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I trow not, but beneath the skin

He wore he’d suck their life-blood in

By no means with less appetite

Or less enjoyment and delight

That he’d deceived them, and that they

Still followed where he chose to stray.

Believe me, wolves no meagre few

There are ’mong these apostles new:

Ah! holy Church, thou wilt be sacked

If thus thy city be attacked

By soldiers of thine own domain.

Alas! thy power is on the wane,

For those but seek to spoil thee who

Thou hast thy safety trusted to.

Who is there that will guarantee

Thee ’gainst them? Thou wilt taken be,

Although no stroke of trepeget

Or mangonel thou feel’st, nor yet

Set’st banner to the wind. If thou

No help afford, O then, I trow,

Nought else there is but let them be.

Though now they subject stand to thee,

Ere long must thou before them bend

As tributary, and descend

To make thy peace in such a way

As they demand, who straight will lay

Great burdens on thee, if forsooth

The traitors, all devoid of ruth,

Master thee not. With craft will they

Lull thee to sleep, and while by day

They haste to man thy walls, by night

Deep mines their treacherous hands will dight.