Rueful Complaint of the Public Weal to England, A

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¶A Ruful complaynt of the publyke weale to Englande.

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¶ Publyke_weale speaketh

AH moste noble realme of England

Thy state I sore lamente

Now knowing how thou dost stand

It makes my hart dolente

Thou hast ben the worthyest lande

That euer god / hath wrought

Thou art not so I vnderstande

Into myserye arte thou brought

The cronacles of the / doth saye

Whych knew the in thy youthe

That of thy welth thou dost decaye

And hath of the moche ruthe

In thy fyrst age / it was not so

Thy force then was well knowen

For thy strong arme gaue suche a bloo

To the worlde thy fayme was blowen

Now be thy people wythouten harte

To se the in thys case

Beynge so weake / to take thy parte

Straungers / to come alas

Let me se / what is the cause

That thou art in thys dystresse

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Was euer realme / had better lawes

Or people in more Quietenes

Haste not thou / the godlyest kynge

That euer ruled publyke weale

The worthiest gouernour in euery-thynge

And the most mercyfullyst counsayle

Is not goddes worde devulgated

And in all partes now knowen

That al people / may be learned

To lyue and know theyr owne

That therby loue and amytye

May dwell in euery place

Iustyce peace and equytie

Shulde all mens hart enbrace

Why then art thou altered

And fallen from thyne estate

Declare me howe thou art decayed

And brought vnto thys rate.

¶ England aunswereth.

Alas I am so sore oppreste

Wyth sorowe griefe and payne

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That wythout teares can be expreste

The wronge whych I sustayne

What natural wold not wepe

To se my carefull state

My people they be turned to s[h]epe shepe] slepe 1550

And my townes they be desolate

My groundes they be imparked

Corne-feldes for beastes foode

Poore by the ryche / are so pynched

That of my ground / they take no good.

For all that / is lytle ynoughe

For onely the ryche mans nead

To make pasture / awaye wyth ploughe

That they maye cattel fead

And commens of auncient tyme

They make [Seu]erall landes Seuerall] Generall 1550

And close it in / wyth dyche and lyne

That poore men wringe theyr handes

Hauyng not to feade hys kowe

Hys horse nether hys shepe

Nor no ground / to reare hys sowe

Or other cattell vpon to kepe

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Thus the multitude be decayed

The stronge deuoure the weake

The poore beynge thys dysmayed

Dare not for theyr own speake

My welth is turned / to wretchednes

Plenteth is pynched to spare

My strength is turned to weakenes

My cytyes be voyde and bare.

My townes and castels in Ruyne

My feldes enclosed they be

The plowes now they sowe so thynne

That ruth it is for to see

The ryche casteth out theyr nette

And taketh all that comes

The neady walke in the strete

And begge about for cromes.

Suche offices / as heretofore

Apparteyned / to the yomans ryght

Be taken awaye they get no more

And geuen to Lorde or knyght

Marchauntes / they become lordes

And Lordes vseth / marchaundyse

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A lorde a sheppard / nothyng accordes

Or a graysyer / that is new gyse

Ryche men lyue by vserye

Craftes-men / by dysceate

And vyttelers / by subtiltye

Poore mens goodes to get

What thyng is it / that can fall

But it commeth vnto theyr handes

They be so gready / they katch vp all

Whether it be house or landes

And all my other comodities

As leather / wolle / and leade

Tallow / tyn / and clothes

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Be from the commons fleade

And caryed into straunge landes

Other regyons for to enryche

So that my people haue Idle handes

And for neade fall in the dyche.

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For euery man seaketh his owne

And for others doth not care

That he may lyue in welth alone

Yea though other be neuer so bare

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Thus is the multytude

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Of theyr lyuynges destytute

And so decayeth my fortytude

Whych made my enemyes mewte

Al_though goddes word be exhybyt

Abrode in all my lande

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Yet fewe or none applye ther wytte

Gods wyll to vnderstande

But followeth theyr olde entent

And scrache vp all they can

Pluckynge from the innocent

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To make theym a ryche man

Thus pouertie is vsed god wote

That petye it is to beholde

They byte on hym lyke the knate

Tyll he be naked for colde

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Now haue I tolde the / the cause why

That my welth is so sore worne

That yf ther be / found no remedy

They shall rew it / not yet borne.

¶Two fautes escaped by the prynter, where ye rede slepe, rede shepe, and where ye rede general, rede seueral

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¶ Publyke_weale answereth

Wold it not make / any hart breake

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Thys to here of Englandes fall

Some good man / for the commons speake

That ryche men marre not all.

God saue Edward our kyng

And hys counsellers so worthye

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And send theym grace / to help thys thinge

For the weale of the communaltye

¶Imprinted at London By Thomas_Raynald.