With him away, but yet could never win
The Fort, that Ladies hold in soveraigne dread;
There lies he now with foule dishonour dead,
Who whiles he livde, was called proud Sansfoy,
The eldest of three brethren, all three bred
Of one bad sire, whose youngest is Sansjoy;
And twixt them both was born the bloudy bold Sansloy.
XXVI
In this sad plight, friendlesse, unfortunate,