%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> The pope in his fury doth answer returne, / To a letter ye which to Rome is late come. Peele, Steven 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 37081

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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

S104989 I Doe esteme your kyndnes much / For sendyng worde so sone, Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 45 The pope in his fury doth answer returne, / To a letter ye which to Rome is late come. The pope in his fury doth answer return, To a letter the which to Rome is late come. Peele, Steven Printer Alexander Lacie ?-? Henrie Kyrkham

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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 11:44:45 AM XBallad Chen, Chelsea Created XML Version of Ballad 6/22/2021 11:44:45 AM Transcription Supervisor McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 6/22/2021 11:44:45 AM Double-Key Comparison and Merging Stark, Nicole Transcription of ballad manuscript 6/22/2021 11:44:45 AM Transcriptionist Two McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 6/22/2021 11:44:45 AM Transcriptionist One Raychawdhuri, Anita Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/3/2019 Bibliographer Kristen McCants Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created
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I Doe esteme your kyndnes much For sendyng worde so sone, Your diligence it hath ben such It is arived at Rome: But when I had perusd your byl In that you set thereto your wyl And eke your mynd applyed untyl The writyng of the same. I did beleve it to be true But surely I must say to you It greved mee those lines to vew Were wrtten in your name. And sure it is no marvell loe For daylye I doe heare, The matter semeth to be so As amply doth appeare: For every man doth tell for true The same that late was sent of you But out alas, your tidynges new Doth much appall my spirite. And makes me sweare and makes me teare To pull and hale, and rend my heare And brynges me dayly in dispaire To thinke on this despite. But sith there is no remedye That mine obedient chylde, Is hanged up upon a tree And to to much revylde: What shoulde I doe but curse and ban And hurte them toe the worst I can For hanging up so good a man That bare mee such good wyll? But yf I had him here at Rome His body should be shryned soone And masse at mornyng and at noone With chantyng of each bell. Forever shoulde be sayd and soung The devyls to controule, And prayers all aboute his tombe With senceyng for his soule: That never a devyll so deepe in hell Shoulde once presume with him to mell Nor once approch his body tyll To vexe him any way. And I wolde kepe his body so That it from hence should never go And dyvers of my fryers mo For him should dayly pray. And gladly wolde I be revengd On England yf I might, Because they have toe much abusd My Bull with great despight: And make thereat a laughing game And set but little by my name
And much my holynes defame And dayly me dispyse. Their Queene hath chast the rebels all That loved to bow their knees to Ball And hanged their quarters on the wall As meat for crowes and pyes. But I wyll walke and dayly seke My Purgatorie thorow, And cause all the devyls at my becke To me their knees to bow: And where as I may any fynde That to their Prince have ben unkynde Be sure, with mee they shall be shrynde As they deserved have. And cheefly now John Felton hee Shall ever be beloved of mee Because that he so lovinglye My Bull did seeme to save. But yf that I coulde have at once The paryng of his toe, His head, his quarters, or his bones That with the wynde doe bloe: Then shoulde they be layd up by mee As reliques of great dignitie For every man that comes to see Those Jewels of such grace. The Nortons bones should so be shrynd That now hanges wavering in the wynd Yf that I coulde devyse or fynd To bryng them to this place. And I wyll curse and ban them all That speake against my powre, And seekes to make my kyngdome fall My curse shall them devowre: And yf that here I might you see For wrytyng lately unto mee Be sure, ye should rewarded bee As best I coulde bethynke. And as for Wylliam Elderton That lately sent me worde to Rome Be sure that he should have lyke dome To bye him pen and ynke. Take this as written from our grace That unto you we send, Because we want both time and place To recompence you frend: As for the boyes that frump and scoff And at my holynes doe laugh I mynd to dresse them wel enough Yf case I had them here. And for my servants that abyde And long have had their pacience tryde From Romaine faith that wyl not slyde I wysh them all good chere.
FINIS. S.P. Imprinted by Alexander Lacie for Henrie Kyrkham, dwelling at the signe of the blacke Boy, at the middle dore of Paules church.