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A Paumflet compyled by G._C.
To master
Smyth and Wyllyam_G. |
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Prayenge them both, for the loue of our Lorde, |
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To growe at last to an honest accorde. |
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THe fynest wyt that is alyue |
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Cannot deuyse by tunge nor pen |
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The spytefull malyce to descryue |
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That reygneth now in dyuerse men
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We maye perceyue by them that stryue |
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For castynge out a carde of ten |
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That charyte is set at nought |
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So reygneth malyce in mannes thought. |
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Whych thynge doth force me thus to wryte |
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Concernynge the vncharyte |
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Of two that nowe with hatefull spyte |
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Do blame eche other openly |
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To none of bothe I owe despyte |
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Ner this is none Apology |
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For nether parte: but stryfe to stent |
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Is grounde of all myne argument. |
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The stryfe I speake of, is bewyxt |
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One master
Smyth & Wyllyam_G.
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Theyr wrytynges are confusely myxt |
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With bytynge wordes, and vylany |
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In eche of them, a wyll is fyxt |
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To maynteyne styll his vanyte |
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Which hath a very feble grounde |
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Wherwith his enemy to confounde. |
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All this began, fyrst by a knaue |
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I wote not who, that wrote a trolle |
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Wherin he dyd but rage and raue |
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He knewe full lytle of saynt
Poule
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Which wrytte the loue that men shuld haue |
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And for one dyd thys trolle controlle |
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Lo master
Smyth a boke hath pende |
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This tryflynge troller to defende. |
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Some saye, it was for flatterye |
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And some do saye, it was for mede |
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For to aduaunce him-selfe therby |
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Such men (they saye) do soonest spede |
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That least can skyll of modesty |
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But what he meant, therby in-dede |
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If I shall iudge, as I do take it |
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Naught but malyce, made him make it. |
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For thorow-out his raylyng booke |
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Of charyte no worde is spoken |
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Tyll all his malyce purpose tooke |
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For malyce, forthwith wylbe wroken |
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And whoso lyst therin to looke |
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Maye iudge him well, by his owne token |
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A raylynge knaue, for to defende |
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Is, in no wyse man to commende. |
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If master
Smyth had marked well |
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The purpose of that foolyshe dawe |
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Which trolde vpon the Lorde Crumwell
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Wyth ragged ryme, not worth a strawe |
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He myght haue founde that wretch rebell |
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Both ageynst God, and all good lawe |
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And not haue blamed Wyllyam_G.
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For blamynge his vncharyte. |
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But when W._G. dyd fele the prycke |
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So threattyng and malycious |
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I wonder not though he dyd kycke |
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For-why, it was too sclaunderous |
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And for the kycke, was somwhat quycke |
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Lo, he agayne as enuyous |
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A testy aunswere strayte dyd wryte |
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With checke for checke, & spyte for spyte. |
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But of this stryfe, the chefe effect |
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That maynteyned is so knappyshly |
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Is rysen by the great suspect |
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Of popyshnes and heresye |
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One sayth the other is infecte |
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With such a spyce of knauery |
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I wyll not iudge, which it shulde be |
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But bothe theyr wrytynges are to se. |
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These sortes are both to dyscommende |
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In any man, where they be founde |
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For papistes do nought els pretende |
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But Christes glorye to confounde |
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And Heretykes, God them amende |
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Haue but a very feble grounde |
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If that they preache, that is forbod |
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Or dyffer from the worde of God.
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For heresye is nothynge elles |
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But swaruyng from the true belefe |
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As holy wrytte expresly telles |
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And he is worse then any thefe |
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That thereagaynst in ought rebelles |
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Or he that seketh his relefe |
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Of false goddes, and not of Christ
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Is no les then an Antechrist. |
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But he that hathe a popyshe ha[r]te
harte] haxte 1540
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And wyll not vnto Christ be wonne |
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He seekyth not, but to subuert |
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All that the kynge hathe well begonne |
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No reason maye hys wyll conuert |
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But he wyll do, as he hathe done |
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Wyth tothe and nayle, for to vpholde |
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Hys blynde belefe, and errors olde. |
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I wryte not thys, meanyng therbye |
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That master
Smyth is of that sorte |
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Ner I iudge not that willyam_G.
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Is soche as Smyth dothe hym reporte |
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But wryte my mynde wyth charyte |
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The partyes bothe for to exhorte |
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That he that fyndes hym in the cryme |
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May fyrst recante, hys raylynge ryme. |
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But thys is for to dyscommende |
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In master
Smyth aboue althynge |
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That he so rashlye wolde defende |
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A braynles buz, in hys wrytynge |
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And afterwarde styll forth contende |
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Wyth malyce, and wyth threatenyng |
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Agaynst that poore man wylliam_G.
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Farre from all godlye charyte. |
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Wrestyng the scriptures as hym lyst |
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For his owne purpose out of frame |
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But he that stryfe doth so resyst |
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That perfect worde, he doth defame |
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Wherin our helth doth whole consyst |
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For that is it, the very same |
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That teacheth vs the loue and drede |
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To God and to the Kynge our hede. |
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Perchaunce that Smyth wyll take it yll |
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That I iudge him so openly |
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No force for that, it shall not skyll |
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For he is knowen suffyciently |
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But I protest, that in my wyll |
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I meane nothynge malycyously |
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But yet men must, for all his heate |
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Repute him hotte, that see him sweate. |
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Lykewyse the other dyd offende |
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Wyth wrytyng so impacientlye |
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For that is no waye to amende |
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An harte that cankers inwardly |
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But he his cause, shulde styll defende |
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Wyth mekenes and wyth charyte |
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And not wyth malyce nor despyght |
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But suffer mekely wronge and ryght |
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Euyn as the Gospell dothe vs teache |
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Whych is oure chefe profession |
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For Paule hym-selfe dyd alwaye preache |
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That, for the chefe confession |
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Of christen heartes, to make them stretche |
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Theyr fayth vnto Christs passyon |
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The only entry into healthe |
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All other entryes are but stealth. |
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Lo, thus I fynde them both to blame |
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Wyshynge to eche with all myne heart |
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An honest mendement, wythout shame |
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And praye to Christ that he conuert |
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Oure iudgementes all into such frame |
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That they and we, in euery parte |
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Wythouten grudge, debate or grefe |
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Maye fyrmly stande in one belefe. |
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Whych teacheth vs to loue and dread |
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Hym that hathe power vnder God
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I mean the kynge that is our head |
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That here in earth doth beare the rod |
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Of true iustyce in Chrystes steade |
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By precyse wordes we be forbod |
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Hym to wythstande, or to wythsaye |
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In euery cause we must obaye. |
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For whome, as for our only guyde |
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Oure greatest helpe and chefest staye |
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That daylye doth for vs prouyde |
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To saue vs sounde wythout decaye |
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In warre and peace on euery syde |
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Wyth one accorde let vs all praye |
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To sende hys grace, vs here amonge |
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Honour, encrease, good lyfe and longe. |
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God saue the Kynge. |
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¶Imprynted at London by Rycharde_Bankes. And be to sell in Pater_noster_rowe, at the sygne of the Roose, |
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Cum priuilegio ad imprimendum solum.
This line was set by the printer as part of the colophon
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