appalled, undone,
Prince and priest, let a mourner's feast give thanks to God for
your conquest won.

England's heel is upon you: kneel, O priest, O prince, in the dust,
and cry,
"Lord, why thus? art thou wroth with us whose faith was great in
thee, God most high?
Whence is this, that the serpent's hiss derides us? Lord, can thy
pledged word lie?

"God of hell, are its flames that swell quenched now for ever,
extinct and dead?
Who shall fear thee? or who shall hear the word thy servants who
feared thee said?
Lord, art thou as the dead gods now, whose arm is shortened, whose
rede is read?

"Yet we thought it was not for nought thy word was given us, to
guard and guide:
Yet we deemed that they had not dreamed who put their trust in
thee. Hast thou lied?
God our Lord, was the sacred sword we drew not drawn on thy
Church's side?

"England hates thee as hell's own gates; and England triumphs, and
Rome bows down:
England mocks at thee; England's rocks cast off thy servants to
drive and drown:
England loathes thee; and fame betroths and plights with England