As might befall, and Fortune sent the rest:
When drom did sound, a souldier was I prest,
To sea or lande, as Princes quarrell stoed,
And for the saem, full oft I lost my blood.
But, throughout, misfortune dogged him:—
... To serve my torn [i.e., turn] in service of the Queen:
But God he knoes, my gayn was small, I ween,
For though I did my credit still encreace,
I got no welth, by warres, ne yet by peace.
(C.’s Chips: A Tragicall Discourse of the unhappy man’s Life; verses 9, 26.)