Of piuish popish lawes,
That are not worth two strawes,
Except it be with dawes,
That knoweth not good from euels,
Nor Gods worde from the deuels,
Nor wyll in no wise heare
The worde of God so cleare,
But popishnes vpreare,
And make the pope Gods peare.
…
Now let vs go about
To tell the tale out
Of this good felow stout,
That for no man wyll dout,
But kepe his olde condicions
For all the newe comyssions,
And vse his supersticions,
And also mens tradycions,
And syng for dead folkes soules,
And reade hys beaderolles,
And all such thinges wyll vse
As honest men refuse:
But take hym for a cruse,
And ye wyll tell me newes;
For if he ons begyn,
He leaueth nought therin;
He careth not a pyn
How much ther be wythin,
So he the pot may wyn,
He wyll it make full thyn;
And wher the drinke doth please
There wyll he take his ease,
And drinke therof his fyll,
Tyll ruddy be his byll;
And fyll both cup and can,
Who is so glad a man
As is our curate than?
I wolde ye knewe it, a curate
Not far without Newgate;
Of a parysh large
The man hath mikle charge,
And none within this border
That kepeth such order,
Nor one a this syde Nauerne
Louyth better the ale tauerne:
But if the drinke be small,
He may not well withall;
Tush, cast it on the wall!
It fretteth out his gall;
Then seke an other house,
This is not worth a louse,
As dronken as a mouse,
Monsyre gybet a vous!
And ther wyll byb and bouse,
Tyll heuy be his brouse.
…
Thus may ye beholde
This man is very bolde,
And in his learning olde
Intendeth for to syt:
I blame hym not a whyt,
For it wolde vexe his wyt,
And cleane agaynst his earning,
To folow such learning
As now a dayes is taught;
It wolde sone bryng to naught
His olde popish brayne,
For then he must agayne
Apply hym to the schole,
And come away a fole,
For nothing shulde he get,
His brayne hath bene to het
And with good ale so wet;
Wherefore he may now set
In feldes and in medes,
And pray vpon his beades,
For yet he hath a payre
Of beades that be right fayre,
Of corall, gete, or ambre,
At home within his chambre;
For in matins or masse
Primar and portas,
And pottes and beades,
His lyfe he leades:
But this I wota,
That if ye nota
How this idiota
Doth folow the pota,
I holde you a grota
Ye wyll rede by rota
That he may were a cota
In Cocke Lorels[152] bota.
Thus the durty doctour,
The popes oune proctour,
Wyll bragge and boost
Wyth ale and a toost,
And lyke a rutter
Hys Latin wyll vtter,
And turne and tosse hym,
Wyth tu non possum
Loquere Latinum;
This alum finum
Is bonus then vinum;
Ego volo quare
Cum tu drinkare
Pro tuum caput,
Quia apud
Te propiciacio,
Tu non potes facio
Tot quam ego;
Quam librum tu lego,
Caue de me
Apponere te:
Juro per Deum
Hoc est lifum meum,
Quia drinkum stalum
Non facere malum.
Thus our dominus dodkin
Wyth ita vera bodkin
Doth leade his lyfe,
Which to the ale wife
Is very profitable:
It is pytie he is not able
To mayntayne a table
For beggers and tinkers
And all lusty drinkers,
Or captayne or beddle
Wyth dronkardes to meddle.
Ye cannot, I am sure,
For keping of a cure
Fynde such a one well,
If