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.
THe fynest wyt that is alyue
Cannot deuyse by tunge nor pen
The spytefull malyce to descryue
That reygneth now i dyuerse mē
We maye perceyue by them that stryue
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 vncharyte
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 knaue
I wote not who, that wrote a trolle
Wherin he dyd but rage and raue
He knewe full lytle of saynt Poule
Which wrytte the loue that men shuld haue
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 aduaunce 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 iudge, 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 iudge him well, by his owne token
A raylynge knaue, for to defende
Is, in no wyse man to commende.
If master Smyth had marked well
The purpose of that foolyshe dawe
Which trolde vpon the Lorde Crumwell
Wyth ragged ryme, not worth a strawe
He myght haue founde that wretch rebell
Both ageynst God, and all good lawe
And not haue blamed Wyllyam G.
For blamynge his vncharyte.
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 enuyous
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 knauery
I wyll not iudge, 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
Haue 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 swaruyng 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 vnto Christ be wonne
He seekyth not, but to subuert
All that the kynge hathe well begonne
No reason maye hys wyll conuert
But he wyll do, as he hathe done
Wyth tothe and nayle, for to vpholde
Hys blynde belefe, and errors olde.
I wryte not thys, meanyng therbye
That master Smyth is of that sorte
Ner I iudge 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 aboue 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 vs the loue and drede
To God and to the Kynge our hede.
Perchaunce y
t Smyth wyll take it yll
That I iudge 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
Euyn as the Gospell dothe vs teache
Whych is oure chefe profession
For Paule hym selfe dyd alwaye preache
That, for the chefe confession
Of christen heartes, to make thē stretche
Theyr fayth vnto 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 conuert
Oure iudgementes all into such frame
That they and we, in euery parte
Wythouten grudge, debate or grefe
Maye fyrmly stande in one belefe.
Whych teacheth vs to loue and dread
Hym that hathe power vnder God
I mean the kynge that is our head
That here in earth doth beare the rod
Of true iustyce in Chrystes steade▪
By precyse wordes we be forbod
Hym to wythstande, or to wythsaye
In euery cause we must obaye.
For whome, as for our only guyde
Oure greatest helpe and chefest staye
That daylye doth for vs prouyde
To saue vs sounde wythout decaye
In warre and peace on euery syde
Wyth one accorde let vs all praye
To sende hys grace, vs here amonge
Honour, encrease, good lyfe and longe.
God saue the kynge.
¶Imprynted at London by Rycharde Bankes. Cumpriuilegio ad imprintendum solum. And be to sell in Pater noster rowe, at the sygne of the Roose,