"Justice does loudlie for hym calle, 65
And hee shalle have hys meede:
Speke, Maister CANYNGE! Whatte thynge else
Att present doe you neede?"
"My nobile leige!" goode CANYNGE sayde,
"Leave justice to our Godde, 70
And laye the yronne rule asyde;
Be thyne the olyve rodde."
"Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines,
The best were synners grete;
CHRIST'S vycarr only knowes ne synne, 75
Ynne alle thys mortall state."
"Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne,
'Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure;
From race to race thy familie
Alle sov'reigns shall endure." 80
"But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou
Beginne thy infante reigne,
Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows
Wylle never long remayne."
"CANYNGE, awaie! thys traytour vile 85
Has scorn'd my power and mee;
Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne
Intreate my clemencye?"
"My nobile leige! the trulie brave
Wylle val'rous actions prize, 90
Respect a brave and nobile mynde,
Altho' ynne enemies."
"CANYNGE, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n
Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve,
I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade 95
Whilst thys Syr CHARLES dothe lyve."
"By MARIE, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n,
Thys sunne shall be hys laste."
Thenne CANYNGE dropt a brinie teare,
And from the presence paste. 100
Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief,
Hee to Syr CHARLES dydd goe,
And satt hymm downe uponne a stoole,
And teares beganne to flowe.