MICHAEL DRAYTON
With Spanish, yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts
Stuck close together.
When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbos drew, And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy, Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went
Our men were hardy'
This while our noble king, Hib broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding
As to o'erwhelm it; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.
Glostcr, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood With his brave brother;
bilbos] swords, from Bilboa.
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