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In this, three hundred horse arrived to Romans!
By hap. Had they, which parted were, from Sabine,
Night-time, in thirteen ships, on the dark seas;
Holding no certain course, sith, to Longport,
Come in: whence ridden, hastily, upland forth,
Aye following footprints of the forepast legions;

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They, midst great woods, in mist, (which seemed on those
High antique boughs to seize,) were, two days, lost.
But seen hill-beacon-flames, they made new speed;
And resting only at dawn, to bait their steeds,
Raught to this field; whereas, they suddenly, fetched
A compass, issue, at the blue Britons' backs!
Now on valorous Dobuni, fall their rushing spears:
Whose prince, Bodvocos, on that part, uneath,
The legions' brunt, sustains; with few caterfs.
Were, by whose coming, the spirits of labouring Romans,
Refreshed: so that did make foot-weary soldiers,
Many against few, new onset, on blue Britons.
On what part, hostile to Cunobelin's house,
Of Belges' league, Vigantios, faintly, fights;
(Who, traitorous nephew of old Commius, is
Now of intelligence with false Cogidubnos.)
And they recoil now, first, of all blue Britons!
Before a foreign foe, withdrawing foot:
Turned then their backs, yield Britain's foster-earth!
For was Cunobelin's martial son far-off;
Who makes wide breaches, with his bloody cart,
In Roman ranks, in sight of blue caterfs.
Fight, with sharp breast-pikes and their very teeth,

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His long-maned steeds, and with their brazen hooves;
Gainst plate-clad soldiers, mounting on their shields.
The king seeks, everywhere, the Romans' duke;
Desirous, with his javelin, him to pierce.
But when a new great clamour marked the sire;
And empty scythe-carts, drawn of frighted steeds,
Come from far field; he hastily gathered bands,
Of spears, strong manhood of the Isle upleads.
Headlong, outhurling darts, drives Togodumnos;
Horrid his glittering battle-chariots,
With enemies' nodding jowls and spouting blood!
And where, most, din rings, of man-slaying bronze,
Rush his shrill-whirling scythe-wheels; and now fall,
On, triple, stedfast bronze-clad Romans' front!
Shudders Earth's breast, with tumult terrible,
Of them that give and receive, wounds and death:
Neighings and prancings, rushing of strong steeds!
After him, hurl blue footmen, six caterfs;
Running with immense brunt! whose shielded ranks,
Like surging billow, that, now, kicks the shore,
And casts the pebbles forth, fall on thick Romans:
But, as the surge ebbs, soon, is spent their force!
Was then, ran Gorran, who the king's cup bears,
At Verulam; and brake through much battle-press:
So, swift-foot, came to the Dumnonian bands;

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And prudent Morag finds, son to Duneda.
That valorous, having, now, much Gaulish horse
Repulsed; to noble Kowain leaves, sustain
The battle, with his strength of blue caterfs;
And hastes, where Gorran shows him, with swift scythe-carts,
And succour of light runners, hurling javelins;
And taking, with him, other three caterfs,
Which he reserved, apart, with cries, they pass.
Men marvel see run, yonder, from the wains;
Where, ere, had their winged shafts, Batavians pierced,
A furious scour of women-warriors!
And shriek those, as they run, unto their men,
Die glorious! and shine arms, in their white hands:
And even, of some, the virile knees, compress
Swift steeds! which those had caught, of broken carts.
Other, fleet-foot, knit madding wounded horse,
With wain-chains, and with reins of gravelled chariots;
And given them, of a certain herb, to eat;
With new main cries, they chace more furious forth!
Those fallen, with great head, on a triple legion,
Tread Romans down; and burst their foremost rank:
Whose dukes behold those wifemen, in amaze!
Deeming them Scythians, one-papped women-warriors;

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Women, that smitten, rise up, from the earth;
And desperately contend, again, to death.
Beyond them, hurl those ensigns, and the squadrons
Of Morag, with dread shout! With fury, invade
They, Romans' long ranged front; and roll in blood.
To other part, then passed king Togodumnos.
Who fight, sith dawn; and yet they taste no meat,
Gin languish; and look Britons oft and Romans,
On the sun's course! Prayed the sire Togodumnos,
Then Belin, haste his setting; or infuse,
In Briton steeds and warriors, a new force!
Or, else, might soon arrive Caratacus.
And, with that thought, the warlord sends out scouts,
Eastward, to an hill-ground, which looks far forth.