Which when he had besieg'd the Town, Against the fenced Walls; To batter down the stately Towers, He sent his _English_ Balls. When this was done our King did march, Then up and down the Land; And not a _Frenchman_ for his Life, Durst once his Force withstand. Until he came to _Agencourt_, Whereas it was his chance; To find the King in readiness, With all the Power of _France_. A mighty Host he had prepar'd, Of Armed Soldiers then; Which were no less by just Account, Than Forty Thousand Men. Which sight did much amaze our King, For he and all his Host; Not passing Fifteen Thousand had, Accounted with the most. The King of _France_ who well did know, The Number of our Men; In vaunting Pride and great Disdain, Did send an Herald then: To understand what he would give, For Ransom of his Life, When they in Field had taken him, Amongst the bloody strife. And when our King with cheerful Heart, This answer then did make; Before that it does come to pass, Some of your Hearts will ake. And to your proud presumptuous King, Declare this thing, quoth he; My own Heart's-blood will pay the Price, Nought else he gets of me. Then spake the noble Duke of _York_, O noble King, quoth he, The Leading of this Battle brave, It doth belong to me. God-a-mercy Cousin _York_, he said, I grant thee thy Request; Then lead thou on couragiously, And I will lead the rest. Then came the bragging _Frenchmen_ down, With cruel Force and Might; With whom our Noble King began, A fierce and dreadful Fight. The Archers they discharg'd their Shafts, As thick as Hail from Skie; And many a _Frenchman_ in the Field, That happy Day did die. Their Horses tumbled on the Stakes, And so their Lives they lost; And many a _Frenchman_ there was ta'en, As Prisoners to their cost. Ten Thousand Men that Day was slain, As Enemies in the Field: And eke as many Prisoners, Were forc'd that Day to yield. Thus had our King a happy Day, And Victory over _France_; And brought them quickly under foot That late in Pride did prance. God save our King, and bless this Land, And grant to him likewise; The upper-hand and Victory, Of all his Enemies. _The Lady_ ISABELLA'S _Tragedy: Or, the Step-Mother's Cruelty._ _To the foregoing Tune._ There was a Lord of worthy Fame, And a Hunting he would ride, Attended by a noble Train, Of Gentry on each side. And whilst he did in Chace remain, To see both Sport and Play; His Lady went as she did feign, Unto the Church to pray. This Lord he had a Daughter Fair, Whose Beauty shin'd so bright; She was belov'd both far and near, Of many a Lord and Knight. Fair _Isabella_ was she call'd, A Creature Fair was she; She was her Father's only Joy, As you shall after see. But yet her Cruel Step-Mother, Did Envy her so much; That Day by Day she sought her Life, Her Malice it was such.