Alas for ruth! what thoughe his mynde were goode,
His corage manly, yet ther he shed his bloode:
All left alone, alas! he foughte in vayne;
For cruelly amonge them ther he was slayne.
Alas for pite! that Percy thus was spylt,
The famous Erle of Northumberlande:
Of knightly prowes the sworde pomel and hylt,
The myghty lyon[3] doutted by se and lande!
O dolorus chaunce of Fortunes froward hande!
What man remembring how shamfully he was slayne,
From bitter weepinge himself can restraine?
O cruell Mars, thou dedly god of war!
O dolorous tewisday, dedicate to thy name,
When thou shoke thy sworde so noble a man to mar
O grounde ungracious, unhappy be thy fame,
Whiche wert endyed with rede blode of the same
Moste noble erle! O fowle mysuryd grounde
Whereon he gat his fynal dedely wounde!
O Atropos, of the fatall systers thre,
Goddes mooste cruell unto the lyf of man,
All merciles, in the ys no pite
O homycide, whiche sleest all that thou kan,
So forcibly upon this erle thow ran,
That with thy sworde enharpit of mortall drede,
Thou kit asonder his perfight vitall threde!
My wordis unpullysht be nakide and playne,
Of aureat poems they want ellumynynge;
Bot by them to knowlege ye may attayne
Of this lordis dethe and of his murdrynge.
Which whils he lyvyd had fuyson of every thing,
Of knights, of squyers, chef lord of toure and toune,
Tyl fykkill fortune began on hym to frowne.
Paregall to dukis, with kings he myght compare,
Surmountinge in honor all erls he did excede,
To all cuntreis aboute hym reporte me I dare.
Lyke to Eneas benygne in worde and dede,
Valiaunt as Hector in every marciall nede,
Provydent, discrete, circumspect, and wyse,
Tyll the chaunce ran agyne him of fortunes duble dyse.
What nedethe me for to extoll his fame
With my rude pen enkankerd all with rust?
Whos noble actis shew worshiply his name,
Transcendyng far myne homely muse, that must
Yet sumwhat wright supprisid with herty lust,
Truly reportinge his right noble astate,
Immortally whiche is immaculate.