A Continvance of Albions England :: :: University of Virginia Library

William de-Bruse, of Brechnock Lord, inuited to a feast
Sitsilt, of honourable Birth, and Others not the least
Of South-Wales Gentrie, newly then from armour reconcilde
To this de-Bruse, who brooded hate & hatcht it whilst he smilde.
For whether (which he after fain'd) for slaughtred brother late
Reuenge, or diffrent Sentences in things they then debate,
Were motiues to the Murthers that he acted, was too true
Wrong'd Rites of Hospitalitie on him Heauens vengeance drew.
A signall giuen, his Seruants, arm'd and ambusht to that end,
Slew those his Guests: so dangerous is a Foe reuerst a friend.

413

Not so content, he posteth to the murthred Sitsilts Place,
And slew his Infant-Sonne before the suppliant Mothers face.
Who, when she saw her louely Babe, whom lately she did hugge,
Whilst that he smiled on her lips or spotted with her dugge,
Sprawle in his guiltles gore, and he that stabbed stabbing still,
She nakt her breast, and said: so much (though not so much so ill)
May here be done, ah, be it done, least leasure serue I pray
That vnto thee and thine, grant God, befall as fowle a Day.
Too too obdurate Sauage, if euen thou thy selfe shouldst see
A Babe of thine bleed as bleeds mine, how might it torture thee?
But bard were thine their Mothers Breasts: from home they strāgers so,
The lesser thou canst apprehend a Parents ioy or wo.
My Nurserie of this in me a doubled Nature bread,
His smiles my Cordales, griefe my gall, death rēders me but dead.
Had he (ah, had he) liu'd I had reciprocally spead.
Wretch, stay, Good stay that stab (he meant a stab) perhaps my teares
May balme those past, for yet me thinks a little life appeares.
O be my God for that poore Good! Sweet hart-root, Mam is here:
Is here? now woe is me that thou of helpe art nere the neere.
No, he is gon, alas h'is gon, yet I liue, liue I? no,
But as a Ghost, at least sweet Babe with thee would I were so,
To be this Tyrants terror till he hence to hell shall goe.

Then casteth she her self vpon her Sonne that breath'd his last:
Nor goler blead his wounds but that her eies shead teares as fast.
Her face admirde for faire, besmeard with blood-mixt teares, did adde
The veiw more tragick: And as she this saying often had,
Reuenge it, Sitsilt, happie yet in absence from this sight,
Bruse said in scoffe she spake too late, his life had bod good night:
And laughing left the Lady such as Niobe for like:
Yet spead her Prayers, him and his God diuersly did strike.
Bruse dide in Exile, his proud wife in Prison, one their Sonne
Was staru'd, another braind as he his head-strong horse or'run:
And of that Progenie throughout, long nobled in Descents,

414

Our Histories tragediously doe varie hard Euents.
To our Iniustice Iustice thus is God: repent, amend,
Blood-drifters and Oppressors, els Hell, worse than thus, your End.