pon him many a cruell wound:
And where they found a French not out-right slaine,
They him a prisoner constantly retaine.

[Stanza 311]

Who scarse a Shirt had but the day before,
Nor a whole Stocking to keepe out the cold,
Hath a whole Wardrop (at command in store)
In the French fashion flaunting it in gold,
And in the Tauerne, in his Cups doth rore,
Chocking his Crownes, and growes thereby so bold,
That proudly he a Captaines name assumes,
In his gilt Gorget with his tossing Plumes.

[Stanza 312]

Waggons and Carts are laden till they crackt,
With Armes and Tents there taken in the Field;
For want of carridge on whose tops are packt,
Ensignes, Coat-Armours, Targets, Speares, and Shields:
Nor neede they conuoy, fearing to be sackt;
For all the Country to King Henry yeelds,
And the poore Pesant helpes along to beare,
What late the goods of his proud Landlord were.

[Stanza 313]

A Horse well furnisht for a present Warre:
For a French Crowne might any where be bought,
But if so be that he had any scarre,
Though ne'r so small, he valew'd was at naught;
With spoyles so sated the proud English are;
Amongst the slaine, that who for pillage sought,
Except some rich Caparizon he found,
For a steele Saddle would not stoupe to ground.

[Stanza 314]

And many a hundred beaten downe that were,
Whose wounds were mortall, others wondrous deepe,
When as the English ouer-past they heare:
And no man left a Watch on them to keepe,
Into the Bushes, and the Ditches neare,
Vpon their weake hands and their knees doe creepe:
But for their hurts tooke ayre, and were vndrest,
They were found dead, and buried with the rest.

[Stanza 315]

Thus when the King sawe that the Coast was clear'd,
And of the French who were not slaine were fled:
Nor in the Field not any then appear'd,
That had the power againe to make a head:
This Conquerour exceedingly is cheer'd,
Thanking his God that he so well had sped,
And so tow'rds Callice brauely marching on,
Leaueth sad France her losses to bemoane.

FINIS.

TO MY FRINDS THE CAMBER-
BRITANS AND THEYR HARP.

TO MY FRINDS THE CAMBER-BRITANS AND THEYR HARP.

Fayre stood the winde for France,
When we our sailes aduance,
Nor now to proue our chance
Longer not tarry,
But put vnto the mayne:
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his warlike tra