Mar Mar-Martin: Or Marre-martins' meddling, in a manner misliked.  
Martin's vain prose, Marre-Martin doth mislike,  
Reason (forsooth) for Martin seeks debate:  
Marre-Martin will not so; yet doth his patience strike:  
Last verse, first prose, conclude in one self hate:  
Both maintain strife, unfitting England's state.  
Martin, Marre-Martin, Barrow joined with Browne  
Show zeal: yet strive to pull Religion down.  
Printed with Authority.   

Mar Mar-martin.  

I Know not why a fruitless rhyme in print,  
May not as well with modesty be touched,  
As fruitless prose, since neither hath his stint,  
And either's doings cannot be avouched.  
Then if both rhyme and prose impugn the troth.  
How like you him likes neither of them both?   

Our Prelates, Martin saith, want skill and reason:  
Our Martinists, Mar-martin termeth Asses:  
The one, another doth accuse of treason,  
He passes best that by the gallows passes.  
Traitor, no traitor, here's such traitors striving,  
That Romish traitors now are set a thriving.   

While England falls a Martining and a marring,  
Religion fears, an utter overthrow.  
Whilst we at home among ourselves are jarring,  
Those seeds take root which foreign seeds men sow.  
If this be true, as true it is for certain,  
woe worth Martin Marprelate and Mar marten.   

On Whitsun even last at night,  
I dreaming saw a pretty sight,  
Three monsters in a halter tide,  
And one before, who seemed their guide.  
The foremost looked and looked again,  
As if he had not all his train:  
With that I asked that gaping man  
His name: my name (said he) is Lucian.  
This is a jesuite, quoth he,  
These Martin and Mar-martin be:  
I seek but now for Machyvell,  
And then we would be gone to hell.   

Two Books upon a table lay,  
For which two younkers went to play:  
They tripped a die and thus did make,  
Who threw the most, should both Books take.  
He that had Martin flung the furst,  
An Ass that was which was the worst.  
Mar-martins' master in the hast  
Hoped then to hit a better cast:  
And yet as cunning as he was,  
He could not fling above an Ass.  
Together by the ears they go,  
Which of the Asses gets the throw.   

The first upon his Ass would stand,  
He won it by the elder hand.  
Tush, quoth the second that's no matter,  
Mine was an ass, though mine the latter.  
And turning back he spoke to me,  
Who all this while this sport did see:  
Is't not a wonder, say of love,  
That none of us should fling above?  
No sir, quoth I, it were a wonder  
If either of you, had fling under.   

What sons? what fathers? Sons and fathers fight,  
Alas our welfare, and alas our health.  
What motes? what beams? & both displayed in writing,  
Alas the Church, alas the Common wealth.  
What, at this time? what, under such a Queen?  
Alas that still our fruit should be so green.   

What, wanton Calves? what, lost our former love?  
Alas our pride, alas our mutability.  
What, Christ at odds? what Serpents near a dove?  
Alas our rage, alas our inhumilitie.  
What, bitter taunts? what, lies in stead of preaching?  
Alas our heat, alas our need of teaching.   

Bear gracious Queen, Europa's matchless mirror:  
Bear noble Lords, renowned counsel givers:  
Bear Clergy men, for you must spy the error:  
Bear common people, common light believers:  
Bear jointly one another's weakness so,  
That though we wither, yet the Church may grow.   

If all be true that Lawyers say,  
The second blow doth make the fray:  
mar-martin's fault can be no less,  
Than martin's was which broke the peace.  
Martin, Marre-Martin, Barrow, Browne,  
All help to pull Religion down.   
FINIS.