Whanne Harflete was getyn, that ryall toun, Through the grace of God omnipotent; Oure kyng he made hym redy bown, And to Caleys ward full faire he went, My brother Clarence verament, Ye shall ryde al be my syde, My cosyn York ye take entent, For ye shall also this tyde. _Wot ye right well, &c._ My cosyn Huntyngdon shall with me ryde, The erl of Suffolk that is so fre, The erl of Oxenford shall not abyde, He shall comen forth with his meyne, Sire Thomas Erpyngham, that nevere dide faille, And yit another so mote y thee, Sire John the knyght of Cornewaille, He dar abyde and that know yee. _Wot ye right well, &c._ Sire Gilbert Umfreville wil us avayle, The lord Clyfford so God me spede, Sire William Boucer that will not faille, They will us helpe when we hav nede. Toward Caleys full faire they yede, In the cuntrey of Picardie, And out of Normandie they gan ryde, Now Crist save all the cumpanye. _Wot ye right well, &c._ Our kyng rood forth, blessed he be, He sparid neither dale ne doun, Be townes grete, and castell hyghe, Til he com to the water of Som; The brigge the Frensshemen hadde drawe a doun, That over the water he myght nought ryde; Oure kyng made hym redy bown, And to the water of Turwyn he com that tyde. _Wot ye right well, &c._ Oure kyng rood forth thanne full good sped, Into the countrey of Turvyle, To Agyncourt now as he is ride, There as oure kyng dyd his bataile; Be the water of Swerdys withoute faile, The Frensshemen oure kyng thei did aspye, And there they thought him to asaile, All in that feld certeynlye. _Wot ye right well, &c._ The Frensshemen hadde oure kynge umbast With bataill strong on every syde; The duke of Orlions seyde in hast, The kyng of Ingelond with us shall byde; He gaf hym leve this way to ryde, Be God, me thenke, he was not wys, Therefore shall y now be hys gyde, Or that he come to strong Caleys. _Wot ye right well, &c._ The duke of Braban answerd then, And seyde, be God in Trinite Ther be so fewe of thise Inglysshmen I have no deynte them to se; Alas! he seyde, what nedith us alle To day so many for to comen here, XX^{ti} of us it will befalle Of them on prisonere. _Wot ye right well, &c._ The duk of Burbon sware be seynt Denys, And other lordes many on, We will goo pleye them at dys, The lordys of Ingelond everych on, Ther gentilmen seide, be swete seynt John. Ther archers be sold full fayr plente, And alle the beste bowemen ich on, All for a blank of oure mone. _Wot ye right well, &c._ And thanne answerde the duke of Barrye, With wordes that were full mochell of pryde, Be God, he seyde, y wil not sparye, Over the Englysshmen y thenke to ryde; And if that they dar us abyde We shall overthrowe them alle in fere, Goo we and slee them in this tyde, And come hom agen to oure dynere. _Wot ye right well, &c._