The mass Priests Lamentation, FOR 
The strange alteration, Begun in this Nation  
Wherefore he makes great mone,  
And sings O hone O hone.  The Tune is poor shone  


SAint Peters Seat,  
Is in a sweat,  
Alas,  
Alas,  
The triple crown  
Is tumbled down,  
Adue dear mass.  
Never shall I sipp  
On Nuns cherry lipp,  
A halter or a whip,  
is my doom,  
Made of Scottish broom,  
To swéepe us all to Rome,  
O hone,  
O hone.   

Woe is me,  
This time to see,  
Alas,  
Alas,  
A Puritan,  
The onely man,  
will put down mass.  
I fast, and I pray,  
But my Beads the● take away  
and say I go astray,  
from the Truth.  
●here is none will me relieve,  
●herfore now must I grieve.  
O hone,  
O hone.   

The Papists fine,  
With me did join  
Alas,  
Alas.  
While there was hope,  
The new Pope,  
would set up mass:  
But now he is down,  
We all begin to froune,  
which makes me in a swoon  
thus to faint.  
O help me some dear Saint,  
And hear my sad complaint.  
O hone,  
O hone.   

Me Papist poor,  
turned out of door,  
Alas,  
Alas  
And holy friar,  
Is in the mire  
farewell dear mass,  
For now all Priest,  
Banished thou seest,  
all pray to Criest,  
none to Mary.  
To custom quiter contrary  
That here him will not tarry.  
O hone,  
O hone.    

The second part, to the same tune.  

S●me unknown voyage,  
A Pilgrimage,  
Alas,  
Alas.  
Through places strange,  
Now must I range,  
to find out mass:  
So till I come,  
quiter unto Rome  
Fortune at home,  
will not flatter,  
Nor suffer Holy-water:  
Which wee on brows did scatter  
O hone,  
O hone.   

The time is spent,  
I shalbe shent,  
Alas,  
Alas.  
If héere I stay,  
On Beads to pray,  
and red more mass.  
If I recant,  
turn Protestant.  
no Pardon grant  
will the Pope.  
Then shall I want such hope,  
If I Religion cope.  
O hone,  
O hone.   

St. Marys Creed,  
Be my good speed,  
Alas,  
Alas.  
Where should I run,  
This scourge to shun.  
Adue dear mass  
time with his whip,  
makes me to skip,  
Where should I slip,  
me to hid  
For such as mass deride,  
they can not me abide  
O hone,  
O hone.   

Very sick,  
Is catholic  
Alas,  
Alas.  
The Parliament,  
Is fully bent,  
to put down mass  
jesuit and friar  
hang in the briar  
Like Dun in the mire  
well-aday.  
And those that were my stay  
Must hang, or run away  
O hone,  
O hone.     

London, printed for Richard Burton. at the sign of the Horshoe in Smithfield. 1641.