A letter to Rome, to declare to the Pope,  
john Felton his friend is hanged in a rope:  
And farther, a right his grace to inform,  
He died a Papist, and seemed not to turn.   
To the tune of Row well ye Mariners.  

WHo keeps Saint Angel gates?  
Where lieth our holy father say?  
I muse that no man waits,  
Nor comes to meet me on the way.  
Sir Pope I say? if you be near,  
Bow down to me your listening ear:  
Come forth, bestir you then a pace,  
Foyes I have news to show your grace.  
Stay not, come on,  
That I from hence were shortly gone:  
Hark well, hear me,  
What tidings I have brought to thee   

❧ The Bull so lately sent  
To England by your holy grace,  
john Felton may repent  
For setting up the same in place:  
For he upon a goodly zeal  
He bore unto your common weal  
Hath ventured life to pleasure you,  
And now is hanged, I tell you true.  
Wherefore, sir Pope,  
In England have you lost your hope.  
Curse on, spare not,  
Your knights are like to go to pot.   

¶ But further to declare,  
He died your obedient child:  
And never seemed to spare,  
For to exalt your doctrine wild:  
And told the people every one  
He died your obedient son  
And as he might, he did set forth,  
Your dignity that's nothing worth.  
Your trash, your toys,  
He took to be his only joys:  
Therefore, hath won,  
Of you the crown of martyrdom.   

¶ Let him be shrined then  
According to his merits due,  
As you have others do  
That prove unto their Prince untrue:  
For these (sir Pope) you love of life,  
That with their Princes fall at strife:  
Defending of your supreme power,  
Yet some have paid full dear therefore.  
As now, lately,  
Your friend john Felton seemed to try  
Therefore, I pray,  
That you a mass for him will say.   

¶ King all the bells in Rome  
To do his sinful soul some good,  
Let that be done right soon  
Because that he hath shed his blood,  
His quarters stand not all together  
But ye may hap to ring them thither  
In place where you would have them be  
Then might you do as pleaseth ye.  
For why? they hung,  
Vnshryned each one upon a stang:  
Thus stands, the case,  
On London gates they have a place.   

¶ His head upon a pole  
Stands wavering in the wherling wind,  
But where should be his soul  
To you belongeth for to find:  
I wish you Purgatory look  
And search each corner with your hook,  
Jest it might chance or you be ware  
The devils to catce him in a snare.  
If ye, him see,  
From Purgatory set him free:  
Let not, trudge than,  
Fetch Felton out and if ye can.   

¶ I wish you now sir Pope  
To look unto your faithful friends,  
That in your Bulls have hope  
To have your pardon for their sins,  
For here I tell you, every Lad  
Doth scoff & scorn your bulls to bad,  
And think they shall the better fare  
For hating of your cursed ware.  
Now do, I end,  
I came to show you as a friend:  
Whether bless, or curse,  
You sand to me, I am not the worse.   
Steven Peele.  
¶ FINIS.   

¶ Imprinted by Alexander Lacie for Henry Kyrkham, dwelling at the sign of the black Boy: at the middle North door of Paul's church.  
¶ * ¶