in my wyll I meane nothynge malycyously But yet men must, for all his heate Repute him hotte, that see him sweate. Lykewyse the other dyd offende Wyth wrytyng so impacientlye For that is no waye to amende An harte that cankers inwardly But he his cause, shulde styll defende Wyth mekenes and wyth charyte And not wyth malyce nor despyght But suffer mekely wronge and ryght Evyn as the Gospell dothe us teache Whych is oure chefe profession For Paule hymselfe dyd alwaye preache That, for the chefe confession Of christen heartes, to make them stretche Theyr fayth unto Christs passyon The only entry into healthe All other entryes are but stealth. Lo, thus I fynde them both to blame Wyshynge to eche with all myne heart An honest mendement, wythout shame And praye to Christ that he convert Oure judgementes all into such frame That they and we, in every parte Wythouten grudge, debate or grefe Maye fyrmly stande in one belefe. Whych teacheth us to love and dread Hym that hathe power under God I mean the kynge that is our head That here in earth doth beare the rod Of true justyce in Chrystes steade By precyse wordes we be forbod Hym to wythstande, or to wythsaye In every cause we must obaye. For whome, as for our only guyde Oure greatest helpe and chefest staye That daylye doth for us provyde To save us sounde wythout decaye In warre and peace on every syde Wyth one accorde let us all praye To sende hys grace, us here amonge Honour, encrease, good lyfe and longe.
God save the Kynge. Imprynted at London by Rycharde Bankes. Cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum. And be to sell in Pater noster rowe, at the sygne of the Roose.