Why do I use my paper, ink and pen
And call my wits to counsel what to say?
Such memories were made for mortal men
I speak of Saints whose names cannot decay
An Angel's trump were fitter for to sound
Their glorious death, if such on earth were found

That store of such were once on earth pursued
The histories of ancient times record
Whose constancy great tyrants' rage subdued
Through patient death, professing Christ the Lord
As his Apostles perfect witness bare
With many more that blessed Martyrs were

Whose patience rare and most courageous mind
With fame renowned perpetual shall endure
By whose examples we may rightly find
Of holy life and death a pattern pure
That we, therefore, their virtues may embrace
Pray we to Christ, to guide us with his grace