Of A Fryer And A Marryner Poem by Nicholas Bacon

Once in stormes greate
A shippe was beate
Soe sore with tempestes rage
That naughte was able
Ancre nor Cable
The daunger to assuage.

The shippemenne weare
Strycken by feare,
With faruente deuotyon
They cryed, Alas,
Their ill lyfe was
The cause of godds motyon.

Amongeste this sorte
To their comforte
A Frier ther was douteles
Whoe willed them all
On knees to fall
And strayte their sinnes confesse.

For as he sayde
Heuyer then leade
The Prophett callethe synne,
A Corke vnmeete
Here in the deepe
To carye when we swyme.

To be confessed
Eache man strayte pressed:
The Fryer was thorowelye wroughte,
Confessinge menne,
Absolueinge them,
Soe muche a calme they soughte.

But when they spyed
And had well tryed
Noe calme thereby to growe,
But surges hye
Soe rageingelye
Their shippe did ouerflowe,

Strayte waye quothe one,
Maruell is none
Thoughe water come herein,
Seinges your shippe
Ys laden yet
With the wayghte of our sinne.

This Fryer lett take,
Within whose pate
Our sinnes remayne this daye,
And caste him oute,
Whoe withoute doute
Shall carye it cleane awaye.

They allowed this,
The Fryer take is
And caste into the streame:
Then in their sighte
The shippe sayled lighte,
Or else they did soe dreame.