The Sarazin sore daunted with the buffe xvii
Snatcheth his sword, and fiercely to him flies;
Who well it wards, and quyteth cuff with cuff:
Each others equall puissaunce enuies,
And through their iron sides with cruell[86] spies
Does seeke to perce: repining courage yields
No foote to foe. The flashing fier flies
As from a forge out of their burning shields,
And streames of purple bloud new dies[87] the verdant fields.
Curse on that Crosse (quoth[88] then the Sarazin) xviii