What though thy camp lies free from our alarms,
And spoils our fields with unrevenged harms;
We scorn with baser blood to stain a dart,
O King, that's onely level'd at thy heart:
Our nobler swords will drink the blood of none,
But thy heart-blood, Porsenna, thine alone;
Those who their hands will strait in it imbrue,
Walk intermixed with thy armed crew.
Methinks I see at present 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 famish us, whilst o'er thy head,
Hangs a revengeful arm will fstrike thee dead;
That glorious diadem which now I fee
Circles thy brow, was hop'd a spoil by inee;
That purple robe invests thy loins shal lie,
Thy blood be tinged in a deeper dy:
That very scepter which thy hand sustains,
Shal, turn'd a club, dash out thy cursed brains;
Now rule, now lord and king it, with this fate,
Expecting still the period of thy date.
Methinks I see 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 aspiring fame her sphear
Hath plac't, neglect the precipice of fear;
This facred altar, these pure fires shall be
Witnesses of our undaunted constancy;
This hand to Roman freedom so unjust,
Shall for its penance be confum'd to dust;
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 bro
thers, BRENN and BELINE, at the interceffion of their Mother CONUVENNA.
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 shields, forbodden foe to foe,
Doe ill beseeme allyed hands, even yours allyed foe.
O, how feeme Oedipus his Sonnes in you againe to strive?
How seeme these swords in me (aye me) Jocasta to revive?
I would Dunwallo lived, or ere death, had lost againe
His Monarchie, sufficing fower, but now too small for twaine.
Then either would you, as did he, imploy your wounds elf-
Or for the smalnes of your power, agree at least for feare.
But pride of ritch and romesome Thrones, that wingeth now your darts,
It will (I would not as I feare) worke forrow to your harts. My Sonnes, sweet Sonnes, attend my words, your Mother's
And for I am your Mother, doe conclude I am your frend:
I cannot counsell, but intreate, nor yet I can intreate
But as a woman, and the fame whose blood was once your
Hence had ye milke (she baerd her paps) these armes did hug ye oft:
These fyled hands did wipe, did wrap, did rocke, and lay ye foft: These lips did kisse, or eyes did weep, if that ye were unqueat, Then ply I did, with fong, or fighes, with dance, with tung,
For these kind causes, deere my Sonnes, disarme yourselves : if not,
Then for these bitter teares that now your Mother's cheekes do fpot:
Oft urge I Sonnes and Mothers names, names not to be forgot.
Send hence these Souldiers: yee, my Sons, and none but yee should fight:
When none should rather be as one, if Nature had her right. What comfort, Beline, shall I speede? sweete Brenn shall I prevaile?
Say yea sweete 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 fome stranger, not my Sonnes, shall close me in the
When we by armor over-soone shall meet, I feare, in death."
This sayd, with gushing teares eftsoones she plyes the one
Till both did shew themselves at length Sonnes worthy such a Mother:
And with those hands, those altred hands, that lately threatned bloes,
They did embrace: becomming thus continuall friends of foes.
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