We Catholicks tormented sore
With heresies fowl railinge tonge,
With prisons, tortures, loss of geodes,
Of lande, yea lyves, even thieves amonge
Do crave with harte surcharged with grieffe
Of thee, sweet Jesu, some relieffe.
We crave relieffe in this distresse,
We seeke some ease of this annoye,
Yett are wee well content with all,
So thee in end wee may enjoye ;
Ourselves to thee wee do resygne,
Relieve us, Lord, our cause is thyne.
Our cause is thyne, and thyne are wee,
Who from thy trueth refuse to slyde
Our faithe thy trueth, true faith the cause
For which these garboyles wee abyde,
True faith, I say, as plaine appears
To all whoe shutt not eyes and ears.
To all whoe shutt not eyes and ears
'Gainst fathers, scriptures, Church and thee,
Whoe built thy Church as Doctors all
With scriptures playnlie doe agree,
Not soone to falle upon the sande,
But on a Rocke stille sure to stande.
Still sure to stande, yea, on a hille,
For all her friends and foes to see,
Her friends to foster and defend,
Her foes to vanquish gloriousíie,
From age to age this hath shee done,
Thus shall shee do in time to come.