MICHAEL DRAYTON
Under our swords they fell:
No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat
Lopp'd the French lilies/
The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led; With the main Henry sped
Among his henchmen. Excester had the rear, A braver man not there; O Lord, how hot they were
On the faLe Frenchmen'
7"hey now to fight arc gone, Armour on armour s>hone, Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham, Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces' When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly The English archery
Stuck the French horses.
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