The duk of Gloucestre, that is no nay, That day full worthyly he wroughte, On every syde he made good way, The Frensshemen faste to grounde he brought. The erl of Huntyngdon sparyd nought; The erl of Oxenford layd on all soo; The yonge erl of Devenshire he ne rought; The Frensshmen faste to grounde gan goo. _Wot ye right well, &c._ The duk of Orlions thanne was woo, That day was taken prisonere; The erl of Ewe he was also; The duke of Braband slayn was there; The duke of Barre fast hym by; The duke of Launson wente nevere away; Ne the erle Neverse certeynly, Ne many other lordes that y cannot say. _Wot ye right well, &c._ The erl of Rychemond certeynly, That day was taken in the feld; The erl of Vendue was right sory; And Sir Bursegaunt he gan hym yeld. And thus oure kyng conqueryd the feld, Through the grace of God omnipotent; He toke his prisoners yonge and olde, And faire to Caleys ward thanne he went: The yere of his regne the thridde this was. _Gloria tibi Trinitas._ PASSUS TERCIUS. And there he restyd verrament, At his owne will whilys that it was, And shipped thanne in good entent, And at Dovorr landyd y ges; To Caunterbury full fair he past, And offered at Seynt Thomas shryne; Fro thens sone he rod in hast, To Eltham he cam in good tyme. _Wot ye right well, &c._ The Mayr of London was redy bown, With alle the craftes of that cite, Alle clothyd in red thorugh out the town, A semely sight it was to se: To the Blak heth thanne rod he, And spredde the way on every syde; XX^{ti} M^{l} men myght well se, Our comely kyng for to abyde. _Wot ye right well, &c._ The kyng from Eltham sone he cam, Hyse presenors with hym dede brynge, And to the Blak heth ful sone he cam, He saw London withoughte lesynge; Heil, ryall London, seyde oure kyng, Crist the kepe evere from care; And thanne gaf it his blessyng, And praied to Crist that it well fare. The Mair hym mette with moche honour, With all the aldermen without lesyng; Heil, seyde the mair, the conquerour, The grace of God with the doth spryng; Heil duk, heil prynce, heil comely kyng, Most worthiest Lord undir Crist ryall, Heil rulere of Remes withoute lettyng, Heil flour of knyghts now over all. Here is come youre citee all, Yow to worchepe and to magnyfye, To welcome yow, bothe gret and small, With yow everemore to lyve and dye. Grauntmercy, Sires, oure kyng gan say; And toward London he gan ride; This was upon seynt Clementys day, They wolcomed hym on every syde. The lordes of Fraunce, thei gan say then, Ingelond is nought as we wen, It farith be these Englisshmen, As it doth be a swarm of ben; Ingland is like an hive withinne, There fleeres makith us full evell to wryng, Tho ben there arrowes sharpe and kene, Thorugh oure harneys they do us styng.