The Normans kept aloofe, at distaunce stylle,
  The Englysh nete but short horse-spears could welde;
  The Englysh manie dethe-sure dartes did kille,
  And manie arrowes twang’d upon the sheelde. 
  Kynge Haroldes knyghts desir’de for hendie stroke, 95
  And marched furious o’er the bloudie pleyne,
  In bodie close, and made the pleyne to smoke;
  Theire sheelds rebounded arrowes back agayne. 
    The Normans stode aloofe, nor hede the same,
    Their arrowes woulde do dethe, tho’ from far of they came. 100

  Duke Wyllyam drewe agen hys arrowe strynge,
  An arrowe withe a sylver-hede drewe he;
  The arrowe dauncynge in the ayre dyd synge,
  And hytt the horse of Tosselyn on the knee. 
  At this brave Tosslyn threwe his short horse-speare; 105
  Duke Wyllyam stooped to avoyde the blowe;
  The yrone weapon hummed in his eare,
  And hitte Sir Doullie Naibor on the prowe;
    Upon his helme soe furious was the stroke,
    It splete his bever, and the ryvets broke. 110

  Downe fell the beaver by Tosslyn splete in tweine,
  And onn his hede expos’d a punie wounde,
  But on Destoutvilles sholder came ameine,
  And fell’d the champyon to the bloudie grounde. 
  Then Doullie myghte his bowestrynge drewe, 115
  Enthoughte to gyve brave Tosslyn bloudie wounde,
  But Harolde’s asenglave stopp’d it as it slewe,
  And it fell bootless on the bloudie grounde. 
    Siere Doullie, when he sawe hys venge thus broke,
    Death-doynge blade from out the scabard toke. 120

  And now the battail closde on everych syde,
  And face to face appeard the knyghts full brave;
  They lifted up theire bylles with myckle pryde,
  And manie woundes unto the Normans gave. 
  So have I sene two weirs at once give grounde, 125
  White fomyng hygh to rorynge combat runne;
  In roaryng dyn and heaven-breaking sounde,
  Burste waves on waves, and spangle in the sunne;
    And when their myghte in burstynge waves is fled,
    Like cowards, stele alonge their ozy bede. 130

  Yonge Egelrede, a knyghte of comelie mien,
  Affynd unto the kynge of Dynefarre,
  At echone tylte and tourney he was seene,
  And lov’d to be amonge the bloudie warre;
  He couch’d hys launce, and ran wyth mickle myghte 135
  Ageinste the brest of Sieur de Bonoboe;
  He grond and sunken on the place of fyghte,
  O Chryste! to fele his wounde, his harte was woe. 
    Ten thousand thoughtes push’d in upon his mynde,
    Not for hymselfe, but those he left behynde. 140