A paumflet compyled by G.C. to master Smyth and Wyllyam G. prayenge them both for the loue of our Lorde, to growe at last to an honest accorde.

A Paumflet compyled by G. C. To maſter Smyth and Wyllyam G. Prayenge them both, for the loue of our Lorde, To growe at laſt to an honeſt accorde. THe fyneſt wyt that is alyue Cannot deuyſe by tunge nor pen The ſpytefull malyce to deſcryue That reygneth now i dyuerſe mē We maye perceyue by them that ſtryue For caſtynge out a carde of ten That charyte is ſet at nought So reygneth malyce in mannes thought. Whych thynge doth force me thus to wryte Concernynge the vncharyte Of two that nowe with hatefull ſpyte Do blame eche other openly To none of bothe I owe deſpyte Ner this is none Apology For nether parte: but ſtryfe to ſtent Is grounde of all myne argument. The ſtryfe I ſpeake of, is betwyxt One maſter Smyth & Wyllyam G. Theyr wrytynges are confuſely myxt With bytynge wordes, and vylany In eche of them, a wyll is fyxt To maynteyne ſtyll his vanyte Which hath a very feble grounde Wherwith his enemy to confounde. All this began, fyrſt by a knaue I wote not who, that wrote a trolle Wherin he dyd but rage and raue He knewe full lytle of ſaynt Poule Which wrytte the loue that men ſhuld haue And for one dyd thys trolle controlle Lo maſter Smyth a boke hath pende This tryflynge troller to defende. Some ſaye, it was for flatterye And ſome do ſaye, it was for mede For to aduaunce him ſelfe therby Such men (they ſaye) do ſooneſt ſpede That leaſt can ſkyll of modeſty But what he meant, therby in dede If I ſhall iudge, as I do take it Naught but malyce, made him make it. For thorow out his raylyng booke Of charyte no worde is ſpoken Tyll all his malyce purpoſe tooke For malyce, forthwith wylbe wroken And whoſo lyſt therin to looke Maye iudge him well, by his owne token A raylynge knaue, for to defende Is, in no wyſe man to commende. If maſter Smyth had marked well The purpoſe of that foolyſhe dawe Which trolde vpon the Lorde Crumwell Wyth ragged ryme, not worth a ſtrawe He myght haue founde that wretch rebell Both ageynſt God, and all good lawe And not haue blamed Wyllyam G. For blamynge his vncharyte. But when W. G. dyd fele the prycke So threattyng and malycious I wonder not though he dyd kycke For why, it was too ſclaunderous And for the kycke, was ſomwhat quycke Lo, he agayne as enuyous A teſty aunſwere ſtrayte dyd wryte With checke for checke, & ſpyte for ſpyte. But of this ſtryfe, the chefe effect That maynteyned is ſo knappyſhly Is ryſen by the great ſuſpect Of popyſhnes and hereſye One ſayth the other is infecte With ſuch a ſpyce of knauery I wyll not iudge, which it ſhulde be But bothe theyr wrytynges are to ſe. Theſe ſortes are both to dyſcommende In any man, where they be founde For papiſtes do nought els pretende But Chriſtes glorye to confounde And Heretykes, God them amende Haue but a very feble grounde If that they preache, that is forbod Or dyffer from the worde of God. For hereſye is nothynge elles But ſwaruyng from the true belefe As holy wrytte expreſly telles And he is worſe then any thefe That thereagaynſt in ought rebelles Or he that ſeketh his relefe Of falſe goddes, and not of Chriſt Is no les▪ then an Antechriſt. But he that hathe a popyſhe harte And wyll not vnto Chriſt be wonne He ſeekyth not, but to ſubuert All that the kynge hathe well begonne No reaſon maye hys wyll conuert But he wyll do, as he hathe done Wyth tothe and nayle, for to vpholde Hys blynde belefe, and errors olde. I wryte not thys, meanyng therbye That maſter Smyth is of that ſorte Ner I iudge not that willyam G. Is ſoche as Smyth dothe hym reporte But wryte my mynde wyth charyte The partyes bothe for to exhorte That he that fyndes hym in the cryme May fyrſt recante, hys raylynge ryme. But thys is for to dyſcommende In maſter Smyth aboue althynge That he ſo raſhlye wolde defende A braynles buz, in hys wrytynge And afterwarde ſtyll forth contende Wyth malyce, and wyth threatenyng Agaynſt that poore man wylliam G. Farre from all godlye charyte. Wreſtyng the ſcriptures as hym lyſt For his owne purpoſe out of frame But he that ſtryfe doth ſo reſyſt That perfect worde, he doth defame Wherin our helth doth whole conſyſt For that is it, the very ſame That teacheth vs the loue and drede To God and to the Kynge our hede. Perchaunce yt Smyth wyll take it yll That I iudge him ſo openly No force for that, it ſhall not ſkyll For he is knowen ſuffyciently But I proteſt, that in my wyll I meane nothynge malycyouſly But yet men muſt, for all his heate Repute him hotte, that ſee him ſweate. Lykewyſe the other dyd offende Wyth wrytyng ſo impacientlye For that is no waye to amende An harte that cankers inwardly But he his cauſe, ſhulde ſtyll defende Wyth mekenes and wyth charyte And not wyth malyce nor deſpyght But ſuffer mekely wronge and ryght Euyn as the Goſpell dothe vs teache Whych is oure chefe profeſſion For Paule hym ſelfe dyd alwaye preache That, for the chefe confeſſion Of chriſten heartes, to make thē ſtretche Theyr fayth vnto Chriſts paſſyon The only entry into healthe All other entryes are but ſtealth. Lo, thus I fynde them both to blame Wyſhynge to eche with all myne heart An honeſt mendement, wythout ſhame And praye to Chriſt that he conuert Oure iudgementes all into ſuch frame That they and we, in euery parte Wythouten grudge, debate or grefe Maye fyrmly ſtande in one belefe. Whych teacheth vs to loue and dread Hym that hathe power vnder God I mean the kynge that is our head That here in earth doth beare the rod Of true iuſtyce in Chryſtes ſteade▪ By precyſe wordes we be forbod Hym to wythſtande, or to wythſaye In euery cauſe we muſt obaye. For whome, as for our only guyde Oure greateſt helpe and chefeſt ſtaye That daylye doth for vs prouyde To ſaue vs ſounde wythout decaye In warre and peace on euery ſyde Wyth one accorde let vs all praye To ſende hys grace, vs here amonge Honour, encreaſe, good lyfe and longe. God ſaue the kynge.