Of knyghtly prowes the sword, pomel, and hylt,
The myghty lyon doutted by se and lande;[200]
O dolorus chaunce of Fortunes froward hande! 110
What man, remembryng howe shamfully he was slaine,
From bitter weping himself can restrain?
O cruell Mars, thou dedly god of war!
O dolorous tewisday, dedicate to thy name,
When thou shoke thy sworde so noble a man to mar!
O ground vngracious, vnhappy be thy fame,
Which wert endyed with rede bloud of the same