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<poem> In prison, they him shut by night, Laden with chains of grievous weight; All comfortless, in dungeon deep, Where stench annoys, and vermin creep:
He grovelled in this loathsome cell, Where ghastly frights and horrors dwell.
Yet nothing could his courage quail, Hunger, nor thirst, nor wound, nor gaol; For being brought before a Don, And asked "Why England did set on
A scraping, no a pecking hen? He answered "Stain not Englishmen!
"That England is a nation stout, And till the last will fight it out; Myself could prove by chivalry, If for a captive this were free."
"Why," quoth the Duke, "durst thou to fight With any of my men in sight?"
"Of thousands whom in war you use; Not one," quoth Peeke, "do I refuse." A chosen champion then there came; Whose heels he tripped, as at a game:
And from his hand his rapier took, Presenting it unto the Duke.
Then Three at once did him oppose; They rapiers, he a long staff chose: The use whereof so well he knows, He conquered them with nimble blows:
One that beside him played his round, He threw as dead unto the ground.
- <poem>
