“_Homo natus_ Came to heauen gatus. Sir, you doe come to latus, With your shorne patus: _Frequentia falsa Euangelii_, For the loue of your bealie, _Cum auro & argento_, You loued the rules of Lento, Whiche the Pope did inuento: You are _spurius de muliere_. Not legittimate nor lawful here: _O quam[153] venenosa pestis,_ _Fur, periurus, latro, mechus,_ _Homicidis[154] tantum decus!_ _De salute animarum_, Of Christes flocke thou hadest small carum: Thou art _filius populi_: Go, go to _Constantinopoli_, To your maister the Turke; There shall you lurke Emong the heathen soules. Somtyme your shorne brethren of Poules Were as blacke as moules, With their cappes fower forked, Their shoes warme corked; Nosed like redde grapes, Constant as she apes, In nature like blacke monkes, And shoote in sparowes trunkes, And boule when thei haue dinde, And kepe them from the winde; And thei whiche are not able Doe sitte still at the table, With colour scarlet pale, So small is their good ale: Thus from God thei did tourne, Long before their church did burne. Then when riche men wer sicke, Either dedde or quicke, _Valde diligenter notant_ _Vbi diuites egrotant;_ _Ibi currunt, nec cessabunt_ _Donec ipsos tumilabunt;_ _Oues alienas tondunt,_ _Et perochias confundunt._ These felowes pilde as ganders, Muche like the friers of Flanders, Whiche serue Sathan about the cloisters, Thei loue red wine and oisters. _Qui vult Satanæ seruire,_ _Claustrum debet introire_, And euer haue suche an hedde As bastarde Boner that is dedde. He would for the Pope take pain; Therfore help, you friers of Spain, You enquisiters, take paine: It is a greate maine Vnto the Pope, your hedde, That Boner is thus dedde, And buried in a misers graue, Like a common k[naue]. Lo, lo, now is he dedde, That was so well fedde, And had a softe bedde! _Estote fortis in bello_, Good Hardyng and thy fellowe; If you be papistes right, Come steale hym awaie by night, And put hym in a shrine; He was the Popes deuine; Why, shall he be forgotten, And lye still and rotten? Come on, and doe not fainte; Translate with spede your sainct, And put hym in a tombe: His harte is now at Rome. Come forth, you loughtes of Louen, And steale awaie this slouen: You are so full of ire, And popishe desire, And Romishe derision, And hellishe deuision, Therefore I am sure Your kyngdome will not dure.” Sig. B iii. ...