Who fights, the colde blade in his bosome feeles,
Who flyes, still heares it whisking at his heeles.
Till all disrank’d, like seely Sheepe they runne,
By threats nor prayers, to be constrain’d to stay;
For that their hearts were so extreamely done,
That fainting oft they fall vpon the way:
Or when they might a present perill shunne,
They rush vpon it by their much dismay,
That from the English should they safely flye,
Of their owne very feare, yet they should dye.