Her wooden walles, so high aboue the waue,
Till from our bowes, shafts thicke as winter’s haile,
Their stoutest hearts with deadly wounds did quaile,
Who shrinking from the fight my men did boord,
And in their furie did not spare the sword.
49.
Then did appeare the ruine of the foe,
Gasping for breath in vaine, sweet life they craue,
The blood of wounded men did streaming flow
Into the flood, and here and there it gaue