The quarter maisters with glad hearts do know ech one his place. Our topsailes strike we tho and fit our sailes to fight, Our bulwarke at maine mast also is made likewise aright. Vpon our poope eke then right subtilly we lay Pouder, to blow vp all such men, as enter theraway. Our Trumpetter aloft now sounds the feats of war, The brasen pieces roring oft fling forth both chain and bar. Some of the yardes againe do weaue with naked swoord, And crying loud to them amaine they bid vs come aboord. To bath hir feet in bloud the graigoose fleeth in hast: And Mariners as Lions wood, do crie abroad as fast. Now firie Faulkons flie right greedie of their pray, And kils at first stone dead truely ech thing within their way. Alarme ye now my mates I say, see that ye nothing lacke. At euery loope then gins straightway a harquebush to cracke. Their saile to burne, we shoot our arrowes of wilde fire, And pikes burning therewith about lads tosse with like desire. Eke straightway forth for wine the steward call I then, With fiery spice enough therein I drinke vnto my men, And then euen with a woord our lime pot prest to fall, This iolly gallant we clap aboord and enter him withall. Their nettings now gan teare dint of heauie stone. And some mens heads witnesse did beare who neuer could make mone. The harquebush acroke which hie on top doth lie, Discharg'd full of haileshot doth smoke to kill his enemie. Which in his enemies top doth fight, there it to keepe, Yet he at last a deadly lope is made from thence to lepe. Then entreth one withall into this Frenchman's top, Who cuts ech rope, and makes to fall his yard, withouten stop. Then Mariners belowe, as carelesse of the pike, Do hew, and kill still as they goe, and force not where they strike. And still the trumpets sound with pleasant blast doth cheare Ech Mariner, so in that stound that they nothing did feare. The Maister then also, his mates to cheare in fight, His Whistle chearefully doth blow, whereby strait euery wight So fierce begins to be, that Frenchmen gin to stoe, And English men as right worthy do catch for pillage tho. What would you more I say but tell the truth alway: We vsde our matters so this day we caried him away, Vnto a port in Spaine, which sure is call'd the Groine, Whereas we for French lading plaine receiued readie coine. Well thus this good lucke past, we through salt Seas did scoure, To Ginney coast eke come at last, O that vnhappie houre. My hand alas for feare now shakes, of this to write, Mine eye almost full fraught with teare, eke lets me to indite. What should I here recite the miserie I had, When none of you will scarce credit that ere it was so bad? Well, yet I would assay to let it, if I might,