Stil dooth this man or rather God of war,
Batter our walles, and beat our Turrets downe.
And to resist with longer stubbornesse,
Or hope of rescue from the Souldans power,
Were but to bring our wilfull overthrow,
And make us desperate of our threatned lives:
We see his tents have now bene altered,
With terrours to the last and cruelst hew:
His cole-blacke collours every where advaunst,
Threaten our citie with a generall spoile:
And if we should with common rites of Armes,
Offer our safeties to his clemencie,
I feare the custome proper to his sword,
Which he observes as parcell of his fame,
Intending so to terrifie the world:
By any innovation or remorse,
Will never be dispenc'd with til our deaths.
Therfore, for these our harmlesse virgines sakes,
Whose honors and whose lives relie on him:
Let us have hope that their unspotted praiers,
Their blubbered cheekes and hartie humble mones
Will melt his furie into some remorse:
And use us like a loving Conquerour.
