A Lamentation from Rome, how the Pope doth bewail,  
That the Rebels in England can not prevail,   
To the tune of Row well ye Mariners.  
 

ALl you that news would here,  
give ear to me poor Fabyn Fly,  
At Rome I was this year,  
And in the Pope his nose did lie,  
But there I could not long abide,  
He blew me out of every side:  
For furst when he had hard the news,  
That Rebels did their Prince misuse,  
Then he with joy,  
Did sport himself with many a toy,  
he then so stout,  
From that his nose he blew me out.   

¶ But as he was a sleep,  
Into the same again I good:  
I crept there in so deep,  
That I had almost burnt my coote,  
New news to him was brought that night.  
The Rebels they wear put to flight,  
But Lord how then the Pope took one,  
And called for a Mary bone,  
up howgh make haste:  
My lovers all be like to waste,  
tyse Cardinal, up priest,  
Saint Peter he doth what he jest.   

¶ So than they fell to Mess,  
The Friars one their Beads did pray,  
The Pope began to bless,  
At last he weist not what to say.  
It chanced so the next day morn,  
A Post came blowing of his Horn,  
Saying Northomberland is take,  
But then the Pope began to quake.  
he than rubbed nose,  
With Pilgrome salve be anoint his hose,  
run here, run there,  
His nails for anger 'gan to pair.   

☞ Not Northomberland alone,  
But many of his wicked aid:  
Such as thought not to groan,  
They hoped well for to aplayd,  
There parts to have there hearts desire,  
But now is quenched there flames of fire,  
The greatest and the mean beside,  
With other youths fast bound must ride,  
Catch fast, keep well,  
There youthful blood they long to cell,  
trust this dear Pope,  
what is it than wherefore ye hope.   

¶ When he perceived well,  
The news was true to him was brought,  
Upon his knees he fell,  
And then S. Peter he be sought,  
That he would stand his friend in this,  
To help to aid those servants his,  
And he would do as much for him,  
But Peter sent him to Saint Simme.   

So then he snuffed,  
the Friars all about he cuffed,  
He roared he cried,  
the priests they durst not once abide.   

❀ The Cardnalles they begins,  
To stay and take him in there arm,  
He spurned them on the shins,  
Away the trudgd for fear of harm.  
So there the pope was left alone,  
Good Lord how he did make his moan,  
The Stools against the Walls he threw,  
And me out of his nose he blue.  
I hoped I skipped,  
From place to place about I whipped,  
he swore he tare,  
Till from his Crown he polled the hear.   

¶ He coursed me so about,  
In the house I conld find no room,  
Loath I was to go out,  
And shrined myself under a Brome.  
Then by and by down he was set,  
with anger he was one a sweat,  
He rubbed his elbow on the Wall,  
So fell a railing on Saint Paul.  
Fie fie blood heart,  
He scratchde himself till he did smart▪  
poll nose rub eye,  
Grash the teth draw mouth awry.   

¶ He wept and wrong his hands,  
yea worse and worse began to fret:  
Thus radging still he stands,  
than out at door I did me get,  
I was not sooner gone from thence,  
But worse and worse was his pretence,  
The post he plucked from the house,  
he left no harbour for a Mouse,  
thus now the pope's mad.  
Because no better luck they had,  
forlorn molest,  
that they so ill their meat digest.   

¶ When I had viewed all,  
To bring this news my wings I spread,  
to this parplict he is fall.  
I wish some would go hold his head.  
For certainly he doth ill fare,  
yet for the same I do not care,  
For God his power will convince,  
And aid with right his beloved prince.  
then Pope raged thou,  
The God in heaven hath made a vow,  
to keep all his,  
That God is just our stay he is.   
 
qd. Thomas Preston.  
Finis.   

Imprinted at London, in Fleetstreet at the sign of the Falcon by William Gryffith, and are to be sold at his shop in saint Dunston's Churchyard. 1570.