There ys ne house, athrow thys shap-scurged[85] isle,
    Thatte has ne loste a kynne yn these fell fyghtes,
    Fatte blodde has sorfeeted the hongerde soyle, 605
    And townes enlowed[86] lemed[87] oppe the nyghtes. 
    Inne gyte of fyre oure hallie churche dheie dyghtes;
    Oure sonnes lie storven[88] ynne theyre smethynge gore;
    Oppe bie the rootes oure tree of lyfe dheie pyghtes,
    Vexynge oure coaste, as byllowes doe the shore. 610
    Yee menne, gyf ye are menne, displaie yor name,
  Ybrende yer tropes, alyche the roarynge tempest flame.

    Ye Chrystyans, doe as wordhie of the name;
    These roynerres of oure hallie houses slea;
    Braste, lyke a cloude, from whence doth come the flame, 615
    Lyche torrentes, gushynge downe the mountaines, bee. 
    And whanne alonge the grene yer champyons flee,
    Swefte as the rodde for-weltrynge[89] levyn-bronde,
    Yatte hauntes the flyinge mortherer oere the lea,
    Soe flie oponne these royners of the londe. 620
    Lette those yatte are unto yer battayles fledde,
  Take slepe eterne uponne a feerie lowynge bedde.

    Let cowarde Londonne see herre towne onn fyre,
    And strev wythe goulde to staie the royners honde,
    AElla & Brystowe havethe thoughtes thattes hygher, 625
    Wee fyghte notte forr ourselves, botte all the londe. 
    As Severnes hyger lyghethe banckes of sonde,
    Pressynge ytte downe binethe the reynynge streme,
    Wythe dreerie dynn enswolters[90] the hyghe stronde,
    Beerynge the rockes alonge ynn fhurye breme, 630
    Soe wylle wee beere the Dacyanne armie downe,
  And throughe a storme of blodde wyll reache the champyon crowne.

    Gyff ynn thys battelle locke ne wayte oure gare,
    To Brystowe dheie wylle tourne yeyre fhuyrie dyre;
    Brystowe, & alle her joies, wylle synke toe ayre, 635
    Brendeynge perforce wythe unenhantende[91] fyre: 
    Thenne lette oure safetie doublie moove oure ire,
    Lyche wolfyns, rovynge for the evnynge pre,
    See[ing] the lambe & shepsterr nere the brire,
    Doth th’one forr safetie, th’one for hongre slea; 640
    Thanne, whanne the ravenne crokes uponne the playne,
  Oh! lette ytte bee the knelle to myghtie Dacyanns slayne.

    Lyche a rodde gronfer, shalle mie anlace sheene,
    Lyche a strynge lyoncelle I’lle bee ynne fyghte,
    Lyche fallynge leaves the Dacyannes shalle bee sleene, 645
    Lyche [a] loud dynnynge streeme scalle be mie myghte. 
    Ye menne, who woulde deserve the name of knyghte,
    Lette bloddie teares bie all your paves be wepte;
    To commynge tymes no poyntelle shalle ywrite,
    Whanne Englonde han her foemenn, Brystow slepte. 650
    Yourselfes, youre chyldren, & youre fellowes crie,
  Go, fyghte ynne rennomes gare, be brave, & wynne or die.