Three miles the dust, with blood they did imbrue,
Some downewards groueling did the ground embrace,
Some vpwards spread, did shew death’s gastly face,
Three miles in compasse on that haplesse soile,
Did flow with fruits of blood, of death, and spoile.
303.
The valiant victors, that did backe returne,
Loaded with golden bootie from the chace,
The fruitfull countrie round about did burne
With wastfull fire, which did in euery place