Now, now, Misfortune fronts our Knight in armes,
And casts her venome through the Spanysh hoast,
Shee salues the dead, and all the lyuing warmes
With vitall enuie, brought from Plutos coast;
Yet all in vaine, all works not Grinuils harmes;
Which seene, shee smiles, and yet with rage imbost[5]
Saith to her selfe, since men are all too weake,
Behold a goddesse shall thy lifes twine breake.
With that shee takes a Musket in her hand,
Raft from a dying Souldiour newlie slaine,
And ayming where th' vnconquered Knight did stand,
Dischargd it through his bodie, and in twaine
Deuids the euer holie nuptiall band,
Which twixt his soule, and worlds part shold remaine,
Had not his hart, stronger then Fortunes will,
Held life perforce to scorne Misfortunes ill.
The bubling wound from whence his blood distild,
Mourn'd to let fall the hallowed drops to ground,
And like a iealous loue by riuall illd,
Sucks in the sacred moisture through the wound;
But he, which felt deaths fatall doome fulfilld,
Grew fiercer valiant, and did all confound,
Was not a Spanyard durst abord him rest,
After he felt his deaths wound in his brest.
Hundreds on hundreds, dead on the maymed fall,
Maymed on sounde, sound in them selues lye slaine,
Blest was the first that to his ship could crall,
For wounded, he wounds multituds againe;
No sacrifice, but sacrifice of all,
Could stay his swords oblations vnto paine,
Nor in Phillipie, fell for Cæsars death,
Soules thicker then for Grinuils wasting breath.
The Nemian Lyon, Aramanthian Bore,
The Hircanian Tyger, nor the Cholcean Bulls,
Neuer extended rage with such vprore,
Nor in their brests mad monstrous furie lulls;
Now might they learne, that euer learnt before,
Wrath at our Knight, which all wrath disanulls,
For slauish death, his hands commaunded more,
Then Lyon, Tyger, Bull, or angrie Bore.
Had Pompey in Pharsalia held his thought, Cæsar had neuer wept vpon his head, Had Anthonie at Actiome like him fought, Augustus teares had neuer drowned him dead, Had braue Renaldo, Grinuiles puissance bought, Angelica from France had neuer fled, Nor madded Rowland with inconstancie, But rather slayne him wanting victorie.
Before a storme flewe neuer Doues so fast,
As Spanyards from the furie of his fist,
The stout Reuenge, about whose forlorne wast,
Whilome so many in their moods persist,
Now all alone, none but the scourge imbrast,
Her foes from handie combats cleane desist;
Yet still incirkling her within their powers,
From farre sent shot, as thick as winters showers.
Anger, and Enuie, enemies to Life,
Strong smouldering Heate and noisom stink of Smoke,
With over-labouring Toyle, Deaths ouglie wife,
These all accord with Grinuiles wounded stroke,
To end his liues date by their ciuell strife,
And him vnto a blessed state inyoke,
But he repelld them whilst repell he might,
Till feinting power, was tane from power to fight
Then downe he sat, and beat his manlie brest,
Not mourning death, but want of meanes to die;
Those which suruiu'd coragiouslie be blest,
Making them gods for god-like victorie;
Not full twice twentie soules aliue did rest,
Of which the most were mangled cruellie,
Yet still, whilst words could speake, or signes could show,
From death he maks eternall life to grow.
The Maister-gunner, which beheld his eyes
Dart fier gainst death triumphant in his face,
Came to sustaine him, and with courage cryes,
How fares my Knight? worlds glory, martiall grace?
Thine honour, former honours ouer-flyes,
And vnto Heauen and Vertue bids the bace;
Cheere then thy soule, and if deaths wounding pain it,
Abram's faire bosome lyes to entertaine it.