A playn and fynall confutacion: Of cammells corlyke oblatracion Churchyard, Thomas, 1520?-1604. 1552 Approx. 31 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 6 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2005-10 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A18749 STC 5246 ESTC S115152 99850371 99850371 15568

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Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A18749) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 15568) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1475-1640 ; 1511:10) A playn and fynall confutacion: Of cammells corlyke oblatracion Churchyard, Thomas, 1520?-1604. [2] leaves Imprinted in Fletstrit by Wyllyam Gryffyth, a lyttle aboue the condit at the syne of the Gryffyn, [London] : [1552?] Signed at end: Thomas Churchyard. Caption title. In verse. Place of publication from STC; publication date suggested by STC. Reproduction of the original in the Society of Antiquaries.

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eng Camel, Thomas. -- Camelles conclusion -- Controversial literature -- Early works to 1800. Satire, English -- Early works to 1800. 2003-05 Assigned for keying and markup 2003-05 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2005-03 Sampled and proofread 2005-03 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2005-04 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
¶A playn and fynall confutacion: Of cammells corlyke oblatracion. YE vpright men whiche loues the light, whose heartes be voyd of gyle: condemne no cause till trueth be tryed, gyue eare and lyst a whyle. And marke my tale from poynt to poynt, let no worde skip vnskande: And heare them with indiffrent eares, and way them as they stande. Fyrst laye asyde affeccion blynd, for trueth my cause must pleade, let nether foe nor fayned frend, this matter Iudge nor reade. And then I trust to clere my selfe, and Cammell cleane confound: that blowes the trompet of defame, which geues vnsertayn sound. The tune wherof semes yet full straunge, so boystous is the blast: but quiet calmes settes forth still windes, when stormes be gon and past Whiche quyet time I wish to haue, that I may be well harde: and then I hope this vypars byrde, shall haue his iust rewarde. That forgeth fautes and seeketh holes, to crepe and steale therin: and flattereth for no other cause, but fame or gayne to winne. What thinkes this man he hathe more witte, and learning in his head: than hathe fyue thousand other men, that (Dycarres dreame hath read. Or thinkes he that I am so rashe, to run so far from square: or that I make suche obscure thinges, that I dare not declare. Than is he blynde and very fond, and scarce him selfe doeth know: let him loke on his booke agayne, his rule is nothinge so. To you I speak frend Camell now, which wresteth ryght to wrong: you saye you haue ben kept at schole, in soothe I thinke not longe. Your master did but stroke your head, he did forbeare the rodde: I dout he did not teache you well, howe you should feare your God. For if he had you would haue stayed, to wryte agaynst this dreame: to spye a mote within my eye, synce in yours is a beame. Yf you might sitte and iudge my cause, I should soone feele your worst: but God forbyd there were long hornes, on beastes that would be corst. I call you beast because you sayde, here goeth the beast abrode: the beast will turne you gage a grote, yf he be prickte with goade. Now turne syr beast and come aloft, fling not for fear of whip: in dede it is a monstruse thing, to see a camell skippe. You say you shoke me by the sleue, than rubde I your gall backe: yf I know howe to do you good, my healpe you should not lacke. We Iompe in leasse, ye gab syr beast, I am but one alone: but I can proue (O beaw Camew) that you are moe then one. My surreioynder doeth declare, this dreame was for the best: and yet you crye, a bandye ho at tenues thus ye ieste. What can you laye vnto my charge, of malyce or of hate: since I do wyshe that euery wyght, shulde walke in his estate. This verse you hyppe, and yet it standes, next that when rex doeth rayng: bothe these be good and godlye to, here shall I showe you playne. But as I sayde, out of fayre flours, the spyder poyson takes: and yet the bee doeth feede thereon, and therewyth hony makes. I do compare this spyder nowe, to you whiche so appeeres: for that you run a patheles way, to leade me in the breerres. Wheare fynde you this that dreames can haue, any effect at all, be not they fancies of the hed, and so wyse men them call, Why do you wryte against a dreme, whiche hath a small effect, why turn you yt to meanyng leawde, to brynge it in suspect, You ment no more but me to lerne, so ou wolde you excuse: Syr yf you mynde to kepe a frynde, 〈◊〉 ot your frynde so vse. You bragge you of your master muche when you to skoole dyd goe: You sayde ye learnd your duetye well, good syr it seemes not soe. To serue the kyng and praie for hym, I learnde as well as you: to loue hym leall for concyens sake this lesson well I knew. His councell eeke for to obaye, my duety learnes me too: and with ther matters not to mell, nor therin haue to do. This lesson hetherto I kept, and shall here after kepe: tyll I to earth retorne agayn, where fleshe and fell must sleepe. What is the cause you answerde not, to that whiche I wrott last: You do conclude muche lyke a thefe, whiche is condemnde and cast. For at the barre he prateth long, and can no reason shew: to clere hym selfe and saue his lyfe whan trueth doeth hym orethrow. So you althoughe with matter now, I do you styll assault: yet with great shame you are content, to yelde vnto your fault. I wrate more thynges than one or two, yet reade them ons agayn: I do perceyue a lyttell thyng, wyll soone orecom your brayne. You haue sought councell fourteen daies, it seemes that you dyd dreame: or els ye thought to run awaie, into som other realme. But now I heare a sodayn sownde, the beast begyns to braye: it is muche like a camels voyce, that dwels in lyn they saye. Be as be may you say your felfe, ye byd me foet it well, why will the beast now lead the daunce, with beasts I will not mell. But wheare you saie, I when out whens, aboue eala a note, you gront and groen from gammuth farre, I dare you gage my cote. Sins you will put me to my trompe, with a false carde of ten, marke howe iustice shall ioyn to trueth, I will make large this when. Note. Though iustice doeth belonge to Rex, whose sworde puts that in vre, yet euery iustice vnder him, is not so iust and pure. Because there be knightes of the post, whiche wil them selues forswere, and fained troeth will forge a tale, sometymes in iustice eare. And worke suche wiles, iustice to blynde, and make him credit lies suche crafty mistes these men can cast, before true iustice eies. Thoughe iustice of him selfe is pure, and clean deuoide of crime, yet false witnes may alter him, and chaunge his minde somtime. The faut therof is not in hym, he woulde fayn ioyn to truthe: But flatteryng faith, may him corrupt, alas the more is ruthe. Whan truth is forman of the quest, and right shall vardyt gyue, Than iustice shall ioyn still to truthe, and so together liue. Thus is this when made manifest, truely as I it ment, and yet it was full plain before, to euery true entent. Here haue I waide what iustice is, to whom it dothe pertain, who swayes the sworde, who dothe decree, here haue I set out plain. Now staye a while, and marke this when, which you call principa l, and is the beast among the rest, and standeth last of all. Note. When Rex doth reign (And) rule the rost, a coniunction copulatiue, your master taught you not to knowe, coulde he suche thinges discriue? Now Rex doth rayne whom god preserue, in long life on vs here, and sende him rule the rost him selfe, as prince withouten pere. That he may fynde those secrete slighes, whiche now in cornets lye: And suche as do abuse his lawes and liue so wickedlie. It semes they lyue as they delight, and leane not to his lore: Bycause he doth commende them lawes and they passe not therfore. Howe doth the master of the schole, his schollers rule and tame: whan he dothe geue preseptes and rules, and none doth kepe the same. How doeth the kyng his people rule, let this be better wayde: whan he doeth geue them lawes and actes and none of them obeyde. For thoughe that Rex do tayne and rule, as I beleue in dede: yet dothe not he for mercy grete, the wicked all ute wede. And like as God is mercifull, so doeth our kyng in dede: n we and folowe in his steppes (whom God defende and spede.) His Iustice is to ponishe sinne, with death and payne extreme: which is most godly exercisde and so doeth shewe and seme. Yet yf all those that do offende, shoulde haue suche punyshmente: what man is liuing nowe a dayes, that shoulde escape vnshente? But folowyng the exa mple o , the Lorde and kynge of kynges: dothe often su •• er vs vnkynde, in vyle and greuous thynges. Because he woulde (as it doethe seme, so mercifull and deare:) bee rather loued then obeyed, for only dreade and feare. And thys hys mercye godly mente, doothe make vs worse in dede: as scollers when they lacke the rodde, do lyue withouten drede. But when he sha l begynne agayne, to punyshe wyckednes: whiche is hys iustyce (or more playne,) to vs but ryghtousnes. Then folke or feare (but not for loue,) shall better ende theyr lyfe: as horses whipte ye then for feare shall stynte and cease oure stryfe. Wherfore yf euery kyng th s daie whyche oughte in dede to raygne: do raygne and rule the rost and weede, the wicked oute full playne. Then haue they welthe withouten stryfe, whyche God geue vs ryght sone: that all oute wyckednes were paste, and dredfull dayes were done. If Dy ar sayde, when Rex doth raygne, and all men doe obey: how could you Camell, thus conclude? he raygneth not to daye. Note. Or if he sayd, when Christ is God, and you a faythfull man: would ye conclude rgo, (to him,) he is not God now than. Wherfore in Rex do raygne and rule, as I beleue he doeth: and I beseche almyghtye God, he maye do longe in sothe. Yet 〈◊〉 you take a nother poynte, conteyned in thys when: when Rex oeth raygne and rule the roste, and wedes oute wycked men. You muste not harken halfe the tale, and leaue the reste behynde: for than in dede you do amysse, and fayne woulde quareles fynde. You Redde in faythe muche lyke the nunne omnia probate: and 〈◊〉 not the other syde quod bonum est tenete. Redde you no more but Rex doeth raygne, and lefte the reste vnspyed: is there not ( oo) and rule the roste, the sentence is so tyde. And wede oute wicked worldly men, the spotted from the cleane: whose vyce infectes the chosen lambes, lo thus did Dicar meane. He do bted not but Rex doethe raygne the truethe it selfe dothe showe: but yet he thoughte it good to wede, oute wycked men I trowe. And thus I say did Dycar dreame, the sence doeth playnly tell: yf vpryght eyes and righteous mindes, do loke and skan him well. If you shulde ben y iudge I se, and deme my dremynge thus I shulde haue but short curtesy, and you my cause discus. But god hath sawed your hornes so short, no great hurt do you can, he made you nether lord nor iudge, nor skarse an honest man. When Rex doth raygne and rule the rost, and out the wicked weede, than you and many other lyke, wold fyrst of all precede. But where you set a snare and net, for these that well intende: to shewe what is the very cause, of euill and the ende. There you your self and if it were, applied well in frame, as he hath ment) shulde certainly be catched in the same. What if I shuld cast furth the bone, you thought to choke me with: perhappes you may repent to late, you went so nie the pyth. Where is your lesson now become, you lernd so long ago, that spyde such faute in dicars dreme, and yet conceylde it so. Note. If it had raught to Iupiters seate, as you affirme in dede, you ought not it haue kepte so long, but straight it told with spede. Or if you thought you sawe the myst, that no man elles could skrie, there shuld no cause haue stopte you so, to tell it by and by. If dicars when, as true it is, be clere from blame and blotte, yet your offente is no whit lesse, by cause you thought it not. If ignoraunce had sayd a mysse, the same be my defence, yet wilfull ignoraunce in you, dothe pleade your great offence. Behold of god the rightuouse scourdge, that nowe a mydde the gryn: you layde to trappe the innocent your selfe is fallen therin. What say you nowe wise camelles caulfe, if rex wede wicked men, you shulde of right be tide to short, to peruerte dicars when. But tyll suche spiders be wede out, and all their cobwebes to, that sekes to trappe the sellye flies, as you begyn to do. The barnes I say that here do wonne, with in this bryttaine lande, shall byde alas those dredfull daies, and dicars dreme may stande. O Syr you toke my then in hand, wherwith my when I knit, where I perceyue your frantike head, begins an other fyt. Note Can you denie the plages of god, which he to vs hath sent? and scourgeth vs for our great sinnes, from which we not repent. Doeth not the plowe man plowe his grownde, and laborith verey sore, the earth bringes forthe hys frute lykewyse, encreasyng more and more Doeth not the heauens gyue vs rayne, the watters gyues vs fyshe? doeth not the counsell seeke oure welth, as well as we can wishe? Do not they take great care and payne, all euelles to redresse, yes all these thinges doe worke as well, as mans tong can expresse. Yet though oure king do make good lawes, the earth bringes forth muche sede: tyll God will take his plage awaye, oure plenty shalbe nede. Thus balefull barnes we be vnblyethe, and dreadfull dayes doe see: tyll gracious God of his goodnes, will helpe oure miserye. Within the towne wheare you doe dwell, you know no dred nor stryfe: than is it sure a paradise, I laye theron my lyfe. For I haue traueld here and theare, and sought this world full wide: to fynde a restyng quyet place, where I would fayn abyde. But in this wery pylgrimage, I neuer found such stay: nor suche a vertuous towne as Lyn, yf it be as you saye. Yf you haue done as muche in Lynne, as you in London haue: I thinke that all your neighbours woulde, sone wyshe you in your graue. For we were here in quyet all, vntyll you came to towne: sence that we could not liue in reast, for suche a contrey clowne. And Dauie Dicars dreame for soothe, was lowed of euery man: tyll you began youre wrangling riemes, to brall vpon his whan. Wherin you lost your honest name, you could not lose much more: thus are you put to open shame, and haue no thanke therfore. Go showe your councell one by one, what gayne you here haue got: Ad b •• to wal. Herman will helpe to rowe you hom, good syr nowe take your botte. Nowe trudge a waye feare gentyll beast, and kycke no more at me: and let them lyue in peace and rest, that thinkes no harme to the. Thus here I take my leaue from you, wishing for grace and healthe: to kepe my prince from all his foes, and eke the comon wealthe. Finis. (ꝙ) Thomas Churchyard.

Imprinted in Flet strit by Wyllyam Gryffyth, a lyttle aboue the condit at the syne of the Gryffyn.

¶ A Replicacion to Camels Obiection, If right or reason might moue you to speake, I wold not you blame, your malice to wreake: Or if your iudgement, were vpright and cleane, You wolde not so rudely construe what I meane. How should your folly, so plainly be knowne, If that your wisdome, abrode were not blowne. You byd me amende. whose life you know not, As though that in you, there were not a spot. A tale of a tubbe, you bragge and you brall. wherin you do rubbe your selfe on the gall. You touch not one poynt, wherof that I wrate. You leape ore the hedge, and seeth not the gate, I muse what you meane to discant and preache, Upon a plaine song, so farre past your reache. why Camell I say, wyl you needes be fyne, what wyll ye be knowne for a durty deuine. It seemes you are learned, past reason or wyt, Or els you coulde not, the marke so well hyt. You haue so good laten, you can want no pewter, Though ye are no foole, yet you are a newter. You writ like a clerke, ore seene well in Cato. Forgettīg your name, which Therēs cals Gnato. I can do no lesse, but shew what you are, Synce you ar a Daniell, darke dreames to declare Your knowledge is great, your iudgement is good, The most of your study hath ben of Robyn hood And Be ys of Hampton, and syr Launcelet de lake, Hath tought you full oft, your verses to make: By sweete saint Benet, I swere by no foole. You are not to learne, you plyde well your scole. Your wyts are not breched, who list you to preeue, You flocke and you flout, and smils in your sleeue, I prayse you no more, lest you thinke I flatter, I must now retourne, to the pith of my matter, How can you well proue, that I do enuye, At any estate, be they low or hye Or that I spye fauts, in Iuppiters seate, why are you so mad, on me thus to bleate. It grees not, it cords not, it fyts not you say, That mē shuld find faut, with gods that bere sway If plaine Dauy Dicar, with wise man be skande, He speaketh vprightly, I dare take in hande. I write not so rashly, but I rule my pen. In faith you mistake. Dauy Dicars, when, You take chauke for chese and day for darke night, Of like you are spurblinde, or ye loke not a right: Your purpose I know, you were in such care, Against this good tyme, your purs was fulbare. You thought to optaine, some garment or gift Then dyd you inuent, to make a foule shift. To flatter the Gods, & get a new cote, That made you to syng. so mery a note. You faine me like Iudas, you thinke me not so For if I were he, then you wold me know I beare not the bagge, that mai you rewarde But yet my good wyll, I pray you regarde You say that order, would haue eche degree, To walke in his calling: then how may this do. That you out of fraine, do blother and barke, So like a curre dogge, at euery good warke, Is this the order, that Camels doo vse? Bicause you are a beast, I must you exscuse: A Camell, a Capon, a Curre sure by kynde. I may you well call, synce so I you fynde: Bicause you haue ratled and railed to mytche. Now giue me good leue, to claw you wher ye ytch And if that you thinke. I cubbe you to sore, Then giue me no cause, to scratch you no more. Holde this for certayn, and for a sure thing, The ofter you styrre me, the more I wyll styng. Syns that you wyll needes awaken my wyttes. I wyll seeke for you, both snaffuls and bittes. To holde in your head, and make you to rayne. And byte on the bridle, for angre and payne. Then will I deuise for you such a burthen, As long as you liue, you shall beare a lurden: A Camell by kinde, wyll beare more at once, Then .iii. great horses, picktout for the nonce. More meeter for you, to be in some stable, To beare heauy burthens, I thinke you more able Then being as you are, walking abrode, Your limmes ar well made, to carye a great lode: All beastes that be made for carte and cariage. Shuld leane to their labour, as mā to his mariage with horses and Asses, you are well acquainted, Their maners in ordre, right wel you haue painted I dout of your shape, some monster you are, Bicause such a name, to me you declare. Your wordes and your workes, ar tokens right sure You ar some brute beast, in mans forme & picture. Right happy he were, that had you in charge, He shuld gaine moch money, to shew you at large what cause, or what toye, dyd trouble your mynde, To make you seeke fauts, wher non you can finde: Your instrument iarres, your myrth is not sweete, You play on false strungs, which thing is vnmeete Your eare is not good, you know no sweete sounde, You can not espie, where faut may be founde. So farre out of tune, I neuer hearde none, Nor so much past shame, nor yet so farre gone, As you in this case, God sende you to amende, which seekes to learnr me, to bow and to bende: Direct well your steppes, by order and lyne, And sclaunder me not, nor no workes of myne. In all my writinges, right honestly I ment. If thei be taken, to my true entent: Thei shall breede no strife, nor no error sowe. when truth shalbe tryde, and vertue shall flow. Thus yet once to, when, againe I returne, Bicause that you seeme, against it to spurne, Untill this long, when, do well come to passe, This world shalbe nought, & you shalbe an Asse: Since you doo inuey, alle vice to maintaine, You shew that you haue, a folish light braine: God send you more wit, now kepe your head warme Or els the next winter, mai doo you some harme. Thus here I do ende, and rest for this time, Excepte you procure me, to make a new rime. Finis. Quod. Thomas Churchard.

Imprinted by Rychard Lant.

The Surreioindre vnto Camels reioindre. WHat lyfe may lyue, long vndefamde, what workes may be so pure, What vertuous thing, may fl r sh so, that fautles may endure: What things be past, or yet to come, that freely may reioyce, Or who can say he is so iust, he feares not sc aundero s to is voyce. This Sclaunderous peales, doth yng so loud, he soundes in euery eare, Whose craft can fayn such plesaunt tunes as truth wer present theare. But it is falshed, fraught with fraude, and syngs a no e to hye, Though that he bring, some plesaunt p ynts for to maintayn a lye. The s mple wy s, at soone egylde, through sclaunders sweete deccay But those that knowes, such rishing ho es, sh l sone perce ue the bayt. Unto whose ca es, and iudgements •• e, I oo cōmende my workes. To saue me from, the Serpents styng 〈…〉 orkes. With healpe of truthe, I hope to ee the v n m o this 〈◊〉 . Orels I trust, in his owne turne, to cast him t the cast. Although he wher, his teeth at me, and strugs me •• th his tong , Yet with the iust, I am content, to learne to •• ff e wrong. Synce Princes peares, & kyngs themselues, their Actes & godly layes, Are sclan dred oft, through uyl tonges, and blamed without cawes. Looke what is doone, and truly ment, to put things in good stay, Are wres ed, &c crue ted oft, by euyll tonges I say. The Preachers voyce which thre neth wrath, the synfull to reduse Doth purchase ha e, for tellyng truth: lo, this is mans abuse. The chylde doth blame, the byrchen rod, whose strypes may not desparde, Bicause his wyts vnto his welth, hath very small regarde. The wycked sort whose vice is knowne, by these which writes their lyues, Can not abyde, to heare their fauts, but styll against theym stryues. The horse, can not 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 faults I touch: What cause in me. what hate in him, what mattier hath he sought, Within this Dauy Dicars Dreame, which for the best as wrought. Unto the good it is not yll, nor hurtfull vnto none. 〈◊〉 vnto those, that lo •• es 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 or the sweete and fayrest floure the spydre poyson takes, And yet the B e, doth feede theron, and therwith hony makes. The Caterpiller, sp ls the fruit which God made for man foode, The fly likewyse, wher he doth blow, doth styl more harm thā good. Thus may you see, as men doo take, the things wheron they looke, Ther may it turne, to good or bad, as they applye the booke. But euery man, to his owne worke, an honest meanyng hath, Orels those hasty, sclaunders tonges, might do good men moch s ath. He feeles moch ease, that suff •• 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 euery dogge, which barketh in the strete, Shall neuer haue, a iust reuenge, nor haue a pacient sprete. Therfore I suffre, al your wordes, which is myne enemy knowne, I could you serue, with aunting tearmes, & feede you with your owne But I mynde not, to chocke your tale, before the worst be tolde, Then may I haue fre choyce and leaue, to shew you wher you scolde. Good syr if I, shulde you salute, as you saluted me, Then shuld I call you. Dauy too, and so perchaunce you be. Ye multiply, fyue names of one, a progeny you make, As your defent, dyd come from thence, wherof you lately spake. Though such as you, haue nycknamed me, in gest and halfe in scorne, Churchyard I am in Shrew sbury 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 ecth to know, a blynde man may discus, Ye are in nombre, mo then one, ye saye, bee good to vs. 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 haue, Is for to write, or scolde with fooles, whose nature is to raue, Synce raising ryms, ore co •• s 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 haue sayde. The world may iudge, your railyng tong, full like a beast hath brayd. Iud where you say, you can poynt out, by lyne and leuell both, Of all the, whens, of Dycats dreame, you say you knowe the troth. It is a wilfull ignoraunce, to hyde, I knowe full well, I faute, agaynst Iuppiters seate, or agaynst his counsell You shew your selfe, not Iuppiters frende, it you can truly proue, A au e n me, and doth it hyde, for feare or yet for loue. As for my work , and thankles paynes, in this and such like case, I shall be edy to defende, when you shall hide your face. Thinke you I teare, what you can do, my grounde is iust and true. On e •• ry word. which I dyd speake, I force not what ye brue. yll all your 〈◊〉 is 〈…〉 , and dish 〈◊〉 chone, wren they be ul, and 〈◊〉 ore, I will cast you a bone. 〈…〉 , though tha yo twits be fyne, I can 〈◊〉 , you out of squar, how your leuell and lyne: I wyll not answere worde for wor •• , to your reiondre yet, Because I fynde no matter their, or yet no poynt of wyt, But brabling blasts, and fra tike fyte, and chyding in the ayre, why doo you fr t 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 trended theare: yf you were scourged once a day, and fed with some warme meate, You wolde come to your self againe, after this rage of heate. This may be said without offence, it that your wyts you had, you wolde not lye nor raile on me, nor fate as you wer mad, But as it is a true prouerbe: the threatned man lyues long, your words can neither hang nor draw, I feare not your yll tong. The world is such it doth contempne, all those that vertue haue, An euell tong hath no respect, whose name he doth deproue. what is the cause of mortall fo d, whiche dothe in trendes 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 euell tonges, whose voyce is nere in tune, The roote and braunche and cheefest grounde, of mischeefs all and some, Is euyll tongues, whose sugred words, hath wyse men ouercome, The proofe wherof you put in vse, your words ye f ame and set, To excepe into some noble hertes, a credit for to get. The eatyng worme within the nut, the sweetest curnell secke, so doo you drawe where gayne is got, and there you loke full meeke. But vnder those fayre angels lokes, is hyd a deuelish mynde, I durst lay odds who trust you long, full false he shall you finde. Now to returne vnto 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 haue seene, of all your nipping geare, Is not well worth when 〈◊〉 cheape, the paring of a yeare. your sodayn stormes and thundre claps, your boasts and braggs so loude. Hath doone no harme thogh Robyn Hoo , spake with you in a cloud Go learne againe of litell Ihon, to shute in Robyn Hoods bow , Or Dicars dreame shalbe hit, and all his, whens, I trowe, This heare I leaue, I lyst not wr •• , to answer wher you ayle: He is vnwise that stri es with fooles, wher words can not preuayle, Finis. Domine, saluum fat Regem: & da pacem in diebus nostris. Thomas Churcharde.

Imprinted at London in Aldersgate strete by Rycharde Lant.