The bubling wound from whence his blood distild, Mourn'd to let fall the hallowed drops to ground, And like a iealous loue by riuall illd, Sucks in the sacred moisture through the wound; But he, which felt deaths fatall doome fulfilld, Grew fiercer valiant, and did all confound, Was not a _Spanyard_ durst abord him rest, After he felt his deaths wound in his brest. Hundreds on hundreds, dead on the maymed fall, Maymed on sounde, sound in them selues lye slaine, Blest was the first that to his ship could crall, For wounded, he wounds multituds againe; No sacrifice, but sacrifice of all, Could stay his swords oblations vnto paine, Nor in _Phillipie_, fell for _Cæsars_ death, Soules thicker then for _Grinuils_ wasting breath. The _Nemian_ Lyon, _Aramanthian_ Bore, The _Hircanian_ Tyger, nor the _Cholcean_ Bulls, Neuer extended rage with such vprore, Nor in their brests mad monstrous furie lulls; Now might they learne, that euer learnt before, Wrath at our Knight, which all wrath disanulls, For slauish death, his hands commaunded more, Then Lyon, Tyger, Bull, or angrie Bore. Had _Pompey_ in _Pharsalia_ held his thought, _Cæsar_ had neuer wept vpon his head, Had _Anthonie_ at _Actiome_ like him fought, _Augustus_ teares had neuer drowned him dead, Had braue _Renaldo_, _Grinuiles_ puissance bought, _Angelica_ from France had neuer fled, Nor madded _Rowland_ with inconstancie, But rather slayne him wanting victorie. Before a storme flewe neuer Doues so fast, As _Spanyards_ from the furie of his fist, The stout _Reuenge_, about whose forlorne wast, Whilome so many in their moods persist, Now all alone, none but the scourge imbrast, Her foes from handie combats cleane desist; Yet still incirkling her within their powers, From farre sent shot, as thick as winters showers. _Anger_, _and Enuie_, enemies to _Life_, Strong smouldering _Heate_ and noisom stink of _Smoke_, With over-labouring _Toyle_, _Deaths_ ouglie wife, These all accord with _Grinuiles_ wounded stroke, To end his liues date by their ciuell strife, And him vnto a blessed state inyoke, But he repelld them whilst repell he might, Till feinting power, was tane from power to fight Then downe he sat, and beat his manlie brest, Not mourning death, but want of meanes to die; Those which suruiu'd coragiouslie be blest, Making them gods for god-like victorie; Not full twice twentie soules aliue did rest, Of which the most were mangled cruellie, Yet still, whilst words could speake, or signes could show, From death he maks eternall life to grow. The Maister-gunner, which beheld his eyes Dart fier gainst death triumphant in his face, Came to sustaine him, and with courage cryes, How fares my Knight? worlds glory, martiall grace? Thine honour, former honours ouer-flyes, And vnto _Heauen_ and _Vertue_ bids the bace; Cheere then thy soule, and if deaths wounding pain it, _Abram's_ faire bosome lyes to entertaine it.