‘Yf we doe leese,’ quoth I, ‘the Frenche men shall not gayne: So if wee wyn, ’tis worth the while to keepe arraye: Yf yee stand stiflye toet, wele make them peaze the paine, And leade with losse of lyuely lymmes the laude awaye. Although they fearcely fighte, in hope vs all to slaye: Lo, sixe to one they fall, and deade they lye: Wee English men, in triomphe fight and honour dye.’ 81. With bloody broiles of war, the haplesse towne did smoke, The children sawe theire fathers deare, to bleede their last: The wyues bewayled muche the fatall stroke, Which forste their husbands bleede, fall, dye so fast: “Helas,” the weemen cryde, the woefull streets that past: (When soe they sawe the channels bloody streame) “What plague is this, that pesters so our reame? 82. “Is no remorce of lyfe, but kill, kill, kill? helasse: Kill, kill, the English cry, and valiantly they fighte: What hap had wee to see these mischiues com to passe?” “_Helas, le sang de nous amis, la mort, helas_:” The maydens cry: the widowes wayle, and aged mourne, With wringing hands vplift, and wish them selues vnborne. 83. Of vs one thousand Englishmen within the towne, Sustaynde the force, the powre, and puissaunce of their king: And of the French that faught, wee beate three thousand downe, Wee slew no lesse, for all the nomber hee did bring: Yf this vntrue shall seeme, discredite myne to ring, A French historian writeing for them selues shall say: Three thousand Frenchmen there, were slayne that day. 84. Four hundreth Englishmen that tyme were slayne in fighte, My selfe was one, with losse they wan the towne, perdie: But if I might haue liude t’aue tride our righte, With one for euery seuen, by ods as wee did dye: I doubte not (so the rest, would done their partes as I:) But that king _Charles_, his lords, nor all his men, Should scarce haue tane the towne of _Pontoise_ then. 85. What neade I more debate of these thinges here: In England was the faulte, though we did feele the smarte: While they at home, at bate and strife for honours were, They lost abroade of _Normandy_ the greater parte: To thinke on this torments agayne my wounded harte, That lords at home, should striue about the name, And loose abroade their countrie’s weale and fame. 86.