What though thy camp lies free from our alarms,
And spoils our fields with unrevenged harms
We fcorn with bafer blood to ftain a dart,

;

O King, that's onely level'd at thy heart :
Our nobler fwords will drink the blood of none,
But thy heart-blood, Porfenna, thine alone;
Those who their hands will ftrait in it imbrue,
Walk intermixed with thy armed crew.
Methinks I fee at prefent one thee note,
Who ftrait wil hide his weapon in thy throat;
Hence, therefore, think each hower of thy breath,
To be th' affured hower of thy death;

Thou dost with warlike troups our wals furround,
Hoping to lay them level with the ground,
And thinkst to famifh us, whilft o'er thy head,
Hangs a revengeful arm will ftrike thee dead;
That glorious diadem which now I fee
Circles thy brow, was hop'd a spoil by mee;
That purple robe invests thy loins fhal lie,
Thy blood be tinged in a deeper dy:
That very scepter which thy hand sustains,
Shal, turn'd a club, dash out thy curfed brains;
Now rule, now lord and king it, with this fate,
Expecting still the period of thy date.
Methinks I fee how on thy curled brow,
Self-rendring Vengeance fits enthron'd, and how
Thy thoughts already tear me; yet I feel
No horror, nor my frighted body reel,

No trembling in my joynts; know, king, I can
Both do and fuffer bove the reach of man:
In free born fouls pale terror never stood
In competion with their Countries good;
Those fouls in whom afpiring fame her sphear
Hath plac't, neglect the precipice of fear;
This facred altar, thefe pure fires shall be
Witneffes of our undaunted conftancy;

This hand to Roman freedom fo unjust,
Shall for its penance be confum'd to duft;
Nor is it cruel, but most right its doom,
Since liberty it could not yield to Rome."

- John Dancer's Poema. Ed. 1660.

A Reconciliation effected between the two brothers, BRENN and BELINE, at the interceffion of their Mother CONUVENNA.

'I

Dare to name ye Sonnes, because I am your Mother, yet I doubt to tearme you Brothers that doe brotherhood forgét.

These prodigies, their wrothfull fhields, forbodden foe to

foe,

Doe ill befeeme allyed hands, even yours allyed foe.

O, how feeme Oedipus his Sonnes in you againe to strive?
How feeme these swords in me (aye me) Jocasta to revive?
I would Dunwallo lived, or ere death, had loft againe
His Monarchie, fufficing fower, but now too fmall for twaine.
Then either would you, as did he, imploy your wounds elf-
wheare:

Or for the smalnes of your power, agree at least for feare.

VOL. II.

K

But

But pride of ritch and romefome Thrones, that wingeth now your darts,

It will (I would not as I feare) worke forrow to your harts. My Sonnes, fweet Sonnes, attend my words, your Mother's wordes attend,

And for I am your Mother, doe conclude I am your frend: I cannot counfell, but intreate, nor yet I can intreate

But as a woman, and the fame whose blood was once your

meate:

Hence had ye milke (fhe baerd her paps) these armes did hug ye oft:

These fyled hands did wipe, did wrap, did rocke, and lay ye foft:

Thefe lips did kiffe, or eyes did weep, if that ye were un

queat,

Then ply I did, with fong, or fighes, with dance, with tung,

or teate:

For thefe kind causes, deere my Sonnes, difarme yourselves:"

if not,

Then for thefe bitter teares that now your Mother's cheekes

Send hence these Souldiers: yee, my Sons, and none but yee

fhould fight:

When none fiould rather be as one, if Nature had her

right.

What comfort, Beline, fhall I fpeede? fweete Brenn fhall I

prevaile?

Say yea fweete Youthes, ah yea, say yea; or if I needes must faile,

Say noe and then will I begin your battell with my baile, Then then some stranger, not my Sonnes, shall close me in the

Earth

When we by armor over-foone fhall meet, I feare, in death.”

This fayd, with gufhing teares eftfoones the plyes the one

and other,

Till both did fhew themselves at length Sonnes worthy fuch a

Mother:

And with those hands, thofe altred hands, that lately threatned