Scratching their faces, tearing of their haire,
Wringing their hands, and martyring their brests.
Extreame their dole: and greater misery
In sacked townes can hardlie euer be.
Not if the fire had scal’de the highest towers:
That all things were of force and murther full;
That in the streets the bloud in riuers stream’d;
That sonne his sire saw in his bosome slaine,
The sire his sonne: the husband reft of breath
In his wiues armes, who furious runnes to death.