‘At Totness first he touch’d; which shall renown my stream,
‘(Which now the envious world doth slander for a dream:)
‘Whose fatal flight from Greece, his fortunate arrive
‘In happy Albion here whilst strongly I revive,
‘Dear Harburn, at thy hands this credit let me win,
‘Quoth she, that as thou hast my faithful handmaid been,
‘So now, my only brook, assist me with thy spring,
‘Whilst of the godlike Brute the story thus I sing.
‘When long-renowned Troy lay spent in hostile fire,
‘And aged Priam’s pomp did with her flames expire,