In front of all the field my selfe did show
Whereby my Britons, that before were bent
To turne their backes, turn’d head vpon the foe,
’Twixt whom the fight againe did feruent grow,
With whom I brake into the dangerous fight
In hope to meet with Mordred, that false knight.
105.
My launce and sword did many a bosome sacke
Of life’s rich spoiles, which were all men of name,
The common sort my hand in troopes did wrack,