Slowelie brave Gyrthe and Eilwarde dyd advaunce, And markd wyth care the armies dystant syde. When the dyre clatterynge of the shielde and launce Made them to be by Hugh Fitzhugh espyd. He lyfted up his voice, and lowdlie cryd; 35 Like wolfs in wintere did the Normanne yell; Girthe drew hys swerde, and cutte hys burled hyde; The proto-slene manne of the fielde he felle; Out streemd the bloude, and ran in smokynge curles, Reflected bie the moone seemd rubies mixt wyth pearles. 40 A troope of Normannes from the mass-songe came, Rousd from their praiers by the flotting crie; Thoughe Girthe and Ailwardus perceevd the same, Not once theie stoode abashd, or thoghte to flie. He seizd a bill, to conquer or to die; 45 Fierce as a clevis from a rocke ytorne, That makes a vallie wheresoe're it lie; [1]Fierce as a ryver burstynge from the borne; So fiercelie Gyrthe hitte Fitz du Gore a blowe. And on the verdaunt playne he layde the champyone lowe. 50 Tancarville thus; alle peace in Williams name; Let none edraw his arcublaster bowe. Girthe cas'd his weppone as he hearde the same, And vengynge Normannes staid the flyinge floe. The sire wente onne; ye menne, what mean ye so 55 Thus unprovokd to courte a bloudie fyghte? Quod Gyrthe; oure meanynge we ne care to showe, Nor dread thy duke wyth all his men of myghte; Here single onlie these to all thie crewe Shall shewe what Englysh handes and heartes can doe. 60 Seek not for bloude, Tancarville calme replyd, Nor joie in dethe, lyke madmen most distraught; In peace and mercy is a Chrystians pryde; He that dothe contestes pryze is in a faulte. And now the news was to Duke William brought, 65 That men of Haroldes armie taken were; For theyre good cheere all caties were enthoughte, And Gyrthe and Eilwardus enjoi'd goode cheere. Quod Willyam; thus shall Willyam be founde A friend to everie manne that treades on English ground. 70 Erie Leofwinus throwghe the campe ypass'd, And sawe bothe men and erlies on the grounde; They slepte, as thoughe they woulde have slepte theyr last, And hadd alreadie felte theyr fatale wounde. He started backe, and was wyth shame astownd; 75 Loked wanne wyth anger, and he shooke wyth rage; When throughe the hollow tentes these wordes dyd sound, Rowse from your sleepe, detratours of the age! Was it for thys the stoute Norwegian bledde? Awake, ye huscarles, now, or waken wyth the dead. 80