¶ The brainless blessing of the Bull  
The horns, the heads and all,  
Light on their squint eyed skonses full  
That boweth their knees to Ball.   

The cankered curse that would consume this realm with wrack and ruin,  
Return to Rome with fire and fume, to bring the Pope in tune:  
If neither curse, nor blessing bore, may mend these parties throw,  
I then bequeath (cursed as they are) to Pluto's kingdom now.   

WAS never world so far from order's rule,  
That men durst speak such saucy words of Kings  
Nor never Pope so like an Ass or Mule,  
Or dunghill Cock to crow and clap his wings.  
Stand back good dogs, the Bull he leaps & flings  
He bleats and bleathes as he a baighting were,  
And foams at mouth, like Boar with bristled hear.  
A beastly sound, comes running from his paunch,  
He beats the ground with foot, with hip and haunch:  
As though hell gates should open at his call,  
And at his beck, the heavens high should fall.   

¶ O Satan's son, O Pope puffed up with pride,  
What makes thee claim the clouds where God doth dwell?  
When thou art known the glorious greedy guide  
That leads in pomp poor séelye souls to hell.  
The pump of ship hath not so fowl a smell  
As hath the smoke and fume that flames from thee,  
O graceless grace, O rotten hollow tree.  
The branches bud, but never bring forth leaves,  
Thy come is dead, when Reaper looks for sheaves:  
Thy gold is glass, and glistereth gay a while,  
Till trumpery comes, and makes the world to smile.   

¶ Who bade thee bliss? O Buzzarde blind of sight,  
Built God his church upon such clots of clay?  
Thou dost blaspheme thereby the GOD of might,  
And robbest with craft his honour clean away.  
Curse whom thou list, he better thrives that day,  
Bless whom thou wilt, and I dare gauge my head:  
For all thy charms, he brings a fool to bed.  
Book bell and size, are babbles fit for those  
That gape for flies, where Wasps and Hornets blows,  
The pardonies box, wherein thy relics lie,  
Doth smell like Fox, or Swine shut up in sty.   

¶ A Pope was wont to be an odious name  
Within our land, and scrapped out of our scrolls,  
And now the Pope is grown so far past shame  
That he can walk with open face in Paul's.  
Go home mad Bull to Rome, and pardon souls  
That pine away in Purgatory pains,  
Go triumph there, where credit most remains.  
Thy date is out in England long ago,  
For Ridley gave the Bull so great a blow  
He never durst apeach this land till now,  
In bulling time, he met with Hardyngs Cow.   

¶ A Calf or twain hath here been gotten since,  
Whose heads were sold of late in butcher row  
Come cheap calves heads, and bring in Peter pence,  
Though some are bought, our butchers look for more.  
For waltham's calves, to Tyburn needs must go  
To suck a bull, and meet a butcher's axe,  
The Shambles full is stuffed, with pretty knacks:  
As Goat, and Lamb, and Sheep of three score year,  
We have good hope, calves heads will not be dear  
If Hardyngs cow be bulled as she aught,  
calves heads enough for little will be bought.   

¶ The Pope doth naught, but practise mischief still,  
And lets his Bull run riot for his ease:  
But whiles his Calves are drawn up Holborn hill,  
Both Bull and Cow are safe beyond the seas.  
O that it might our holy father please  
To come himself, and hung but half an hour,  
With such poor friends as here maintain his power.  
I say no more, for fear the babes awake  
That hold with Pope, and hung for Hardyngs sake,  
Some knacks now lurks, that we shall know full plain,  
When Hoballes Ox bulls Hardyngs cow again.   

¶ I scorn to writ a vearce in any frame,  
To answer words that railed have so much  
Yet baighting often, may make a Bull so tame  
That every dog that comes, may have a twitch.  
I here protest, if that my power were such  
By pen or skill, to chaff the Bull at stake,  
I would be glad some further sport to make.  
But since I want the cunning and the art,  
To bait the beast, and play the Mastiffs part:  
Let this suffice to let you think in deed,  
I hate the Bull, and all the Romish breed.   
¶ FINIS.   

¶ Imprinted at S. Katherins beside the Tower of London, over against the Bear dance, by Alexander Lacie.