403.
The guns, astuns with sounds rebounds from shore
The souldier’s eares, and death on mischiefe’s back
Spit from the canon’s mouth with horrid rore
Flies to and fro in clowdes of pitchie black,
And 'mongst the valiant men makes spoilefull wrack,
While either part like lions far’d in fight,
None feeling seruile feare of death’s afright.
404.
Thus when stout Howard had begun the fight