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Those sit, in council, in the temple-court;
Where warriors come in, from round-leaguered walls;
Other are hurt, are some old impotent wights.
Guitelnus, reverend, white-browed magistrate,
Speaks, mongst that dying people of Camulus,
Whilst all give ear; hark speaks, with submiss voice;
Over the river quagmires, lies yet path,
Where the sea-lavender and salt samphires grow:
Haste them, whoso would saved their lives, there pass!

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A weeping company, lo, for their homes lost,
Bearing, their stuff, in sacks, with fearful foot,
Outwend! They Colne, in the cold glooming, wade.
Camulus, the most, of those, then saved: but met,
With other, men in barks, (armed waterers,
Of the fleet-soldiers;) that few having slain,
Of those poor Britons; bind, for thralls, the rest.
Guitelnus caused, be delved, this night, deep pit
And also wide, under their market-place:
Where thing, which cannot be, by fire, consumed,
Might buried lie. This done, he, magistrate,
Cast public wealth in; druids cast temple-gifts;
Cast private men their good! Trampled of feet,
Last rammed they, even with the ground, the place:
That when were taken the dune, might stranger Romans
Not find to spoil this substance of poor Britons!