Of Brutus bloode the last I liude that rulde as king:
My Britaines driuen to Wales they Welchmen then were calde,
And I at Rome their king, a mumbling monke instal’d:
The Saxons had the day, for which they longed long:
They England calde the ile of Brute, which tooke her name.
Some men be borne to blisse, and some to hatefull happe:
Who would haue thought, that I in warre a raging kyng,
Should by the force of fate, at Rome haue dide a monke?
Let al the worlde then know, that nothing is so sure,
That can affoorde and say, I thus wyl aye indure: