GILDAS

LORD Conan, though I know how hard a thing It is, for minds trainde up in Princely Thrones, To hear of ought against their humor's course: Yet: since who forbiddeth not offence, If well he may, is cause of such offence: I could have wished (and blame me not my Lord) Your place and countenance both with Son and Sire, Had more preuailde on either side, then thus To-have left a Crown in danger for a Crown Through civil wars, our Countries wonted woe. Whereby the Kingdom's wound still festering deep, Sucks up the mischief's humour to the heart. The staggering state of Britons troubled brains, Headsicke, and soar encumbered in her Crown, With guiddy steps runs on a headlong raze. Whereto this tempest tend's, or where this storm Will break, who knows? But Gods avert the worst. Well: we that have not spent our time in wars, But bent our course at peace, and Countries weal, May rather now expect what strange event, And Chance ensues of these so rare attempts: Then enter to discourse upon their cause, And err as wide in words, as they in deeds. What fresh mishap (alas) what new annoy, Removes our pensive minds from wonted woes, And yet requires a new lamenting mood? Declare: we joy to handle all our harms: Our many griefs have taught us still to mourn. What greater sins could hap, then what be passed? What mischiefs could be meant, more then were wrought? How so? If Arthur woonne, what could we lose? You speak in clouds, and cast perplexed words. Unfold at large: and sort out sorrows out. He was not now to seek what blood to draw: He knew what juice refreshed his fainting Crown. Too much of Arthurs heart. Oh had he wist How great a vice such virtue was as then. In Civil wars, in rooting up his Realm? Oh frantic fury, far from Ualures praise. COme cruel griefs, spare not to stretch our strengths, While bailefull breasts invite our thumping fists. Let every sign, that mournful passion work, Express what piteous plights our minds amaze. This day supplants what no day can supply, These hands have wrought those wastes, that never age, Nor all the brood of Brutus shall e'r repair. That future men may joy the surer rest, These wars prevent their birth, and nip their spring. What Nations erst the former age subdued With hourly toils to Britons yoke, this day Hath set at large, and backwards turned the Fates. Henceforth the Kerns may safely tread their bogs: The Scots may now their inroads old renew, The Saxon well may vow their former claims, And Danes without their danger driven us out. These wars found not the'ffect of wonted wars, Nor does their weight the Like impression work: There several Fates annoyed but several men, Here all the Realm and people find one Fate. What there did reach but to a Soldiers death, Contains the death of all a Nation here. These blades have given this Isle a greater wound, Then time can heal. The fruit of civil wars: A Kingdom's hand hath goard a Kingdom's heart,