There lay the chosen youths of Mars, there lay
The peerless knights, Bellona’s bravest train,
There lay the mirrors rare of martial praise,
There lay the hope and branch of Brute suppress’d:
There fortune laid the prime of Britain’s pride,
There laid her pomp, all topsy-turvy turn’d.
[Exit.
THE THIRD SCENE.
Gildas, Conan.
Gildas. Come, cruel griefs, spare not to stretch our strengths,