Whilst thys Syr CHARLES dothe lyve.

By MARIE, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav’’n,

Thys sunne shall be hys laste”.

Thenne CANYNGE dropt a brinie teare,

And from the presence paste.

Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,

Hee to Syr CHARLES dydd goe,

And satt hymm downe uponne a stoole,

And teares beganne to flowe.

“Wee all must die”, quod brave Syr CHARLES;

“Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne;

Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate

Of all wee mortall menne.

Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul

Runns overr att thyne eye;

Is ytte for my most welcome doome

’Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?”

Quod godlie CANYNGE, “I doe weepe,

’Thatt thou so soone must dye;

And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe;

Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye”.

“’Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye

From godlie fountaines sprynge;

Dethe I despise, and alle the power

Of EDWARDE, traytor kynge.

Whan throgh the tyrant’s welcom means

I shall resigne my lyfe,

The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde

For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.

Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,

Thys was appointed mee;

Shall mortal manne repyne or grudge

Whatt Godde ordeynes to bee?

Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,

Whan thousands dy’d arounde;

Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode

Imbrew’d the fatten’d grounde.

How dydd I knowe thatt ev’ry darte,

Thatt cutte the airie waie,

Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte,

And close myne eyes for aie?

And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,

’Looke wanne and bee dysmayde?

No! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere,

Bee alle the manne display’d”.

“Ah, goddelyke HENRIE! Godde forefende,

And guarde thee and thye sonne,

Yff ’tis hys wylle, but yff ’tis nott,

Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.

My honest friende, my faulte has beene

To serve Godde and mye prynce;

And thatt I no tyme-server am,

My dethe wylle soone convynce.

Ynne Londonne citye was I born;

Of parents of grete note;

My fadre dydd a nobile armes

’Emblazon onne hys cote.

I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone

Where soone I hope to goe;

Where wee for ever shall bee blest,

From oute the reech of woe

Hee taughte mee justice and the laws

Wyth pitie to unite;

And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe

The wronge cause fromm the ryghte.

Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande

To feede the hungrie poore,

Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie

The hungrie fromme my doore.

And none can saye, butt alle mye lyfe

I have hys wordyes kept;

And summ’d the actyonns of the daie

Eche nyghte before I slept.

I have a spouse, goe aske of her,

Yff I defyl’d her bedde?

I have a kynge, and none can laie

Blacke treason onne my hedde.

Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,

Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne;

Whie should I thenne appeare dismay’d

To leave thys worlde of payne?

Ne! hapless HENRIE! I rejoyce,

I shalle ne see thye dethe;

Moste willynglie ynne thye just cause

Doe I resign my brethe.

Oh, fickle people! rewyn’d londe!

Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;

Whyle RICHARD’S sonnes exalt themselyes,

Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.

Saie, were ye tyr’d of godlie peace,

And godlie HENRIE’S reigne,

’Thatt you dydd choppe youre easie daies

For those of bloude and peyne?

Whatte tho’ I onne a sledde bee drawne,

And mangled by a hynde,

I doe defye the traytor’s pow’r,

Hee can ne harm my mynde;