And thenne Duke Wyllyam to his knyghtes did saie;
  My merrie menne, be bravelie everiche;
  Gif I do gayn the honore of the daie,
  Ech one of you I will make myckle riche. 
  Beer you in mynde, we for a kyngdomm fyghte; 45
  Lordshippes and honores echone shall possesse;
  Be this the worde to daie, God and my Ryghte;
  Ne doubte but God will oure true cause blesse. 
    The clarions then sounded sharpe and shrille;
    Deathdoeynge blades were out intent to kille. 50

  And brave Kyng Harrolde had nowe donde hys saie;
  He threwe wythe myghte amayne hys shorte horse-spear. 
  The noise it made the duke to turn awaie,
  And hytt his knyghte, de Beque, upon the ear. 
  His cristede beaver dyd him smalle abounde; 55
  The cruel spear went thorough all his hede;
  The purpel bloude came goushynge to the grounde,
  And at Duke Wyllyam’s feet he tumbled deade: 
    So fell the myghtie tower of Standrip, whenne
    It felte the furie of the Danish menne. 60

  O Afflem, son of Cuthbert, holie Sayncte,
  Come ayde thy freend, and shewe Duke Wyllyams payne;
  Take up thy pencyl, all hys features paincte;
  Thy coloryng excells a synger strayne. 
  Duke Wyllyam sawe hys freende sleyne piteouslie, 65
  Hys lovynge freende whome he muche honored,
  For he han lovd hym from puerilitie,
  And theie together bothe han bin ybred: 
    O! in Duke Wyllyam’s harte it raysde a flame,
    To whiche the rage of emptie wolves is tame. 70

  He tooke a brasen crosse-bowe in his honde,
  And drewe it harde with all hys myghte amein,
  Ne doubtyng but the bravest in the londe
  Han by his soundynge arrowe-lede bene sleyne. 
  Alured’s stede, the fynest stede alive, 75
  Bye comelie forme knowlached from the rest;
  But nowe his destind howre did aryve,
  The arrowe hyt upon his milkwhite breste: 
    So have I seen a ladie-smock soe white,
    Blown in the mornynge, and mowd downe at night. 80

  With thilk a force it dyd his bodie gore,
  That in his tender guttes it entered,
  In veritee a fulle clothe yarde or more,
  And downe with flaiten noyse he sunken dede. 
  Brave Alured, benethe his faithfull horse, 85
  Was smeerd all over withe the gorie duste,
  And on hym laie the recer’s lukewarme corse,
  That Alured coulde not hymself aluste. 
    The standyng Normans drew theyr bowe echone,
    And broght full manie Englysh champyons downe. 90