The fatal fine of Traitours loe:
By Iustice due, deseruyng soe.
OF late (alas) the great vntruth
Of Traitours, how it sped
Who list to know, shal here
[...]e
How late allegeance fled.
¶ If Riuers rage against the Sea.
And swell with soddeine rayne:
How glad are they to fall agayne,
And trace their wonted traine?
If fire by force wolde forge the fall
Of any sumptuouse place,
If water floods byd him leaue of,
His flames he wyll disgrace.
If God command the wyndes to cease,
His blastes are layd full low:
If God command the seas to calme,
They wyll not rage or flow.
All thinges at Gods commandemēt be,
If he their state regarde:
And no man liues whose destinie
By him is vnpreparde.
But when a man forsakes the ship,
And rowles in wallowing waues:
And of his voluntarie wyll,
His owne good hap depraues:
How shal he hope to scape the gulfe?
How shal he thinke to deale?
How shal his fansie bring him sound
To Safties shore with sayle?
How shall his fraight in fine succede?
Alas what shall he gayne?
What feare by storms do make him quake
How ofte subiecte to payne?
How sundrie times in Dangers den
Is throwne the man vnwyse?
Who climes withouten holde on hye,
Beware, I him aduize.
All such as trust to false contracts,
Or secret harmes conspire?
Be sure, with Nortons they shal taste
A right deserued hire.
They can not looke for better spéede,
No death for such too fell?
God grant the iustice of the worlde
Put by the paynes of hell.
For such a pensiue case it is,
That English harts did dare
To passe the boundes of duties lawe,
Or of their cuntrie care.
And mercie hath so long releast
Offendours (God doth know)
And bountie of our curteous Quéene
Too long hath spared her foe.
But God, whose grace inspires her harte,
Wyll not abyde the spight
Of Rebels rage, who rampe to reach
From her, her title quight.
Although shee flowe in pitifull zeale,
And loueth to sucke no blood:
Yet God a caueat wyll her lend
T'appease those Vipers moode.
A man that sées his house on fire,
Wyll seke to quench the flame:
Els from the spoyle some parte conuey,
Els seke the heate to tame.
Who sée a penthouse wether beate,
And heares a boistrouse wynde:
But héedefull sasetie of himselfe,
Wyll force him succour fynde?
The pitifull pacient Pellican,
Her blood although shée shed:
Yet wyll shée seme her date to end,
Or care her young be sped.
The Eagle flynges her yong ones downe
That sight of sunne refuse:
Vnperfect fowles shée deadly hates,
And rightly such misvse.
The Crane wolde flye vp to the Sunne,
I heard it once of olde:
And with the kyng of byrdes did striue
By Fame, I heard it tolde
And do woe she wolde not fal f
[...]e no,
But higher styll did mou
[...]:
Til past her reach (saith olde reporte)
Shame made a backe recour
I touch no Armes herein at all
But shew a fable wyse:
Whose morall sence doth repr
[...]
Of clymers hye the guyse.
Who buyldes a house of many
[...],
and laith not ground work
[...]
But doth ertorte the ground
[...]g,
His buildyng can not dure
[...]
¶ Who sekes surmising to disp
[...]
a Ruler sent by
GOD:
Is subiect sure, deuoide of grace
The cause of his owne rod.
A byrde that wyll her nest defyle
By right should loose a wyng:
And then is shee no slying fowle,
But slow as other thyng.
And he that loseth all at games,
Or spendes in fowle excesse:
And hopes by haps to heale his harme,
Must drinke of deare distresse.
To speake of brydles to restrayne
This wylfull wayward crewe:
They care not for the booke of God,
To Princes, men vntrue.
To cuntrye, causers of much woe,
To faithfull fréendes, a fall:
And to their owne estates, a styng,
To others, sharpe as gall.
O Lorde, how long these Lizerds lurkt,
Good
GOD, how great a whyle
Were they in hand with feigned harts
Their cuntrye to defyle?
How did they frame their furniture?
How sit they made their tooles:
How Symon sought our englysh Troie
To bryng to Romaine scooles.
How Simon Magus playd his parte,
How Babilon bawde did rage:
How Basan bulles begon to bell,
How Iudas sought his wage.
How Iannes and Iambres did abyde
The brunt of brainesicke acts,
How Dathan, Chore, Abiram séemd
To dash our Moyses facts.
How Romaine marchant set a fresh
His pardons braue a sale,
How alwayes some against the Truth
Wolde dreame a senceles tale.
Gods vicar from his god receaued
The keyes to lose and bynd:
Baals chaplein thoght hꝭ fire wo
[...]e
Such was his pagan mynd.
Good Lorde how hits the ter
[...] their
[...]ts
That saith such men shall bée
In their religion hot nor colde
Of much varietie.
And sundry sorts of sects sur
[...]
Diuision shall appeare:
Against the father, sonne sha
[...]ue,
Gainst mother, daughter
[...]e.
Is it not come to passe trow you?
Yea, bastards sure they bée,
Who our good mother Quéene
[...]
Withstand rebelliouslie.
Can God his vengeance long reta
[...]
Where his true seruants féele
Iniuriouse spights of godlesse men,
Who turne as doth a whéele?
No no, his suffryug long (be sure)
Wyll pay his foes at last:
His mercye moued once away,
He shall them quight out cast
With sentence iust for their vntruth,
And breakyng of his wyll:
The fruits of their sedicious séeds,
The barnes of earth shall fyll.
Their soules God wot sore clogd w
t crime
And their posteritie
Bespotted sore with their abuse,
And stand by their follie.
Their liuyngs left their name a shame,
Their deedes with poyson sped:
Their deathes a wage for want of grace
Their honours quite is dead.
Their flesh to feede the kytes and crowes
Their armes a maze for men:
Their guerdon as examples are
To dash dolte Dunces den.
Throw vp your snouts you sluggish sorte
You mumming maskyng route:
Extoll your exclamations vp,
Baals chapleines, champions stoute.
Make sute for pardons, papists braue,
For traitours indulgence:
Send out some purgatorie scraps,
Some Bulls with Peter pence.
O swarme of Drones, how dare ye styl
With labouryng Bées contend?
You sought for home from the hiues,
But gall you found in end.
These waspes do wast, their stings be out
Their spight wyll not auayle:
These Peacocks proude are naked lefte
Of their displayed tayle.
These Turkye cocks iu cullour red,
So long haue lurkt a loofe:
The Beare (although but slow of foote)
Hath pluct his wynges by proofe.
The Moone her borowed light hath lost,
Shee wayned as we see:
Who hoped by hap of others harmes,
A full Moone once to bée.
The Lyon suffred long the Bull,
His noble mynd to trye:
Vntyll the Bull was rageyng wood,
And from his stake did hye.
Then time it was to bid him stay
Perforce, his hornes to cut:
And make him leaue his rageing tunes
In scilence to be put.
And all the calues of Basan kynd
Are weaned from their wish:
The Hircan Tigers tamed now,
Lemathon eates no fish.
Beholde before your balefull eyes
The purchace of your parte,
Suruey your sodeine sorrowful sight
With sighes of dubble harte.
Lament the lacke of your alies
Religious rebells all:
Bewepe that yll successe of yours,
Come curse your sodeine fall.
And when ye haue your guiles out sought
And all your craft approued,
Peccauimus shall be your song
Your ground worke is remoued.
And looke how Nortons sped their wills
Euen so their sect shall haue,
No better let them hope to gayne
But gallowes without graue.