%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> The braineles blessing of the Bull / The hornes, the heads and all, / Light on their squint eyed skonses full / That boweth their knees to Ball. / The cancred curse that wolde consume this realme with wracke and ruine, / Returne to Rome with fyre and fume, to bryng the Pope in tune: / If neither curse, nor blessyng bare, may mend these parties throwe, / I then bequeath (curst as they are) to Plutoes kyngdome nowe. University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center English Broadside Ballad Archive (EBBA) Director Patricia Fumerton Associate Director Carl G Stahmer ?-? Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 06/22/2021 37078

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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

S124262 WAS neuer worlde so farre from orders rule, / That men durst speake such sawcie words of Kings Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 44 The braineles blessing of the Bull / The hornes, the heads and all, / Light on their squint eyed skonses full / That boweth their knees to Ball. / The cancred curse that wolde consume this realme with wracke and ruine, / Returne to Rome with fyre and fume, to bryng the Pope in tune: / If neither curse, nor blessyng bare, may mend these parties throwe, / I then bequeath (curst as they are) to Plutoes kyngdome nowe. The brainless blessing of the Bull The horns, the heads and all, Light on their squint-eyed sconces full That boweth their knees to Ball. The cankered curse that would consume this realm with wrack and ruin, Return to Rome with fire and fume, to bring the Pope in tune: If neither curse, nor blessing bare, may mend these parties throw, I then bequeath (cursed as they are) to Pluto's kingdom now. Printer Alexander Lacie ?-?

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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 6/22/2021 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 6/22/2021 11:33:59 AM XBallad Chen, Chelsea Created XML Version of Ballad 6/22/2021 11:33:59 AM Transcription Supervisor McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 6/22/2021 11:33:59 AM Double-Key Comparison and Merging Stark, Nicole Transcription of ballad manuscript 6/22/2021 11:33:59 AM Transcriptionist Two McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 6/22/2021 11:33:59 AM Transcriptionist One Raychawdhuri, Anita Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/3/2019 Bibliographer Kristen McCants Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created
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WAS never worlde so farre from orders rule, That men durst speake such sawcie words of Kings Nor never Pope so lyke an Asse or Mule, Or dunghyll Cocke to crow and clap his winges. Stand backe good dogs, the Bul he leapes & flinges He bleates and bleathes as he a baightyng were, And fomes at mouth, lyke Boare with bristled heare. A beastlye sound, comes runnyng from his paunch, He beates the ground with foote, with hip and haunch: As though hell gates should open at his call, And at his becke, the heavens high should fall. O Sathans sonne, O Pope puft up with pryde, What makes thee clayme the clowdes where God doth dwel? When thou art knowne the glorious greedie guyde That leades in pompe poore seelye soules to hell. The pumpe of ship hath not so fowle a smell As hath the smoke and fume that flames from thee, O graceles grace, O rotten hollow tree. The branches bud, but never bryng forth leaves, Thy corne is dead, when Reaper lookes for sheaves: Thy golde is glasse, and glistereth gay awhyle, Tyll tromperie comes, and makes the worlde to smyle. Who bad thee blisse? O Buzzarde blynd of sight, Buylt God his church upon such clots of clay? Thou doest blaspheme thereby the GOD of might, And robbest with craft his honour cleane away. Curse whome thou list, he better thryves that day, Blesse whome thou wylt, and I dare gage my head: For all thy charmes, he brynges a foole to bed. Booke bell and syse, are bables fit for those That gape for flyes, where Waspes and Hornets blowes, The pardonles boxe, wherein thy reliques lye, Doth smell lyke Fox, or Swyne shut up in stye. A Pope was wont to be an odious name Within our land, and scrapt out of our scroules, And now the Pope is growne so farre past shame That he can walke with open face in Poules. Go home mad Bull to Rome, and pardon soules That pyne away in Purgatorie paynes, Go triumph there, where credit most remaines. Thy date is out in England long ago, For Ridley gave the Bull so great a blow He never durst apeach this land tyll now, In bullyng time, he met with Hardyngs Cow.
A Calfe or twayne hath here ben gotten since, Whose heades were solde of late in butcher row Come cheape Calves heads, and bring in Peter pence, Though some are bought, our butchers looke for mo. For Walthams calves, to Tiburne needes must go To sucke a bull, and meete a butchers axe, The Shambles full is stuft, with prettie knacks: As Goate, and Lambe, and Shepe of threescore yeare, We have good hope, calves heads wyll not be deare If Hardyngs cow be bulled as shee ought, Calves heads enough for little wyll be bought. The Pope doth nought, but practize mischeif styll, And lets his Bul runne ryot for his ease: But whiles his Calves are drawne up Holborne hyll, Both Bull and Cow are safe beyond the seas. O that it might our holy father please To come himselfe, and hang but halfe an hower, With such poore freendes as here maintaine his power. I say no more, for feare the babes awake That holde with Pope, and hang for Hardyngs sake, Some knackes now lurkes, that we shal know ful playne, When Hoballes Oxe bulles Hardyngs cow agayne. I scorne to write a vearce in any frame, To answer wordes that rayled have so much Yet baightyng oft, may make a Bull so tame That every dog that comes, may have a twitch. I here protest, if that my power were such By pen or skyll, to chaffe the Bull at stake, I wolde be glad some further sporte to make. But since I want the cunnyng and the arte, To baight the beast, and play the Mastiffs parte: Let this suffise to let you thinke indeede, I hate the Bull, and all the Romish breede.
FINIS. Imprinted at S. Katherins beside the Tower of London, over against the Beare daunce, by Alexander Lacie.