The up cheringe of the mess: In printed at London by John day and William Seres.   

Who hath not known or herd  
how we were made a feared  
That maugre of our beard  
Our mess should clean away  
That we did daily say  
And utterly decay  
For ever and for aye  
So were we brought in doubt  
That all that are devout  
Were like to go without  
The mess that hath no peer  
Which long hath tarried here  
Yea many an hundredth year  
And to be destitute  
Of that which constitute  
was of the high depute  
Of Christ and his apostles  
Although none of the Gospels  
No mention maketh or tells  
We must believe what else?  
Of things done by councils.  
Wherein the high professors  
Apostlique successors  
Take hold to be possessors  
And some were made confessors  
Some of them were no startars  
But were made holy martyrs  
Yet plowmen smiths & cartars  
With such as be their hartars  
Will enterprise to tax  
Thes ancient men's acts  
And holy father's facts  
Though mess were made by men  
As pope's nine or ten  
Or many more what then?  
Or not of scripture grounded  
Is it therefore confounded  
To be a superstition?  
Nay nay they miss the quission  
Make better inquisition  
Ye have an evil condition  
To make such exposition  
Ye think nothing but scripture  
Is only clean and pure  
Yes yes I you ensure  
The mess shallbe her better  
As light as ye do set her  
The scripture hath nothing  
Where by profit to bring  
But a little preaching  
With tattling and teaching  
And nothing can ye espy  
Nor see with outward eye  
But must your ears apply  
To learning inwardly  
And who so it will follow  
In goods though he may wallow  
If scripture once him swallow  
She will undo him hollow  
Wherefore no good mes singers  
Will come within her fingers  
But are her under styngers  
For she would fain undo  
All such as liveth so  
To the mess she is an enemy  
And would destroy her utterly  
Were not for sum that frendfully  
In time of need will stand her by  
Yet is the mess and she as like  
As a christian to an heretic  
The mess hath holy vestures  
And many gay gestures  
And decked with cloth of gold  
And vessels many fold  
Right gallant to behold  
More than may well be told  
With basin ewer and to well  
And many a pretty Iwelle  
With goodly candellstyckes  
And many proper tryckies  
With cruetts gilded, and chalice  
Whereat some men have malice  
With sensers and with pax  
And many other knackys  
With patent and with corporas  
The finest thing that ever was  
Alas is it not pity  
That men be no more witty  
But on the mess to Jest  
Of all such thing the best  
For if she were suppressed  
A pin for all the rest.  
But hark to me a while  
And mark ye well my style  
All ye that speak so vile  
And would the mess exile  
Tidings I can you tell  
She is like here to dwell  
In despite of the Gospel  
For all his looks so snel  
And also I will prove  
It will the Gospel behove  
To sue to have her love  
For within few years  
He durst not for his ears  
Be seen in all this land  
Nor hard nor had in hand  
But she had by him stand  
He was her servant than  
Let him say what he can  
With him durst no man  
Meddle more or less  
But when he hard mess  
This must he needs confess  
Or eyes in expositions  
Or doctors dispuitions  
Such were the constitutions  
And also institutions  
Such were their prohibitions  
And also inhibitions  
He durst not cry creak  
Till he could english speak  
But like an huddy peak  
Keep warm his brains weak  
And now he is full crank  
And conneth her no thank  
But counteth her as rank  
As any on the bank  
But master evangelium  
The time again may come  
But well there mum  
Ha, Ha, Hum.  
Well yet there be some  
That are not all dumb  
That long hath hold their peace  
And were content to cease  
lest malice should increase  
To fry them in their grease  
And now they be turned lose  
They pass not of a goose  
To say the worst they can  
By mess the power woman  
What did I call her poor?  
Nay some will call her whore  
And stireth a great uproar  
Some call her pope's daughter  
Some says she made manslauhgter  
Some turn her to alaughte:  
Some would they had not sought her  
Some curseth him that brought her  
And him that first taught her  
Some say she is a leech  
To make whole scabes & bleache  
Some say she is good for biles  
And good for hum bledheles  
And good for cow or Ox  
That chafid be with yockes  
And good for hens and cocks  
To keep them from the fox  
They say she is good for the pox  
And such as have sore docks  
And as for gaulde horse backs  
That chased be with packs  
With panyers and with sacks  
No help they say she lacks  
And good for meselde hogs  
And also maungye dogs  
But for a Winchester gosling  
They say she passeth all thing  
She bringeth wether clear  
And seasonable year  
And if it need again  
They say she bringeth rain  
She seaceth thunder loud  
And carrieth every cloud  
They say the plague and pestilence  
The fever and the epilence  
The popish mess expelleth hence  
And grass she maketh grow  
And fair wind to blow  
And rule it high and low  
Her power is great I trow  
And some say weeds & thorns  
She keepeth from the corns  
And yet some mocks & scorns  
And say her priests make horns  
On evenings and in morns  
Thus do they her defame  
And slander her good name  
Wherein they be to blame  
For I can good witness fet  
That she never holp on yet  
Thus they speak and spare not  
And what they prate they care not  
For loudly do they sound  
That missa is not found  
Within the bible book  
Who so thereon shall look  
And yet they be a croak  
Amiss the mark they took  
There shall ye find misach  
A well, how like ye this knack?  
Wherefore look about  
And search in and out  
For she is no lout  
I put you out of doubt  
She is not clean forsaken  
But very well taken  
Yea yea be lakin  
She is worth a flicke of baco  
And if it be well sought  
She will not so be bought  
Yet may ye see her for nought  
In many holy places  
Within a few paces  
An holy holy thing  
Especially when they sing  
With merry piping  
And busy chanting  
We may be veri glade  
That yet the mess is had  
For all it is so bad  
The people be as mad  
As ever they may be  
The mess to here and see  
Auengaunce on it for me  
For I am all most weary  
I have taken such pain  
To bring her home again  
Wherefore now totus mundus  
That round is and rotundus  
Be merry and Jocundus  
And sing the letabundus  
With all the whole chorus  
That here hath been before us  
And all the silly souls  
That heareth mess in Paul'S  
And in all places beside  
In london that is wide  
Where mess is song or said  
And be nothing affraed  
That she shall go away  
But tarry while she may  
For she must long continue  
She hath such great retinue  
Strong men of bone and sinew  
Ye can no better wish  
They will stick to their stochfish  
And stand like lusty bloods  
Aduenturinge life and goods  
And all to put in peril  
For masters missas quarrel  
And nothing will they shrink  
No more then for to drink  
To spoke such as they think  
No no they will not wink  
At matters to be seen  
Nor let for king or qnene  
Ye guess near whom I mean  
Yet is it said I ween  
He carried not all clean  
Yet hath he bolder been  
Then other fourteen  
Wherefore he may be praised  
That such a noise is raised  
And thorough England voysed  
That he would be so hardy  
Though he were taken tardy  
He thought or he went thence  
To declare his consciens  
A man of much sapience  
And full of goodly sentence  
Well like to win the audience  
By his copious Eloquence  
If well he might enchieved  
For many men believed  
That he could have removed  
And won by his intent  
All that there were present  
Alack they were not bend  
To grant or to consent  
To such things as he meant  
He talked that religions  
With all their pretty pigeons  
For good intent were wrought  
God wotteth what he thought  
He spoke it not for nought  
Though scripture he ne brought  
But if he would have sought  
He could have proved it there  
Or a horse could like his ear  
That taking away the ill  
They might have stand still  
And in like case by Images  
And all manner of ceremonies  
But tush let go thes babbles  
And all these fible fables  
The mess he did advance  
And highly her enhance  
To be so such perfection  
As needeth no correction  
Nor yet to have infection  
For all her late detection  
Nor worthy of suspection  
So clear is her confection  
And pureness of complexion  
By catholic election  
She seems to take erection  
Above the resurrection  
Nor never was his lot  
In her so spy a spot  
But clean from blur and blot  
He loveth her well, god wots  
There can no drunken sot  
Love more the good ale pot  
I dare say at this hour  
Though he be in the tower  
Yet doth he still honour  
The mess that sweet a flower  
Wherefore ye priests all  
That still continue shall  
With messinge in the temple  
Forget not this example  
Of this your father  
That ye may the rather  
Obtain the grace  
To come to the place  
Where he doth abide  
And look ye do not slide  
But stick to her hard  
Or else all is marred  
And when ye may not choose  
Then must ye her refuse  
There willbe heavy news  
As ever came to the stews  
The country is not fair  
And she liketh not the air  
Wherefore if she appair  
Needs home she must repair  
There is no such remedy  
As is her native country  
And if she chance to die  
I can not help it I  
But sing place bo  
Tut let her go  
I ween we get no more  
A good mestres missa  
Shall ye go from us thissa▪  
well yet I must ye kyssa  
Alack for pain I pyssa  
To see the moan here Issa  
Because ye must depart  
It grieveth many an heart  
That ye should from them start  
But what then tush a fart  
Sins other shift is none  
But she must needs be gone  
Now let us sing each one  
both Jak and gill and Joan  
Requiem eternam  
Lest penam sempiternam  
For vitam supernam  
And umbram infernam  
For veram lucernam  
She chance to inherit  
According to her merit  
Pro cuius memoria  
Ye may well be soria  
Full small may be your gloria  
When ye shall hear this storia  
Then will ye cry and roria  
We shall so her no moria  
Et dicam vobis quare  
She may no longer stare  
Nor here with you regnare  
But trudge ad ultra mare  
And after habitare  
In regno plutonico  
Et E●o acronyco  
Cum cetu babilonico  
Et cantu diabolico  
With pollers and p●iller  
And all her well willers  
And there to dwell ever  
And thus will I leave her.  
FINIS.