Anon they graple eyther to the other, And doth the ban-dogge with the Martins skinne; And then the wombe of _Phillip_ did vncouer, Eight hundred Souldiers, which the fight beginne: These board Sir _Richard_, and with thronging smother The daye, the ayre, the time, and neuer linne, But by their entrance did instruct eight more, To doe the like, on each side foure and foure. Thus in one moment was our Knight assaild, With one huge _Argosie_, and eight great ships, But all in vaine, their powers naught prevaild, For the _Reuenge_, her Canon loud-dogs slips, Whose bruzing teeth, so much the _Phillip_ quaild, That foundring in the greedie maine, he dips His damned bodie in his watrie tombe, Wrapt with dishonour in the Oceans wombe. The other eight, fighting, were likewise foild, And driuen perforce vnto a vile retraite, None durst abide, but all with shame recoild, Whilst _Valures_ selfe, set _Grinuile_ in her seate; Onely _Don Luis Saint Iohn_, seeing spoild, His Countries honour by this strange defaite, Single encountred _Grinuile_ in the fight, Who quicklie sent his soule to endlesse night. _George de Prunaria_, a Spanish Knight, Euer held valiant in dispight of fate, Seconded _Luis_, and with mortall might, Writ on Sir _Richards_ target souldiers hate, Till _Grinuile_ wakned with his loud rung fight, Dispatcht his soules course vnto _Plutos_ gate: And after these two, sent in post all those Which came within his mercie or his blowes. By this, the sunne had spread his golden locks, Vpon the pale green carpet of the sea, And opned wide the scarlet dore which locks The easefull euening from the labouring day; Now Night began to leape from iron Rocks, And whip her rustie wagon through the way, Whilst all the _Spanish_ host stoode maz'd in sight, None darring to assayle a second fight. When _Don Alfonso_, Generall of the warre, Saw all his Nauie with one ship controld, He toare his hayre, and loudlie cryd from farre, For honour _Spanyards_, and for shame be bold; Awaken Vertue, say her slumbers marre _Iberias_ auncient valure, and infold Her wondred puissance, and her glorious deeds, In cowards habit, and ignoble weeds. Fie, that the spyrit of a single man, Should contradict innumerable wills, Fie, that infinitiues of forces can, Nor may effect what one conceit fulfills; Woe to the wombe, ceaselesse the teats I ban, That cherrisht life, which all our liues ioyes kills; Woe to our selues, our fortunes, and our minds, Agast and scarrd, with whistling of the winds. See how he triumphes in dispight of death, _Promethean_ like, laden with liuing fier, And in his glorie spits disdainfull breath, Loathing the baseness of our backe retire; Euen now me thinke in our disgrace he saith, Foes to your fames, why make you Fate a lyer, When heauen and she haue giuen into your hand, What all the world can neuer back demand?