Back to the camp, by thee that day was brought
First, thine own death; and after, thy long fame;
Tears to the soldiers; the proud Castilians' shame;
Virtue expressed; and honour truly taught.
What hath he lost? that such great grace hath won.
Young years, for endless years; and hope unsure
Of fortune's gifts, for wealth that still shall 'dure.
O happy race! with so great praises run.
England doth hold thy limbs, that bred the same;
Flanders, thy valour: where it last was tried.