And now Erle Ethelbert and Egward came
  Brave Mervyn from the Normannes to assist;
  A myghtie siere, Fitz Chatulet bie name,
  An arrowe drew, that dyd them littel list. 
  Erle Egward points his launce at Chatulet, 545
  And Ethelbert at Walleris set his;
  And Egwald dyd the siere a hard blowe hytt,
  But Ethelbert by a myschaunce dyd miss: 
    Fear laide Walleris flat upon the strande,
    He ne deserved a death from erlies hande. 550

  Betwyxt the ribbes of Sire Fitz Chatelet
  The poynted launce of Egward did ypass;
  The distaunt syde thereof was ruddie wet,
  And he fell breathless on the bloudie grass. 
  As cowart Walleris laie on the grounde, 555
  The dreaded weapon hummed oer his heade. 
  And hytt the squier thylke a lethal wounde,
  Upon his fallen lorde he tumbled dead: 
    Oh shame to Norman armes! a lord a slave,
    A captyve villeyn than a lorde more brave! 560

  From Chatelet hys launce Erle Egward drew,
  And hit Wallerie on the dexter cheek;
  Peerc’d to his braine, and cut his tongue in two: 
  There, knyght, quod he, let that thy actions speak—­

* * * * *

BATTLE OF HASTINGS.

[No 2.]

    Oh Truth! immortal daughter of the skies,
    Too lyttle known to wryters of these daies,
    Teach me, fayre Saincte! thy passynge worthe to pryze,
    To blame a friend and give a foeman prayse. 
    The sickle moone, bedeckt wythe sylver rays, 5
    Leadynge a traine of starres of feeble lyghte,
    With look adigne the worlde belowe surveies,
    The world, that wotted not it coud be nyghte;
    Wyth armour dyd, with human gore ydeyd,
  She sees Kynge Harolde stande, fayre Englands curse and pryde. 10

    With ale and vernage drunk his souldiers lay;
    Here was an hynde, anie an erlie spredde;
    Sad keepynge of their leaders natal daie! 
    This even in drinke, toomorrow with the dead! 
    Thro’ everie troope disorder reer’d her hedde; 15
    Dancynge and heideignes was the onlie theme;
    Sad dome was theires, who lefte this easie bedde,
    And wak’d in torments from so sweet a dream. 
    Duke Williams menne, of comeing dethe afraide,
  All nyghte to the great Godde for succour askd and praied. 20

    Thus Harolde to his wites that stoode arounde;
    Goe, Gyrthe and Eilward, take bills halfe a score,
    And search how farre our foeman’s campe doth bound;
    Yourself have rede; I nede to saie ne more. 
    My brother best belov’d of anie ore, 25
    My Leoswinus, goe to everich