Whilst the French stoutly to the English stood,
The drops from eithers emptied veynes that flow’d,
Where it was lately firme had made a flood:
But heau’n that day to the braue English ow’d;
The Sunne that rose in water, set in blood:
Nothing but horrour to be look’d for there,
And the stout Marshall vainely doth but feare.
The Marshall of France slaine.
His Horse sore wounded whilst he went aside,
To take another still that doth attend,