Though Poets all of thee doe make a God,
(Such simple fooles in making Gods they bee)
Yet if I might[728] my quarell try’d[729] with thee,
Thou neuer hadst retournde to Rome agayne,
Nor of thy faithfull friends bin beastly slayne.
28.
A number Britaynes mightst thou there haue seene
Death-wounded fight,[730] and spoile their spitefull foes:
My selfe maimde slewe and mangled mo (I weene)
When I was hurte then twenty more of those: