%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> The Surreioindre vnto Camels reioindre. Churchyard, Thomas University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center English Broadside Ballad Archive (EBBA) Director Patricia Fumerton Associate Director Carl G Stahmer 1551-1551 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 10/18/2018 36284

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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

S115154 WHat lyfe may lyue, long vndefamde, what workes may be so pure, / What vertuous thing, may florish so, that fautles may endure: 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: 25 The Surreioindre vnto Camels reioindre. The Surrejoinder unto Camel's rejoinder. Churchyard, Thomas Printer Rycharde Lant 1551-1551

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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 crime trickery / deceit vice virtue Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 10/18/2018 2:37:46 PM XBallad Sintura, Maria Created XML Version of Ballad 10/18/2018 2:37:46 PM Transcription Supervisor McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/18/2018 2:37:46 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/18/2018 2:37:46 PM Transcriptionist Two Messner, Milena Transcription of ballad manuscript 10/18/2018 2:37:46 PM Transcriptionist One Raychawdhuri, Anita Transcription of ballad manuscript 8/29/2018 Checker Minh Hua Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 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
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WHat lyfe may lyve, long undefamde, what workes may be so pure, What vertuous thing, may florish so, that fautles may endure: What things be past, or yet to come, that freely may rejoyce, Or who can say he is so just, he feares not sclaunderous voyce. This Sclaunderous peales, doth ryng so loud, he soundes in every eare, Whose craft can fayn, such plesaunt tunes, as truth wer present theare. But it is falshed, fraught with fraude, and syngs a note to hye, Though that he bring, some plesaunt poynts. for to maintayn a lye. The simple wyts, at soone begylde, through sclaunders sweete deceayt, But those that knowes, such fishing hokes, shal sone perceyve the bayt. Unto whose eates, and judgements eke, I doo commende my workes, To save me from, the Serpents stynge, which under flowers lorkes. With healpe of truthe, I hope to flee, the venome of this Beast. Or els I trust, in his owne turne, to cast him at the least. Although he whet, his teeth at me, and styngs me with his tonge, Yet with the just, I am content, to learne to suffre wrong. Synce Princes peares, & Kyngs themselves, their Actes & godly lawes, Are sclaundred oft, through evyl tonges, and blamed without cawes. Looke what is doone, and truly ment, to put things in good stay, Are wrested, & perverted oft, by evyll tonges I say. The Preachers voyce, which thretneth wrath, the synfull to reduse, Doth purchase hate, for tellyng truth: lo, this is mans abuse. The chylde doth blame, the byrchen rod, whose strypes may not be sparde, Bicause his wyts, unto his welth, hath very small regarde. The wycked sort, whose vice is knowne, by those which writes their lyves, Can not abyde, to heare their fauts, but styll against theym stryves. The horse, cannot abyde the whyp, bicause it mends his pace, Thus eche thing hates, his punishment, we see before our face, Therfore I blame, this man the lesse, which sclaundreth me so mouch, And casteth venome, lyke the Tode, bicause his fauts I touch: What cause in me. what hate in him, what matter hath he sought, Within this Davy Dicars Dreame, which for the best was wrought. Unto the good, it is not yll, nor hurtfull unto none. Nor unto those, that loves the lyght, it is no stumblyng stone. But those that stands, to watch a tyme, the innocent to spyll, May wrest the truth, cleane out of frame, & turne good thyngs to yll. Out of the sweete, and fayrest floure, the spydre poyson takes, And yet the Bee, doth feede theron, and therwith hony makes. The Caterpiller, spyls the fruit, which God made for mans foode, The fly likewyse, wher he doth blow, doth styl more harme than good. Thus may you see, as men doo take, the things wheron they looke, Thei may it turne, to good or bad, as they applye the booke. But every man, to his owne worke, an honest meanyng hath, Or els those hasty, sclaunders tonges, might do good men moch scath. He feeles moch ease, that suffre can, all thyngs as they doo hap, Who makes a pyt, for other men, may fall in his owne trap who flynges a stone, at every dogge, which barketh in the strete, Shall never have, a just revenge, nor have a pacient sprete. Therfore I suffre, al your wordes, which is myne enemy knowne, I could you serve, with taunting tearmes, & feede you with your owne But I mynde not, to chocke your tale, before the worst be tolde, Then may I have, free choyce and leave, to shew you wher you scolde. Good syr if I, shulde you salute, as you saluted me, Then shuld I call you, Davy too, and so perchaunce you be. Ye multiply, fyve names of one, a progeny you make, As your desent, dyd come from thence, wherof you lately spake. Though such as you, have nycknamed me, in gest and halfe in scorne, Churchyard I am, in Shrewisbury towne, thei say wher I was borne You put your name, to others workes, the weaklings to begilde. Me thinke you are, somwhat to younge, to father such a childe. The truth therof, is eeth to know, a blynde man may discus, Ye are in nombre, mo then one, ye saye, bee good to us. You say, I did not answere you: I could no mattier fynde, Nor yet can see, excepte I shulde, at folly wast my wynde. The greatest shame, and most reproch, that any man may have, Is for to write, or scolde with fooles, whose nature is to rave, Synce railing ryms, ore coms your wits, talke on & babble styll, I not entende, about such chats, my pen nor speche to spyll.
I neither fume, nor chaunge my moode, at ought that you have sayde, The world may judge, your railyng tong, full like a beast hath brayd. And where you say, you can poynt out, by lyne and levell both, Of all the, whens, of Dycars dreame, you say you knowe the troth. It is a wilfull ignoraunce, to hyde, I knowe full well, A faute, agaynst Juppiters seate, or agaynst his counsell. You shew your selfe, not Juppiters frende, if you can truly prove, A faute in me, and doth it hyde, for feare or yet for love. As for my works, and thankles paynes, in this and such like case, I shall be redy to defende, when you shall hide your face. Thinke you I feare, what you can do, my grounde is just and true; On every worde, which I dyd speake, I force not what ye brue. Fyll all your chargers, as ye list and dishes everychone, when they be full, and runneth ore, I will cast you a bone. Whiche shall be harde, for you to pyke, though that your wits be fyne, I can sone put, you out of square, from your levell and lyne: I wyll not answere worde for word, to your rejondre yet, Because I fynde no matter their, nor yet no poynt of wyt, But brabling blasts, and frantike fyts, and chyding in the ayre, why doo you fret thus with your self, fye man do not dispayre: Though that your wyts, be troubled sore, if you in Bedlem weare, I thinke you shuld be right wel kept, if you be frended theare: yf you were scourged once a day, and fed with some warme meate, You wolde come to yourself againe, after this rage of heate. This may be said without offence, if that your wyts you had, you wolde not lye nor raile on me, nor fare as you wer mad, But as it is a true proverbe: the threatned man lyves long, your words can neither hand nor draw, I feare not your yll tong. The world is such it doth contempne, all those that vertue have, An evell tong hath no respect, whose name he doth deprave. what is the cause of mortall food, whiche dothe in frendes aryse, But comenly these sclaunder tonges, which styll delyts in lyes: who maketh war, who soweth strife, who bringeth Realmes to ruine: But plenty, pride, and evell tonges, whose voyce is nere in tune, The roote and braunche and cheefest grounde, of mischeefs all and some, Is evyll tongues, whose sugred words, hath wyse men overcome, The proofe wherof you put in use, your words ye frame and set, To creepe into some noble hertes, a credit for to get. The eatyng worme within the nut, the sweetest curnell seeke, so doo you drawe where gayne is got, and there you loke full meeke. But under those fayre angels lokes, is hyd a develish mynde, I durst say odds who trust you long, full false he shall you finde. Now to returne unto the cause, which made you first to write, you shew your selfe to be a foole, to answer me in spite, The first and last that I have seene, of all your nipping geare, Is not well worth when fruite is cheape, the paring of a peare. your sodayn stormes and thundreclaps, your boasts and braggs so loude, Hath doone no harme thogh Robyn Hood, spake with you in a cloud Go learne againe of litell Jhon, to shute in Robyn Hoods bowe, Or Dicars dreame shal be unhit, and all his, whens, I trowe. Thus heare I leave, I lyst not write, to answer wher you rayle: He is unwise that strives with fooles, wher words can not prevayle.
Finis. Domine, salvum fac Regem: et da pacem in diebus nostris. Thomas Churcharde. Imprinted at London in Aldersgate strete by Rycharde Lant.