A Lawde and Prayse Made for Our Souereigne Lord the Kyng

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 souereine 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
[x] That Right dwelt vs 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 ouerbace,
That wont wer ouer 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,
[xi] Our paves, our succour,
Our king, our emperour,
Our Priamus of Troy,
Our welth, our worldly joy;

Vpon vs he doth reigne,
That makith our hartis glad,
As king moost soueraine
That ever Englond had;
Demure, sober, and sad,
And Martis lusty knight;
God save him in his right!

Amen.

Bien men souient.

Per me laurigerum Britonum Skeltonida vatem.