Sith loosing, we vnlost keepe strong our praise, And make our glories, gaynours by our ends, Let not the hope of howers (for tedious dayes Vnto our lines no longer circuite lends) Confound our wondred actions and assayes, Whereon the sweete of mortal eares depends, But as we liue by wills victorious, So let vs die victours of them and vs. Wee that haue mercilesse cut Mercies wings, And muffeld pittie in deaths mistie vale, Let vs implore no mercie; pittyings, But from our God, deere fauour to exhale Our soules to heauen, where all the Angells rings Renowne of vs, and our deepe tragick tale; Let us that cannot liue, yet liue to dye, Vnthrald by men, fit tropheys for the skye. And thus resolu'd since other meane is reft, Sweet Maister-gunner, split our keele in twaine, We cannot liue, whom hope of life hath left, Dying, our deaths more glorious liues retain, Let not our ship, of shame and foile bereft, Vnto our foe-men for a prize remaine; Sinke her, and sinking with the _Greeke_ wee'le cry, Best not to be, or beeing soone to dye. Scarce had his words tane wings from his deere tong, But the stout Maister-gunner, euer rich In heauenlie valure and repulsing wrong, Proud that his hands by action might inritch His name and nation with a worthie song, Tow'rd his hart higher then Eagles pitch, And instantlie indeuours to effect _Grinuils_ desier, by ending Deaths defect. But th' other Maister, and the other Mat's, Disented from the honour of their minds, And humbly praid the Knight to rue their stat's, Whom miserie to no such mischiefe binds; To him th' aleadge great reasons, and dilat's Their foes amazements, whom their valures blinds, And maks more eager t'entertaine a truce, Then they to offer words for warres excuse. They show him diuers gallant men of might, Whose wounds not mortall, hope gaue of recuer, For their saks sue they to diuorce this night Of desperate chaunce, calld vnto Deaths black lure, Their lengthened liues, their countries care might right, And to their Prince they might good hopes assure. Then quod the Captaine, (deare Knight) do not spill, The liues whom gods and Fat's seeke not to kill. And where thou sayst the _Spanyards_ shall not braue T' haue tane one ship due to our virgin Queene, O knowe, that they, nor all the world can saue, This wounded Barke, whose like no age hath seene, Sixe foote shee leaks in hold, three shot beneath the waue, All whose repaire so insufficient beene, That when the Sea shall angrie worke begin, She cannot chuse but sinke and dye therein. Besides, the wounds and brusings which she beares, Are such, so manie, so incurable, As to remoue her from this place of feares. No force, no wit, no meane, nor man is able; Then since that peace prostrate to vs repaires, Vnlesse our selues, our selues make miserable, _Herculeen_ Knight, for pittie, pittie lend, No fame consists in wilfull desperat end.