The Winning of Cales

We saw a banded confraternity,
By soldiers called a squadron, men whose blows
Were dreaded more by friends than English foes,
Holding an Easter May-game in July;
All plumed, as if they meant to mount and fly:
What wonder if, ere fifteen days had close,
This pomp of Babel vanished, as it rose,
Giants and dwarfs, with all their surquedry!
Oft, like a valiant bull-calf, at their drill
Had stout Becerro roared; pale grew the sun
Beneath their smoke; earth trembled at their din:
But all too late at Cales to fight or kill;
The English Earl was gone; his booty won;
And in grand triumph marched our grand Duke in!