MELUN

Oh I am slain, Nobles, Salsbury, Pembroke, My soul is charged, hear me: for what I say Concerns the Peers of England, and their State. Listen, brave Lords, a fearful mourning tale To be delivered by a man of death. Behold these scars, the dole of bloody Mars Are harbingers from nature's common foe, Citing this trunk to Tellus prison house; Life's charter (Lordings) lasteth not and hour: And fearful thoughts, forerunners of my end, Bids me give physic to a sickly soul. Oh Peers of England, know you what you do? There's but a hair that sunders you from harm, The hook is baited, and the train is made, And simply you run doting to your death's. But lest I die, and leave my tale untold, With silence slaughtering so brave a crew. This I aver, if Lews win the day, There's not and Englishman that lifts his hand Against King John to plant the heir of France, But is already damned to cruel death. I herd it vowed; my self amongst the rest Swore on the Altar aid to this Edict. Two causes Lords, makes me display this drift, The greatest for the freedom of my soul, That longs to leave this mansion free from gilded: The other on a natural instinct, For that my Grandsire was and Englishman. Misdoubt not Lords the truth of my discourse, No frenzy, nor no brainsick idle fit, But well advised, and wotting what I say, Pronounce I here before the face of heaven, That nothing is discovered but a truth. 'Tis time to fly, submit your selves to John, The smiles of France shade in the frowns of death, Lift up your swords, turn face against the French, Expel the yoke that's framed for your necks. Back warremen, back, imbowell not the climb, Your seat, your nurse, your birth days breathing place, That bred you, bears you, brought you up in arms. Ah! be not so ingrate to dig your mother's graven, Preserve your lambs and beat away the wolf. My soul hath said, contritions penitence Lays hold on men redemption for my sin. Farewell my Lords; witness my faith when we are met in heaven, And for my kindness give me graven room here. My soul does fleet, world's vanities farewell. Lord Cardinal, by Lews princely leave, It can be nought but usurpation In thee, the Pope, and all the Church of Room, Thus to insult on Kings of Christendom, Now with a word to make them carry arms, Then with a word to make them leave their arms. This must not be: Prince Lews keep thine own, Let Pope and Popelings curse their bellies full. Trust me my Lord, right well have you and uisde, Venom for use, but never for a sport Is to be dallied with, lest it infect. Were you instald, as soon I hope you shall: Be free from traitors, and dispatch them all. Indeed my Lord, they that infringe their oaths, And play the Rebels gainst their native King, Will for as little cause revolt from you, If ever opportunity incite them so: For once forsworn, and never after found, There's no affiance after perjury.