Stanza 151

The wearied English watchfull o'r their Foes, (The depth of night then drawing on so fast) That fayne a little would themselues repose, With thanks to God, doe take that small repast Which that poore Village willingly bestowes: And hauing plac'd their Sentinels at last, They fall to Prayer, and in their Cabins blest, T'refresh their spirits, then tooke them to their rest.