es nor giftis ware thought to have bene,
begane plainlie to paynt the same furth to the people; as this Ryme,
which here we have inserted for the same purpose, maid by ALEXANDER ERLE
OF GLENCARNE,[173] yitt alyve, can witnesse, intitulat,

ANE EPISTLE DIRECT FRA THE HOLYE ARMITE OF ALLARIT,[174] TO HIS
BRETHEREN THE GRAY FREIRES.

I, THOMAS, Armite in Larite,
Sainet Frances brether[175] hartlie greit,

Beseiking yow with ferme[176] intent,
To be walkryfe and diligent;
For thir Lutherians, rissen of new,
Our Ordour daylie dois persew:
Thay smaikis do sett their haill intent,
To reid this English New Testament;
And sayes, We have thame clene disceavit.
Therefore, in haist, they man be stoppit.[177]
Our stait hypocrisie they prysse,
And us blaspheamis on this wyse,
Sayand, That we are heretikes,
And fals, loud, liand, mastif tykes;
Cumerars and quellars of Christes kirk,
Sueir swongeouris[178] that will not wirk,
But ydlelie our living wynnes,
Devouring woulves into sheip skynnes,
Hurkland with huides into our neck,
Wyth Judas mynd to jouck and beck,
Seikand Christes peple to devoir,
The down thringars of God his[179] glore,
Professouris of hipocrisie,
And doctouris in idolatrie,
Stout fyschares with the Feindis nett,
The upclosars of Heavins yett,
Cankcarit corruptars of the Creid,
Homlok sawares amangest good seid,
To trow in traytouris, that do men tyiste,
The hie way kennand thame fra Chryst,
Monstouris with the Beast his mark,
Dogges that never stintes to bark,
Kirk men that are with[180] Christ unkend,
A sect that Sathane self hes send,

Lurkand in holes, lyke traytour toddes,
Mantenaris of idoles and false goddes,
Fantastik fooles and feynzeit fleachearis,
To turne fra the treuth[181] the verie teachearis.
For to declair thair haill sentence,
Wald mekle cummer your conscience.
Thay say your fayth it is sa stark,
Your cord and lowsie coit and sark,
Ye lippin, may bring yow to salvatioun,
And quyte excludes Christ his passioun.
I dreid this doctryne, yf it last,
Sall either gar us wirk or fast;
Therfor, with speid we mon provyde,
And not our proffit to oureslyde.
I schaip my selfe, within schort quhyle,
To turse[182] our Ladie in Argyle;
And there, uncraftie[183] wyse to wirk,
Till that we bigg