My time was come, I coulde no longer liue, What should I make my sorrow further knowne? Upon some cause that king, that all did giue, Tooke all agayne and so possest his owne: My goods, my plate, and all was ouerthrowne, And looke what I had gathred many a day, Within one howre was cleanly swept away. 44. But harken now how that my fortune fell, To _Yorke_ I must, where I the bishop was: Where I by right in grace a while did dwell, And was in stawle with honour great to pas: The priors then and abbots gan to smell, Howe cardinall must bee honourd as hee ought, And for that day was great prouision brought. 45. At _Cawood_ then, where I great buildings made, And did through cause exspect my stawling day, The king deuisde a secrete vnder shade, Howe cardnall shoulde bee reste and brought away: One _Wealsh_ a knight, came downe in good aray, And seasned sure, because from courte hee cam, On _Wolsey_ wolfe that spoyled many a lam. 46. Then was I led toward courte, like dog in string, And brought as biefe that Butcherrowe must see: But still I hoapt to come before the king, And that repayre was not denyde to mee: But hee that kept the towre, my guide must bee: Ah, there I sawe what king thereby did meane, And so I searcht yf conscience now were cleane. 47. Some spots I founde, of pryde and popishe partes, That might accuse a better man then I: Now _Oxford_ came to minde, with all theire artes, And _Cambridge_ to, but all not worth a flye: For schoolemen can no fowle defects supplye: My sauce was sowre, though meate before was sweete, Nowe _Wolsey_ lackte both conning, wit, and spreete. 48. A deepe conceyte of that, possest my heade, So fell I sicke, consumde as some did thinke: So tooke in haste my chamber, and my bed, On which deuise, perhaps, the worlde might winke: But in the heart sharpe sorrow so did sinke, That gladnes sweete, (forsooke my senses all) In those extreemes did yeelde vnto my fall. 49. O let mee curse the popish cardnall hat, Whose myters big, beset with pearle and stones, And all the rest of trash, I know not what, The saints in shrine, theyr flesh and rotten bones, The maske of monkes, deuised for the nones, And all the flocke of freers, what ere they are, That brought mee vp and left mee there so bare. 50.