NUNTIUS. Lo, here at length the stately type of Troy, And Britain land the promis’d seat of Brute, Deck’d with so many spoils of conquered kings! Hail, native soil, these nine years’ space unseen! To thee hath long-renowned Rome at last Held up her hands, bereft of former pomp. But first, inflam’d with wonted valour’s heat, Amidst our sorest siege and thickest broils She stoutly fought, and fiercely waged wars. Tiberius courage gave, upbraiding oft The Roman force, their wonted luck, and long Retained rule by wars throughout the world. What shame it were since such achieved spoils, And conquests gain’d both far and wide, to want Of courage then, when most it should be mov’d! How Britons erst paid tribute for their peace, But now rebel and dare them at their doors. For what was France but theirs? Herewith incens’d, They fiercely rav’d, and bent their force afresh. Which Arthur spying, cried with thundering voice; Fie (Britons) fie! what hath bewitch’d you thus? So many nations foil’d, must Romans foil? What sloth is this? Have you forgot to war, Which ne’er knew hour of peace? turn to your foes, Where you may bathe in blood and fight your fill. Let courage work! what can he not that dares? Thus he, [the] puissant guide in doubtful wars, Asham’d to shun his foes, inflam’d his friends. Then yielding to his stately steed the reins, He furious drives the Roman troops about: He plies each place, lest fates mought alter ought, Pursuing hap, and urging each success. He yields in nought, but instantly persists, In all attempts, wherein whatso withstands His wish, he joys to work away by wrack; And matching death to death, no passage seeks But what destruction works with blade or blood. He scorns the yielded way; he fiercely raves To break and bruise the ranks in thickest throngs, All headlong bent and prone to present spoil. The foes enforc’d withstand; but much dismay’d They senseless fight, while millions lose their lives. At length Tiberius, pierc’d with point of spear, Doth bleeding fall, engor’d with deadly wound. Hereat the rest recoil and headlong fly, Each man to save himself. The battle quails, And Britons win unto their most renown. Then Arthur took Tiberius’ breathless corse, And sent it to the Senators at Rome, With charge to say: This is the tribute due Which Arthur ought: as time hereafter serves; He’ll pay the like again, the while he rests Your debtor thus. But O! this sweet success, Pursu’d with greater harms, turn’d soon to sour. For lo, when foreign soils and seas were past With safe return, and that the king should land, Who but his only son (O outrage rare) With hugy host withstood him on the shore! There were prepar’d the foreign aids from far: There were the borrowed powers of divers kings; There were our parents, brethren, sons and kin, Their wrath, their ire; there, Mordred, was thy rage.