The Siere Chatillion, yonger of that name,
  Advaunced next before the erlie’s syghte;
  His fader was a manne of mickle fame,
  And he renomde and valorous in fyghte. 
  Chatillion his trustie swerd forth drewe. 345
  The erle drawes his, menne both of mickle myghte;
  And at eche other vengouslie they flewe,
  As mastie dogs at Hocktide set to fyghte;
    Bothe scornd to yeelde, and bothe abhor’de to flie,
    Resolv’d to vanquishe, or resolv’d to die. 350

  Chatillion hyt the erlie on the hede,
  Thatt splytte eftsoons his cristed helm in twayne;
  Whiche he perforce withe target covered,
  And to the battel went with myghte ameine. 
  The erlie hytte Chatillion thilke a blowe 355
  Upon his breste, his harte was plein to see;
  He tumbled at the horses feet alsoe,
  And in dethe panges he seez’d the recer’s knee: 
    Faste as the ivy rounde the oke doth clymbe,
    So faste he dying gryp’d the recer’s lymbe. 360

  The recer then beganne to flynge and kicke,
  And toste the erlie farr off to the grounde;
  The erlie’s squier then a swerde did sticke
  Into his harte, a dedlie ghastlie wounde;
  And downe he felle upon the crymson pleine, 365
  Upon Chatillion’s soulless corse of claie;
  A puddlie streme of bloude flow’d oute ameine;
  Stretch’d out at length besmer’d with gore he laie;
    As some tall oke fell’d from the greenie plaine,
    To live a second time upon the main. 370

  The erlie nowe an horse and beaver han,
  And nowe agayne appered on the feeld;
  And manie a mickle knyghte and mightie manne
  To his dethe-doyng swerd his life did yeeld;
  When Siere de Broque an arrowe longe lett flie, 375
  Intending Herewaldus to have sleyne;
  It miss’d; butt hytte Edardus on the eye,
  And at his pole came out with horrid payne. 
    Edardus felle upon the bloudie grounde,
    His noble soule came roushyng from the wounde. 380

  Thys Herewald perceevd, and full of ire
  He on the Siere de Broque with furie came;
  Quod he; thou’st slaughtred my beloved squier,
  But I will be revenged for the same. 
  Into his bowels then his launce he thruste, 385
  And drew thereout a steemie drerie lode;
  Quod he; these offals are for ever curst,
  Shall serve the coughs, and rooks, and dawes, for foode. 
    Then on the pleine the steemie lode hee throwde,
    Smokynge wyth lyfe, and dy’d with crymson bloude. 390