 | Early Modern Center English Ballad Archive, 1500 - 1800 |
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The Ballad of/ Luther, the Pope, A Cardinal, & A Husbandman |
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The husbandman. Let us lyft up our hartes all And prayse the lordes magnificence, Whiche hath geven the wolves a fall And is become our stronge defence For they thoro we a false pretens From Christes bloude dyd all us leade Gettynge from every man his pence As satisfactours for the deade. For what we with our flayes coulde get To kepe our house and seriauntes That dyd the freers from us fet And with our soules played the marchantes And thus they with theyr false warantes Of our sweate have easelye lyved That for fatnesse theyre belyes pantes So greatlye have they us deceaved They spared not the fatherlesse The carefull, nor the pore wydowe They wolde have some what more or lesse If it above the ground dyd growe But now we husbandmen do knowe Al their subtlety and their false caste For the lorde hath them overthrowe Whith his swete word nowe at the laste. Doctor Martin Luther. Thou Antichrist with thy thre crownes Haft usurped kynges powers As havig power over realms & townes Whom thou oughtest to serve all houres Thou thinkest by thy jugglyng colours Thou maist likewise Gods word oppresse As do the deceitful foulers Whan they theyr nettes craftelye dresse Thou flatterest every prince and lord Thretening poore men with swearde & fyre All those that do folowe gods worde To make them cleve to thy desire Theyr bokes thou burnest in flamig fire Cursing with boke bell, and candell Suche as to reade them have desire As with them are wyllynge to meddell Thy false power wyl I bryng down Thou shalt not raygne many a yere I shall dryve the from city and towne Even with this pen that thou seyste here Thou fyghtest with swerd shylde & speare But I will fight with gods worde Which is now so open and cleare That it shall brynge the under the borde. The Pope. Though I brought never so many to hel And to utter dampnacion Throughe myne ensample and consel Or thorow any abhominacion Yet doth our lawe [excurse?] my fashion And thou Luther arte accursed For blamynge me and my condicion The holy decres have the condempned Thou arguest against my purgatory Because thou findest it not in scripture As though I by myne auctorite Myght not make one for myne honoure Knowest well thou not that I have power To make and mar in heven and hell An erth and every creature What so ever I do it must be well. As for scripture I am above it Am not I gods hye vicare Shulde I be bounde to folowe it As the Carpenter his ruler Nay, nay heretikes ye are That wyll not obey my auctoritie With this sworde I will declare That ye shal al accursed be The cardinall I am a Cardinall of Rome Send from christes hye vicary To graunt pardon to more and sume That wil Luther resist strongly He is a greate heretyke treuly And regardeth to much the scripture For he thinketh onely therby To subdue the Popes hie honoure Receive ye this pardon devoutely And loke that ye against hym fight Plucke up youre hertes and be manlye For the pope sayth ye do but right And this be sure that at one flyghte All though ye be overcome by chaunce Ye shall to heaven go with great myghte God can make you no resistaunce But these heretikes for they medlynge Shall go down to hel every one For they have not the popes blessynge Nor regarde his holy pardon They thinke from all destruction By christes bloud, to be saved Fearynge not our excommunicacion Therfore shall they al be dampned FINIS. quoth William Meash, Imprinted at London for I. W. |