Where Arthur Earle of Richmount beaten downe, Is left (suppos’d of eu’ry one for dead) But afterwards awaking from his swoone, By some that found him, was recouered: So Count Du Marle was likewise ouerthrowne: As he was turning meaning to haue fled, Who fights, the colde blade in his bosome feeles, Who flyes, still heares it whisking at his heeles. [Stanza 291] Till all disrank’d, like seely Sheepe they runne, By threats nor prayers, to be constrain’d to stay; For that their hearts were so extreamely done, That fainting oft they fall vpon the way: Or when they might a present perill shunne, They rush vpon it by their much dismay, That from the English should they safely flye, Of their owne very feare, yet they should dye. [Stanza 292] Some they take prisoners, other some they kill, As they affect those vpon whom they fall: For they as Victors may doe what they will: For who this Conqueror to account dare call, In gore the English seeme their soules to swill, And the deiected French must suffer all; Flight, cords, and slaughter, are the onely three, To which themselues subiected they doe see. [Stanza 293: _The misery of the French._] A shoolesse Souldier there a man might meete, Leading his Mounsier by the armes fast bound: Another, his had shackled by the feete; Who like a Cripple shuffled on the ground; Another three or foure before him beete, Like harmefull Chattell driuen to a pound; They must abide it, so the Victor will, Who at his pleasure may, or saue, or kill. [Stanza 294] That braue French Gallant, when the fight began, Who lease of Lackies ambled by his side, Himselfe a Lacky now most basely ran, Whilst a rag’d Souldier on his Horse doth ride, That Rascall is no lesse then at his man, Who was but lately to his Luggadge tide; And the French Lord now courtsies to that slaue, Who the last day his Almes was like to craue. [Stanza 295: _The French forced to beare the wounded English on their backs._] And those few English wounded in the fight, They force the French to bring with them away, Who when they were depressed with the weight, Yet dar’d not once their burthen downe to lay, Those in the morne, whose hopes were at their height, Are fallne thus lowe ere the departing day; With pickes of Halberts prickt in steed of goads, Like tyred Horses labouring with their Loads. [Stanza 296] But as the English from the Field returne, Some of those French who when the Fight began, Forsooke their friends, and hoping yet to earne, Pardon, for that so cowardly they ran, Assay the English Carridges to burne, Which to defend them scarsely had a man; For that their keepers to the field were got, To picke such spoyles, as chance should them alott. [Stanza 297: _A crew of rascall French rifle the King of Englands Tents._]