Why strive ye then for that, in little time that shall
(As you are all made one) be one unto you all?
Then take my final doom, pronounced lastly, this:
That Lundy like ally'd to Wales and England is.
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Yna, teithia'r bardd ymlaen; edrydd afon Deifi
hanes Merddin, a chanmola afon Gwy, hithau, y
Brythoniaid fel ymladdwyr, gwlatgarwyr a beirdd;
Nor could the Saxon swords (which many a ling'ring year
Them sadly did afflict, and shut the Britons here
'Twixt Severn and this sea) our mighty minds deject,
But that even they which fain'st our weakness would detect,
Were forced to confess, our wildest beasts that breed,
Upon our mighty wastes, or on our mountains feed,
Were far more sooner tamed than here our Welshmen were;
Besides, in all the world, no nation is so dear
As they unto our own; that here within this isle,
Or else in foreign parts, yea, forced to exile,
The noble Briton still his countryman relieves;
A patriot, and so true, that it to death him grieves
To hear his Wales disgrac'd; and on the Saxon swords
Oft hazardeth his life, ere with reproachful words
His language or his leek he'll stand to hear abus'd.
Besides, the Briton is so naturally infus'd
With true poetic rage, that in their measures, art
Doth rather seem precise, than comely; in each part
Their metre most exact, in verse of the hardest kind,
And to some rhiming be so wondrously inclin'd,
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