¶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.
WAS neuer worlde so farre from orders rule,
That men durst speake such sawcie words of Kings
Nor neuer 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 heauens high should fall.
¶O Sathans sonne, O Pope puft vp with pryde,
What makes thée clayme the clowdes where God doth dwel?
When thou art knowne the glorious gréedie guyde
That leades in pompe poore séelye soules to hell.
The pumpe of ship hath not so fowle a smell
As hath the smoke and fume that flames from thée,
O graceles grace, O rotten hollow trée.
The branches bud, but neuer bryng forth leaues,
Thy come is dead, when Reaper lookes for sheaues:
Thy golde is glasse, and glistereth gay a whyle,
Tyll tromperie comes, and makes the worlde to smyle.
¶Who bad thée blisse? O Buzzarde blynd of sight,
Buylt God his church vpon 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 thryues 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 pardonies boxe, wherein thy reliques lye,
Doth smell lyke Fox, or Swyne shut vp 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 gaue the Bull so great a blow
He neuer 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 Calues heads, and bring in Peter pence,
Though some are bought, our butchers looke for mo.
For Walthams calues, to Tiburne néedes must go
To sucke a bull, and méete a butchers axe,
The Shambles full is stuft, with prettie knacks:
As Goate, and Lambe, and Shepe of thrée score yeare,
We haue good hope, calues heads wyll not be deare
If Hardyngs cow be bulled as shée ought,
Calues 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 Calues are drawne vp 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 fréendes 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 haue so much
Yet baightyng oft, may make a Bull so tame
That euery dog that comes, may haue 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 in déede,
I hate the Bull, and all the Romish bréede.
¶ FINIS.
¶Imprinted at S. Katherins beside the Tower of London, ouer against the Beare daunce, by Alexander Lacie.