Fitz Broque, who saw his father killen lie,
  Ah me! sayde he; what woeful syghte I see! 
  But now I must do somethyng more than sighe;
  And then an arrowe from the bowe drew he. 
  Beneth the erlie’s navil came the darte; 395
  Fitz Broque on foote han drawne it from the bowe;
  And upwards went into the erlie’s harte,
  And out the crymson streme of bloude ’gan flowe. 
    As fromm a hatch, drawne with a vehement geir,
    White rushe the burstynge waves, and roar along the weir. 400

  The erle with one honde grasp’d the recer’s mayne,
  And with the other he his launce besped;
  And then felle bleedyng on the bloudie plaine. 
  His launce it hytte Fitz Broque upon the hede;
  Upon his hede it made a wounde full slyghte, 405
  But peerc’d his shoulder, ghastlie wounde inferne,
  Before his optics daunced a shade of nyghte,
  Whyche soone were closed ynn a sleepe eterne. 
    The noble erlie than, withote a grone,
    Took flyghte, to fynde the regyons unknowne. 410

  Brave Alured from binethe his noble horse
  Was gotten on his leggs, with bloude all smore;
  And now eletten on another horse,
  Eftsoons he withe his launce did manie gore. 
  The cowart Norman knyghtes before hym fledde, 415
  And from a distaunce sent their arrowes keene;
  But noe such destinie awaits his hedde,
  As to be sleyen by a wighte so meene. 
    Tho oft the oke falls by the villen’s shock,
    ’Tys moe than hyndes can do, to move the rock. 420

  Upon du Chatelet he ferselie sett,
  And peerc’d his bodie with a force full grete;
  The asenglave of his tylt-launce was wett,
  The rollynge bloude alonge the launce did fleet. 
  Advauncynge, as a mastie at a bull, 425
  He rann his launce into Fitz Warren’s harte;
  From Partaies bowe, a wight unmercifull,
  Within his owne he felt a cruel darte;
    Close by the Norman champyons he han sleine,
    He fell; and mixd his bloude with theirs upon the pleine. 430

  Erie Ethelbert then hove, with clinie just,
  A launce, that stroke Partaie upon the thighe,
  And pinn’d him downe unto the gorie duste;
  Cruel, quod he, thou cruellie shalt die. 
  With that his launce he enterd at his throte; 435
  He scritch’d and screem’d in melancholie mood;
  And at his backe eftsoons came out, God wote,
  And after it a crymson streme of bloude: 
    In agonie and peine he there dyd lie,
    While life and dethe strove for the masterrie, 440