Then all the host, led by that aged lord, The sea’s chiefe admirall, rusht through the gate, And through the towne with fierie shot and sword Did force their way in euery street and strait, Euen to the publike market, where of late The foes had purpos’d in the king’s highstreet, To make their commons reindeuous to meet. 418. [Sidenote: Sir _Iohn Wing_.] There now the battell fresh againe begun, For making head vnto that place, the foe To reinforce their strength, in troopes did run, While others downe from houses tops did throw Ruine and death on th’English bands below, Where fighting gainst such ods, they haplesse lost Braue _Wingfield_ hight, a leader in the host. 419. On whose dissolued life, such deepe remorse The English tooke, that all with loud exclaime Rusht on th’Iberians bold, and did enforce Their speedie flight, then furie did enflame The souldiers hearts, and in the bloodie game Of raging Mars, remorselesse they were all, To wreake reuenge for worthie _Wingfield’s_ fall. 420. Like angrie lions rob’d of their deare yong, The houses round about they now inuade, The portals, posts and thresholds downe are flung, The gates and walles of stone so strongly made, And doores fast barr’d with earth are leuell made, And all high turrets and strong chambers shake With th’hot inuading, which the souldiers make. 421. The inward roomes are fill’d with wofull sounds, And wailing noise of folke in wretched plight, The buildings all with larums loud rebounds, And women with yong infants in affright, Through chambers wide shunning the souldier’s sight, Runne heere and there to seeke some couert place, To hide themselues from angrie Mars his face. 422. About the parent’s knees, the children swarmes, Calling in vaine for helpe with pitious cries, The spouse fast clips her husband in her armes, In whose sad brest his cold heart fainting dies, Seeing the armed men before his eies, Stand with bright swords in thicke tumultuous croud At th’entrie doores, crying out with clamors loud. 423. But th’English all, that neuer vse to lift Their hands against a yeelding enemie By nature milde, not proud of fortune’s gift, Did not insult vpon their miserie, But with milde hand did vse the victorie, And after fight they all abhorring blood, Did only tend the spoile of golden good. 424.