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The rose both white and rede
In one rose now dothe grow;
Thus thorow every stede
Thereof the fame dothe blow,
Grace the sede did sow.
England, now gaddir flowris,
Exclude now all dolowrs.
Noble Henry the eight,
Thy loving sovereine lorde,
Of kingis line moost streight,
His titille dothe recorde;
In whome dothe wele acorde
Alexis yonge of age,
Adrastus wise and sage.
Astrea, justice hight,
That from the starry sky
Shall now com and do right,
This hunderd yere scantly
A man kowd not aspy
That right dwelt us among,
And that was the more wrong.
Right shall the foxis chare,The wolvis, the beris also,That wrowght have moche care,And browght Englond in wo;
They shall wirry no mo,
Nor wrote the rosary
By extort trechery.
Of this our noble king
The law they shall not breke;
They shall com to rekening,
No man for them wil speke.
The pepil durst not creke
Theire grevis to complaine;
They browght them in soche paine.
Therfor no more they shall
The commouns overbace,
That wont wer over all
Both lorde and knight to face;
For now the yeris of grace
And welthe ar com agayne,
That maketh England faine.
Adonis of freshe colour,
Of yowthe the godely flour,
Our prince of high honour,
Our paves, our succour,
Our king, our emperour,
Our Priamus of Troy,
Our welth, our worldly joy.
Upon us he doth reigne
That makith our hartis glad,
As king moost soveraine
That ever Englond had;
Demure, sober, and sad,
And Martis lusty knight;
God save him in his right!
Amen.
Bien men sovient.
Deo (21) gracias
Per me laurigerum Britonum Skeltonida vatem.
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