Never shall shee sustaine
Losse to redeeme me."

Poiters and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell.

No lesse our skill is,
Then when oure grandsire great,
Clayming the regall seate,
By many a warlike feate,
Lop'd the French lillies.

The Duke of York so dread,
The vaward led,
Wich the maine Henry sped,
Amongst his Hench_men_,
Excester had the rere,
A brauer man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were,
On the false Frenchmen.

They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drumme now to drumme did grone,
To hear was wonder,
That with cryes they make,
The very earth did shake,
Thunder to thunder.