Note 753 — Howe the worthie Britaine Duke Nennius as a valiaunt souldier and faithfull subiecte encountred with Iulius Cæsar, was by him death wounded: yet naytheles[692] he gate Cæsar’s sworde, put him to flight, slewe therewith Labianus a Tribune of the Romaynes, endured fight till his countreymen wanne the field, and now encourageth all good subiectes, to defende their countrey from the power of forraine and entruding enemies. He was slaine about the yeere before Christ, 52.

But let me nowe retourne againe to tell, What after this, me chaunst to see and heare. I trust yee Readers like my dealing well, In promise that I made, this later yeare. For sure I thinke, a man farre better were Not speaks at all, to promese hilles of gold, And in performance, waxe as key full colde. I saide (if God sent time, and space therfore) Ye should receaue from mee (as leysure came) Of these my simple toyles, a greater store, And partly you perceaue, how I performe the same. Such workes, as this my simple muse can frame, (With all my harte and minde) you freely haue: As free, as God these giftes me frely gaue. Wherefore giue eare, now harken well to this: As to these tunes, I gaue me thought some heede, In doubte if sences led my mynde amisse, Or whether [Greek: pathos] me with toyes did feede. What doth (said Morpheus) now this musing nede? Art thou so farre orewatcht, thy wittes the fayle? Or els do fancies more then wit preuayle? Not so (quoth I) though far the night be past, And yet me thinkes, I could be well content To leaue them so (if this were now the last) So thou therto and Somnus sweete consent: This noble Nennius well the time hath spent. I would haue staide, if he had spoken more: ’Twas his departure, troubled me so sore. (Quoth he) thou must a whyle yet longer byde: In fewe he shall declare, how he hath sped That commes. And euen with that I lookt aside, And sawe a coarse approache without a head. What now (quoth I) though erste (by thee) the dead Were causde to speake, declaring all their will, Yet speach of headlesse men doth passe my skill. With that gan Morpheus touch him with his mace, And sodainly an head, on shoulders pight. For lacke of vse, he could not turne his face, Or else had Morpheus scarcely set it right. He had forgotten eke, to turne his sight: But still he stode his face to set awrye, And wappering turnid vp his white of eye. As t’were a dead man, reared vp an end, Deuoyde of life, and yet a feeling had: His lippes lay open, grimly ofte hee grend: With hollowe eyes, full oft he frowned sad, And bent his browes, and lookte as he were mad: I sawe not in my life, I thinke his pere: Nor shall not, if I liue this hundred yeare. At length he tryde, which way to tell his mynde: Yet how to speake his tonge had quite forgotte: Each instrument forgotten had his kinde, That erste could run at randon and by roate, But then me thought, with fist his brest hee smote, The other hande his musing browes did holde: And as awakte (at laste) this tale he tolde.