A letter to Rome, to declare to ye Pope, Iohn Felton his freend is hangd in a rope: And farther, a right his grace to enforme, He dyed a Papist, and seemd not to turne.

Audio recording by Jenni Hyde.

TRANSCRIPT:

A letter to Rome, to declare to ye Pope,
Iohn Felton his freend is hangd in a rope:
And farther, a right his grace to enforme,
He dyed a Papist, and seemd not to turne.

To the tune of Row well ye Mariners.

WHo keepes Saint Angell gates?
Where lieth our holy father say?
I muze that no man waytes,
Nor comes to meete me on the way.
Sir Pope I say? yf you be nere,
Bow downe to me your listning eare:
Come forth, besturre you then a pace,
Fo I haue newes to show your grace.
Stay not, come on,
That I from hence were shortly gon:
Harke well, heare mee,
What tidings I haue brought to thee

The Bull so lately sent
To England by your holy grace,
Iohn Felton may repent
For settyng vp the same in place:
For he vpon a goodly zeale
He bare vnto your common weale
Hath ventured lyfe to pleasure you,
And now is hangd, I tell you true.
Wherfore, sir Pope,
In England haue you lost your hope.
Curse on, spare not,
Your knights are lyke to go to pot.

But further to declare,
He dyed your obedient chylde:
And neuer seemd to spare,
For to exalt your doctrine wylde:
And tolde the people euery one
He dyed your obedient sonne
And as he might, he did set forth,
Your dignitie thats nothyng worth.
Your trash, your toyes,
He toke to be his onely ioyes:
Therfore, hath wonne,
Of you the crowne of martirdome.

Let him be shryned then
Accordyng to his merits due,
As you haue others doen
That proue vnto their Prince vntrue:
For these (sir Pope) you loue of lyfe,
That wt their Princes fall at stryfe:
Defendyng of your supreame powre,
Yet som haue paid ful deare therfore.
As now, lately,
Your freend Iohn Felton seemd to try
Therfore, I pray,
That you a masse for him wyll say.

Ryng all the belles in Rome
To doe his sinful soule some good,
Let that be doen right soone
Because that he hath shed his blood,
His quarters stand not all together
But ye mai hap to ring them thether
In place where you wold haue them be
Then might you doe as pleaseth ye.
For whye? they hang,
Vnshryned each one vpon a stang:
Thus standes, the case,
On London gates they haue a place.

His head vpon a pole
Stands waueri~g in ye wherli~g wynd,
But where shoulde be his soule
To you belongeth for to fynd:
I wysh you Purgatorie looke
And search each corner wt your hooke,
Lest it might chance or you be ware
The Deuyls to catce him in a snare.
Yf ye, him see,
From Purgatorie set him free:
Let not, trudge than,
Fetch Felton out and yf ye can.

I wysh you now sir Pope
To loke vnto your faithful freendes,
That in your Bulles haue hope
To haue your pardon for their sinnes,
For here I tell you, euery Lad
Doth scoff & scorne your bulles to bad,
And thinke they shall the better fare
For hatyng of your cursed ware.
Now doe, I end,
I came to show you as a frend:
Whether blesse, or curse,
You send to me, I am not the worse.

FINIS.
Steven Peele.
Imprinted by Alexander Lacie for
Henrie Kyrkham, dwellyng at the signe of the
blacke Boy: at the middle North dore
of Paules church.