Stanza 218

Now the mayne Battaile of the French came on, The Vanward vanquisht, quite the Field doth flye, And other helpes besides this, haue they none: But that their hopes doe on their mayne relye, And therefore now it standeth them vpon, To fight it brauely, or else yeeld, or dye: For the fierce English charge so home and sore, As in their hands Ioues thunderbolts they bore.

[Stanza 219: The Duke of Yorke slaine.]

The Duke of Yorke, who since the fight begun, Still in the top of all his Troopes was seene, And things wellneere beyond beleefe had done, Which of his Fortune, made him ouerweene, Himselfe so farre into the maine doth runne, So that the French which quickly got betweene Him and his succours, that great Chiefetaine slue, Who brauely fought whilest any breath he drew.

[Stanza 220: The King heareth of the Duke of Yorks death.]

The newes soone brought to this Couragious King, Orespred his face with a distempred Fire, Though making little shew of any thing, Yet to the full his eyes exprest his Ire, More then before the Frenchmen menacing; And hee was heard thus softly to respire: Well, of thy blood reuenged will I bee, Or ere one houre be past Ile follow thee.

[Stanza 221: The Kings resolution.]

When as the frolike Caualry of France, That in the head of the maine Battaile came, Perceiu'd the King of England to aduance, To Charge in person; It doth them inflame, Each one well hoping it might be his chance To sease vpon him, which was all their ayme, Then with the brauest of the English mett, Themselues that there before the King had sett.