“Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode,
    Whan thousands dy’d arounde; 130
  Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode
    Imbrew’d the fatten’d grounde: 

  “How dydd I knowe thatt ev’ry darte,
    Thatt cutte the airie waie,
  Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte, 135
    And close myne eyes for aie?

  “And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe,
    Looke wanne and bee dysmayde? 
  Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere,
    Bee alle the manne display’d. 140

  “Ah, goddelyke HENRIE!  Godde forefende,
    And guarde thee and thye sonne,
  Yff ’tis hys wylle; but yff ’tis nott,
    Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.

  “My honest friende, my faulte has beene 145
    To serve Godde and mye prynce;
  And thatt I no tyme-server am,
    My dethe wylle soone convynce.

  “Ynne Londonne citye was I borne,
    Of parents of grete note; 150
  My fadre dydd a nobile armes
    Emblazon onne hys cote: 

  “I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone
    Where soone I hope to goe;
  Where wee for ever shall bee blest, 155
    From oute the reech of woe: 

  “Hee taughte mee justice and the laws
    Wyth pitie to unite;
  And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe
    The wronge cause fromm the ryghte:  160

  “Hee taughte mee wythe a prudent hande
    To feede the hungrie poore,
  Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie
    The hungrie fromme my doore: 

  “And none can saye, butt alle mye lyfe 165
    I have hys wordyes kept;
  And summ’d the actyonns of the daie
    Eche nyghte before I slept.

  “I have a spouse, goe aske of her,
    Yff I defyl’d her bedde? 170
  I have a kynge, and none can laie
    Blacke treason onne my hedde.

  “Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,
    Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne;
  Whie should I thenne appeare dismay’d 175
    To leave thys worlde of payne?

  “Ne! hapless HENRIE!  I rejoyce,
    I shalle ne see thye dethe;
  Moste willynglie ynne thye just cause
    Doe I resign my brethe. 180

  “Oh, fickle people! rewyn’d londe! 
    Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;
  Whyle RICHARD’S sonnes exalt themselves,
    Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.

  “Saie, were ye tyr’d of godlie peace, 185
    And godlie HENRIE’S reigne,
  Thatt you dydd choppe youre easie daies
    For those of bloude and peyne?