This said, each one which had begun to flie Turn’d head againe, and stoutly kept his place, Then rushing with exclaimes on th’enemie, Eager with furie of their late disgrace, They gaue the charge so fiercely on the face Of th’aduerse force, that by their violent might, They brake the rankes, and turn’d their foes to flight. 55. With whom the Mercian duke fled fast away, The traytor _Edrick_ hopelesse now of grace, Who wing’d with feare of his decreed decay, Outstript our pursuit, yet with greedie chace We did pursue, vntill the day gaue place T’approching night, whose wished presence gaue Time to the foes themselues from death to saue. 56. _Canute_ being fled, did slacke no breathing space, Once more to trie the chance of doubtfull fight: But gathered his dispersed powers apace, With whom I by a place, which Dearehurst hight, In sea-side bordering Glostershire should fight, Where I with resolution did intend In single fight this spoilefull warre to end. 57. When on the fishie Seuerne’s bordering costs Oppos’d for fight, the battels ranged were, A noble knight confronting both the hosts, Did boldly in the midst aduance his speare, At which both armies did from fight forbeare, For straight my men I staid, because I knew His purpose then, which thus he did pursue. 58. “Yee glory-thirsting sonnes of Mars,” said he, “To what I speake, with good aduice giue eare, Let not my words by you contemned be, If any loue to humane good ye beare, Yee will esteeme my exhortations deare, If either part my counsell shall refuse, No good can happen in these warres we vse. 59. Not th’haplesse fate, which followes hostile warre: Nor terrible euents of bloodie fight, Nor spoiles, that spring from contumelious iarre, Nor woes produc’d from strife for lordly right, To you, my countrimen, need I recite, For woe, alas, this land can testifie The rauenous rage of Mars his tyrannie. 60. Pitie the teares of this our mother Ile, Whose fame which 'bout the world once shone as bright As Phœbus shine, now dim’d, alas, the while, With clouds of carefull strife hath lost her light, That to behold her in this wretched plight, Like sorowe’s image drown’d in waues of woe, Would make the hardest flint with teares to flow. 61.