(A
) Here creepes out of Sainct Filchers denne a packe of prowling mates,
Most hurtfull to the English pale, and noysome to the states.
Which spare no more their country byrth, then those of th' English race,
But yeld to each a lyke good turne, when as they come in place.
(B)
They spoile, and burne, and beare away, as fitte occasions serve,
And thinke the greater ill they dow, the greater prayse deserve:
They passe not for the poore mans cry, not yet respect his teares,
But rather joy to see the fire, to flash about his eares.
To see both flame, and smouldring smoke, to duske the christall skyes,
Next to their pray, therein I say, their second glory lyes.
(C)
And this bereaving him of house, of catell and of store,
They do return backe to the wood, from whence they came before.