From the Ancient British.

Within my mind
I hold books confin’d,
Of Europa’s land all the mighty lore;
O God of heaven high!
With how many a bitter sigh,
I my prophecy upon Troy’s line [49b] pour:

A serpent coiling,
And with fury boiling,
From Germany coming with arm’d wings spread,
Shall Britain fair subdue
From the Lochlin ocean blue,
To where Severn rolls in her spacious bed.

And British men
Shall be captives then
To strangers from Saxonia’s strand;
From God they shall not swerve,
They their language shall preserve,
But except wild Wales, they shall lose their land.