Let cowarde Londonne see herre towne onn fyre, And strev wythe goulde to staie the royners honde, Ælla & Brystowe havethe thoughtes thattes hygher, 625 Wee fyghte notte forr ourselves, botte all the londe. As Severnes hyger lyghethe banckes of sonde, Pressynge ytte downe binethe the reynynge streme, Wythe dreerie dynn enswolters[90] the hyghe stronde, Beerynge the rockes alonge ynn fhurye breme, 630 Soe wylle wee beere the Dacyanne armie downe, And throughe a storme of blodde wyll reache the champyon crowne. Gyff ynn thys battelle locke ne wayte oure gare, To Brystowe dheie wylle tourne yeyre fhuyrie dyre; Brystowe, & alle her joies, wylle synke toe ayre, 635 Brendeynge perforce wythe unenhantende[91] fyre: Thenne lette oure safetie doublie moove oure ire, Lyche wolfyns, rovynge for the evnynge pre, See[ing] the lambe & shepsterr nere the brire, Doth th'one forr safetie, th'one for hongre slea; 640 Thanne, whanne the ravenne crokes uponne the playne, Oh! lette ytte bee the knelle to myghtie Dacyanns slayne. Lyche a rodde gronfer, shalle mie anlace sheene, Lyche a strynge lyoncelle I'lle bee ynne fyghte, Lyche fallynge leaves the Dacyannes shalle bee sleene, 645 Lyche [a] loud dynnynge streeme scalle be mie myghte. Ye menne, who woulde deserve the name of knyghte, Lette bloddie teares bie all your paves be wepte; To commynge tymes no poyntelle shalle ywrite, Whanne Englonde han her foemenn, Brystow slepte. 650 Yourselfes, youre chyldren, & youre fellowes crie, Go, fyghte ynne rennomes gare, be brave, & wynne or die. I saie ne moe; youre spryte the reste wylle saie; Youre spryte wylle wrynne, thatte Brystow ys yer place; To honoures house I nede notte marcke the waie; 655 Inne youre owne hartes you maie the foote-pathe trace. 'Twexte shappe & us there ys botte lyttelle space; The tyme ys nowe to proove yourselves bee menne; Drawe forthe the bornyshed bylle wythe fetyve grace, Rouze, lyche a wolfynne rouzing from hys denne. 660 Thus I enrone mie anlace; goe thou shethe; I'lle potte ytt ne ynn place, tyll ytte ys sycke wythe deathe. SOLDYERS. Onn, Ælla, onn; we longe for bloddie fraie; Wee longe to here the raven synge yn vayne; Onn, Ælla, onn; we certys gayne the daie, 665 Whanne thou doste leade us to the leathal playne. CELMONDE. Thie speche, O Loverde, fyrethe the whole trayne; Theie pancte for war, as honted wolves for breathe; Go, & sytte crowned on corses of the slayne; Go, & ywielde the massie swerde of deathe. 670 SOLDYERRES.