He gryped hard the bloudie murdring launce,
  And in a grone he left this mortel lyfe. 
  Behynde the erlie Fiscampe did advaunce,
  Bethoghte to kill him with a stabbynge knife;
  But Egward, who perceevd his fowle intent, 445
  Eftsoons his trustie swerde he forthwyth drewe,
  And thilke a cruel blowe to Fiscampe sent,
  That soule and bodie’s bloude at one gate flewe. 
    Thilk deeds do all deserve, whose deeds so fowle
    Will black theire earthlie name, if not their soule. 450

  When lo! an arrowe from Walleris honde,
  Winged with fate and dethe daunced alonge;
  And slewe the noble flower of Powyslonde,
  Howel ap Jevah, who yclepd the stronge. 
  Whan he the first mischaunce received han, 455
  With horsemans haste he from the armie rodde;
  And did repaire unto the cunnynge manne,
  Who sange a charme, that dyd it mickle goode;
    Then praid Seyncte Cuthbert, and our holie Dame,
    To blesse his labour, and to heal the same. 460

  Then drewe the arrowe, and the wounde did seck,
  And putt the teint of holie herbies on;
  And putt a rowe of bloude-stones round his neck;
  And then did say; go, champyon, get agone. 
  And now was comynge Harrolde to defend, 465
  And metten with Walleris cruel darte;
  His sheelde of wolf-skinn did him not attend,
  The arrow peerced into his noble harte;
    As some tall oke, hewn from the mountayne hed,
    Falls to the pleine; so fell the warriour dede. 470

  His countryman, brave Mervyn ap Teudor,
  Who love of hym han from his country gone,
  When he perceevd his friend lie in his gore,
  As furious as a mountayne wolf he ranne. 
  As ouphant faieries, whan the moone sheenes bryghte, 475
  In littel circles daunce upon the greene,
  All living creatures flie far from their syghte,
  Ne by the race of destinie be seen;
    For what he be that ouphant faieries stryke,
    Their soules will wander to Kyng Offa’s dyke. 480

  So from the face of Mervyn Tewdor brave
  The Normans eftsoons fled awaie aghaste;
  And lefte behynde their bowe and asenglave. 
  For fear of hym, in thilk a cowart haste. 
  His garb sufficient were to move affryghte; 485
  A wolf skin girded round his myddle was;
  A bear skyn, from Norwegians wan in fyghte,
  Was tytend round his shoulders by the claws: 
    So Hercules, ’tis sunge, much like to him,
    Upon his sholder wore a lyon’s skin. 490