This ventred I, this dread I did sustayne, To try my trueth, my life I did disdayne: But, loe, like tryall gaynst[1359] his ciuil foe: Faythe’s worst is tryall, which is reseru’d[1360] to woe: I passe our scape, and sharp retourning home, Where we were welcomde with[1361] our wonted sone, To battayle mayne discendes the empyre’s right, At _Barnet_ ioynde the hoastes in bloudy fight. 26. There ioynde three battailes, rangde in such array, As mought for terrour _Alexander_ fray: What should I stay to tell the long discourse? Who wan the palme? who bare away the worse? Suffis’th[1362] to say, by my reserued band Our enmyes fled, wee had the vpper hand: My iron army held her steady place, My prince to shield, his feared foe to chase. 27. The like successe befell [mee] in _Tewkesbury_ fielde, My furious force, there forc’d perforce, to yeelde The traytour foe:[1363] and render to my king Her only sonne, least hee more bate might bring: Thus haste [thou] a mirour of a subiect’s minde, Such as perhaps is rare agayne to finde: The caruing cuts, that cleue the trusty steele, My fayth, and due alleigaunce, could not feele. 28. But out, alas, what prayse may I recount That is not spic’d[1364] with spot, that doth surmount My greatest vaunt? for bloudy war[1365] to feete A tyger was I, all for peace vnmeete: A souldier’s handes must oft bee dyde with goare, Least starke with rest, they finewd wax and hoare: Peace could I win by war, but peace not vse: Few dayes enioy[1366] hee, who warlike peace doth choose. 29. When _Crofts_ a knight, presented _Henrye’s_ heyr To this our prince, in furious moode, enquyre Of him hee gan, what folly or phrensy vayne, With armyes[1367] forc’d him to inuade his realme againe? Whom answering that he claimde his father’s right, With gauntlet smit, commaunded from his sight, _Clarence_, _Glocester_, _Dorcet_, and I _Hastings_, slue:[1368] The guylt whereof wee shortly all did rue. 30. _Clarence_, as _Cyrus_, drownd in bloud-like wyne, _Dorcet_ I furthered to his speedy pyne, Of mee, my selfe am speaking president, Nor easier fate the bristled boare is lent: Our blouds haue payd the vengeaunce of our guilt, His fryed bones shall broyle for bloud he spilt:[1369] O waltsome[1370] murder that attaynts[1371] our fame, O horrible[1372] traytours, wanting worthy name. 31.