he shooke wyth rage;
    When throughe the hollow tentes these wordes dyd sound,
    Rowse from your sleepe, detratours of the age! 
    Was it for thys the stoute Norwegian bledde? 
  Awake, ye huscarles, now, or waken wyth the dead. 80

    As when the shepster in the shadie bowre
    In jintle slumbers chase the heat of daie,
    Hears doublyng echoe wind the wolfins rore,
    That neare hys flocke is watchynge for a praie,
    He tremblynge for his sheep drives dreeme awaie, 85
    Gripes faste hys burled croke, and sore adradde
    Wyth fleeting strides he hastens to the fraie,
    And rage and prowess fyres the coistrell lad;
    With trustie talbots to the battel flies,
  And yell of men and dogs and wolfins tear the skies. 90

    Such was the dire confusion of eche wite,
    That rose from sleep and walsome power of wine;
    Theie thoughte the foe by trechit yn the nyghte
    Had broke theyr camp and gotten paste the line;
    Now here now there the burnysht sheeldes and byll-spear shine; 95
    Throwote the campe a wild confusionne spredde;
    Eche bracd hys armlace siker ne desygne,
    The crested helmet nodded on the hedde;
    Some caught a flughorne, and an onsett wounde;
  Kynge Harolde hearde the charge, and wondred at the sounde. 100

    Thus Leofwine; O women cas’d in stele! 
    Was itte for thys Norwegia’s stubborn sede
    Throughe the black armoure dyd the anlace fele,
    And rybbes of solid brasse were made to bleede? 
    Whylst yet the worlde was wondrynge at the deede. 105
    You souldiers, that shoulde stand with byll in hand,
    Get full of wine, devoid of any rede. 
    Oh shame! oh dyre dishonoure to the lande! 
    He sayde; and shame on everie visage spredde,
  Ne sawe the erlies face, but addawd hung their head. 110

    Thus he; rowze yee, and forme the boddie tyghte. 
    The Kentysh menne in fronte, for strenght renownd,
    Next the Brystowans dare the bloudie fyghte,
    And last the numerous crewe shall presse the grounde. 
    I and my king be wyth the Kenters founde; 115
    Bythric and Alfwold hedde the Brystowe bande;
    And Bertrams sonne, the man of glorious wounde,
    Lead in the rear the menged of the lande;
    And let the Londoners and Suffers plie
  Bie Herewardes memuine and the lighte skyrts anie. 120

    He saide; and as a packe of hounds belent,
    When that the trackyng of the hare is gone,
    If one perchaunce shall hit upon the scent,
    With twa redubbled fhuir the alans run;
    So styrrd the valiante Saxons everych one; 125
    Soone linked man to man the