Where all the fugitives did meet,
And Sir John Cope his cheeks did weet;
Because they swore he had sold them,
To fight nor flee he ne’er told them.
The poor foot, left here, paid for all,
Not in fair battle, with powder and ball;
But horrid swords, of dreadful length,
So fast came on, with spite and strength,
Lochaber axes and rusty scythes,
Durks and daggers prick’d their thighs: