So from the face of Mervyn Tewdor braveThe Normans eftsoons fled awaie aghaste;And lefte behynde their bowe and asenglave.For fear of hym, in thilk a cowart haste.His garb sufficient were to move affryghte; 485A wolf skin girded round his myddle was;A bear skyn, from Norwegians wan in fyghte,Was tytend round his shoulders by the claws:So Hercules, 'tis sunge, much like to him,Upon his sholder wore a lyon's skin. 490
Upon his thyghes and harte-swefte legges he woreA hugie goat skyn, all of one grete peice;A boar skyn sheelde on his bare armes he bore;His gauntletts were the skynn of harte of greece.They fledde; he followed close upon their heels, 495Vowynge vengeance for his deare countrymanne;And Siere de Sancelotte his vengeance feels;He peerc'd hys backe, and out the bloude ytt ranne.His bloude went downe the swerde unto his arme,In springing rivulet, alive and warme. 500
His swerde was shorte, and broade, and myckle keene,And no mann's bone could stonde to stoppe itts waie;The Normann's harte in partes two cutt cleane,He clos'd his eyne, and clos'd hys eyne for aie.Then with his swerde he sett on Fitz du Valle, 505A knyghte mouch famous for to runne at tylte;With thilk a furie on hym he dyd falle,Into his neck he ranne the swerde and hylte;As myghtie lyghtenynge often has been founde,To drive an oke into unfallow'd grounde. 510
And with the swerde, that in his neck yet stoke,The Norman fell unto the bloudie grounde;And with the fall ap Tewdore's swerde he broke,And bloude afreshe came trickling from the wounde.As whan the hyndes, before a mountayne wolfe, 515Flie from his paws, and angrie vysage grym;But when he falls into the pittie golphe,They dare hym to his bearde, and battone hym;And cause he fryghted them so muche before,Lyke cowart hyndes, they battone hym the more. 520
So, whan they sawe ap Tewdore was bereftOf his keen swerde, thatt wroghte thilke great dismaie,They turned about, eftsoons upon hym lept,And full a score engaged in the fraie.Mervyn ap Tewdore, ragyng as a bear, 525Seiz'd on the beaver of the Sier de Laque;And wring'd his hedde with such a vehement gier,His visage was turned round unto his backe.Backe to his harte retyr'd the useless gore,And felle upon the pleine to rise no more. 530
Then on the mightie Siere Fitz Pierce he flew,And broke his helm and seiz'd hym bie the throte:Then manie Normann knyghtes their arrowes drew,That enter'd into Mervyn's harte, God wote.In dying panges he gryp'd his throte more stronge, 535And from their sockets started out his eyes;And from his mouthe came out his blameless tonge;And bothe in peyne and anguishe eftsoon dies.As some rude rocke torne from his bed of claie,Stretch'd onn the pleyne the brave ap Tewdore laie. 540
And now Erle Ethelbert and Egward cameBrave Mervyn from the Normannes to assist;A myghtie siere, Fitz Chatulet bie name,An arrowe drew, that dyd them littel list.Erle Egward points his launce at Chatulet, 545And Ethelbert at Walleris set his;And Egwald dyd the siere a hard blowe hytt,But Ethelbert by a myschaunce dyd miss:Fear laide Walleris flat upon the strande,He ne deserved a death from erlies hande. 550
Betwyxt the ribbes of Sire Fitz ChateletThe poynted launce of Egward did ypass;The distaunt syde thereof was ruddie wet,And he fell breathless on the bloudie grass.As cowart Walleris laie on the grounde, 555The dreaded weapon hummed oer his heade.And hytt the squier thylke a lethal wounde,Upon his fallen lorde he tumbled dead:Oh shame to Norman armes! a lord a slave,A captyve villeyn than a lorde more brave! 560
From Chatelet hys launce Erle Egward drew,And hit Wallerie on the dexter cheek;Peerc'd to his braine, and cut his tongue in two:There, knyght, quod he, let that thy actions speak—
* * * * *
[No 2.]
Oh Truth! immortal daughter of the skies,Too lyttle known to wryters of these daies,Teach me, fayre Saincte! thy passynge worthe to pryze,To blame a friend and give a foeman prayse.The sickle moone, bedeckt wythe sylver rays, 5Leadynge a traine of starres of feeble lyghte,With look adigne the worlde belowe surveies,The world, that wotted not it coud be nyghte;Wyth armour dyd, with human gore ydeyd,She sees Kynge Harolde stande, fayre Englands curse and pryde. 10
With ale and vernage drunk his souldiers lay;Here was an hynde, anie an erlie spredde;Sad keepynge of their leaders natal daie!This even in drinke, toomorrow with the dead!Thro' everie troope disorder reer'd her hedde; 15Dancynge and heideignes was the onlie theme;Sad dome was theires, who lefte this easie bedde,And wak'd in torments from so sweet a dream.Duke Williams menne, of comeing dethe afraide,All nyghte to the great Godde for succour askd and praied. 20
Thus Harolde to his wites that stoode arounde;Goe, Gyrthe and Eilward, take bills halfe a score,And search how farre our foeman's campe doth bound;Yourself have rede; I nede to saie ne more.My brother best belov'd of anie ore, 25My Leoswinus, goe to everich wite,Tell them to raunge the battel to the grore,And waiten tyll I sende the hest for fyghte.He saide; the loieaul broders lefte the place,Success and cheerfulness depicted on ech face. 30
Slowelie brave Gyrthe and Eilwarde dyd advaunce,And markd wyth care the armies dystant syde.When the dyre clatterynge of the shielde and launceMade them to be by Hugh Fitzhugh espyd.He lyfted up his voice, and lowdlie cryd; 35Like wolfs in wintere did the Normanne yell;Girthe drew hys swerde, and cutte hys burled hyde;The proto-slene manne of the fielde he felle;Out streemd the bloude, and ran in smokynge curles,Reflected bie the moone seemd rubies mixt wyth pearles. 40
A troope of Normannes from the mass-songe came,Rousd from their praiers by the flotting crie;Thoughe Girthe and Ailwardus perceevd the same,Not once theie stoode abashd, or thoghte to flie.He seizd a bill, to conquer or to die; 45Fierce as a clevis from a rocke ytorne,That makes a vallie wheresoe're it lie;[1]Fierce as a ryver burstynge from the borne;So fiercelie Gyrthe hitte Fitz du Gore a blowe.And on the verdaunt playne he layde the champyone lowe. 50
Tancarville thus; alle peace in Williams name;Let none edraw his arcublaster bowe.Girthe cas'd his weppone as he hearde the same,And vengynge Normannes staid the flyinge floe.The sire wente onne; ye menne, what mean ye so 55Thus unprovokd to courte a bloudie fyghte?Quod Gyrthe; oure meanynge we ne care to showe,Nor dread thy duke wyth all his men of myghte;Here single onlie these to all thie creweShall shewe what Englysh handes and heartes can doe. 60
Seek not for bloude, Tancarville calme replyd,Nor joie in dethe, lyke madmen most distraught;In peace and mercy is a Chrystians pryde;He that dothe contestes pryze is in a faulte.And now the news was to Duke William brought, 65That men of Haroldes armie taken were;For theyre good cheere all caties were enthoughte,And Gyrthe and Eilwardus enjoi'd goode cheere.Quod Willyam; thus shall Willyam be foundeA friend to everie manne that treades on English ground. 70
Erie Leofwinus throwghe the campe ypass'd,And sawe bothe men and erlies on the grounde;They slepte, as thoughe they woulde have slepte theyr last,And hadd alreadie felte theyr fatale wounde.He started backe, and was wyth shame astownd; 75Loked wanne wyth anger, and he shooke wyth rage;When throughe the hollow tentes these wordes dyd sound,Rowse from your sleepe, detratours of the age!Was it for thys the stoute Norwegian bledde?Awake, ye huscarles, now, or waken wyth the dead. 80
As when the shepster in the shadie bowreIn jintle slumbers chase the heat of daie,Hears doublyng echoe wind the wolfins rore,That neare hys flocke is watchynge for a praie,He tremblynge for his sheep drives dreeme awaie, 85Gripes faste hys burled croke, and sore adraddeWyth fleeting strides he hastens to the fraie,And rage and prowess fyres the coistrell lad;With trustie talbots to the battel flies,And yell of men and dogs and wolfins tear the skies. 90
Such was the dire confusion of eche wite,That rose from sleep and walsome power of wine;Theie thoughte the foe by trechit yn the nyghteHad broke theyr camp and gotten paste the line;Now here now there the burnysht sheeldes and byll-spear shine; 95Throwote the campe a wild confusionne spredde;Eche bracd hys armlace siker ne desygne,The crested helmet nodded on the hedde;Some caught a flughorne, and an onsett wounde;Kynge Harolde hearde the charge, and wondred at the sounde. 100
Thus Leofwine; O women cas'd in stele!Was itte for thys Norwegia's stubborn sedeThroughe the black armoure dyd the anlace fele,And rybbes of solid brasse were made to bleede?Whylst yet the worlde was wondrynge at the deede. 105You souldiers, that shoulde stand with byll in hand,Get full of wine, devoid of any rede.Oh shame! oh dyre dishonoure to the lande!He sayde; and shame on everie visage spredde,Ne sawe the erlies face, but addawd hung their head. 110
Thus he; rowze yee, and forme the boddie tyghte.The Kentysh menne in fronte, for strenght renownd,Next the Brystowans dare the bloudie fyghte,And last the numerous crewe shall presse the grounde.I and my king be wyth the Kenters founde; 115Bythric and Alfwold hedde the Brystowe bande;And Bertrams sonne, the man of glorious wounde,Lead in the rear the menged of the lande;And let the Londoners and Suffers plieBie Herewardes memuine and the lighte skyrts anie. 120
He saide; and as a packe of hounds belent,When that the trackyng of the hare is gone,If one perchaunce shall hit upon the scent,With twa redubbled fhuir the alans run;So styrrd the valiante Saxons everych one; 125Soone linked man to man the champyones stoode;To 'tone for their bewrate so soone 'twas done,And lyfted bylls enseem'd an yron woode;Here glorious Alfwold towr'd above the wites,And seem'd to brave the fuir of twa ten thousand fights. 130
Thus Leofwine; today will Englandes domeBe fyxt for aie, for gode or evill state;This sunnes aunture be felt for years to come;Then bravelie fyghte, and live till deathe of date.Thinke of brave Ælfridus, yclept the grete, 135From porte to porte the red-haird Dane he chasd,The Danes, with whomme not lyoncels coud mate,Who made of peopled reaulms a barren waste;Thinke how at once by you Norwegia bledWhilste dethe and victorie for magystrie bested. 140
Meanwhile did Gyrthe unto Kynge Harolde ride,And tolde howe he dyd with Duke Willyam fare.Brave Harolde lookd askaunte, and thus replyd;And can thie say be bowght wyth drunken cheer?Gyrthe waxen hotte; fhuir in his eyne did glare; 145And thus he saide; oh brother, friend, and kynge,Have I deserved this fremed speche to heare?Bie Goddes hie hallidome ne thoughte the thynge.When Tostus sent me golde and sylver store,I scornd hys present vile, and scorn'd hys treason more. 150
Forgive me, Gyrthe, the brave Kynge Harolde cryd;Who can I trust, if brothers are not true?I think of Tostus, once my joie and pryde.Girthe saide, with looke adigne; my lord, I doe.But what oure foemen are, quod Girth, I'll shewe; 155By Gods hie hallidome they preestes are.Do not, quod Harolde, Girthe, mystell them so,For theie are everich one brave men at warre.Quod Girthe; why will ye then provoke theyr hate?Quod Harolde; great the foe, so is the glorie grete. 160
And nowe Duke Willyam mareschalled his band,And stretchd his armie owte a goodlie rowe.First did a ranke of arcublastries stande,Next those on horsebacke drewe the ascendyng flo,Brave champyones, eche well lerned in the bowe, 165Theyr asenglave acrosse theyr horses ty'd,Or with the loverds squier behinde dyd goe,Or waited squier lyke at the horses syde.When thus Duke Willyam to a Monke dyd saie,Prepare thyselfe wyth spede, to Harolde haste awaie. 170
Telle hym from me one of these three to take;That hee to mee do homage for thys lande,Or mee hys heyre, when he deceasyth, make,Or to the judgment of Chrysts vicar stande.He saide; the Monke departyd out of hande, 175And to Kyng Harolde dyd this message bear;Who said; tell thou the duke, at his likandIf he can gette the crown hee may itte wear.He said, and drove the Monke out of his syghte,And with his brothers rouz'd each manne to bloudie fyghte. 180
A standarde made of sylke and jewells rare,Wherein alle coloures wroughte aboute in bighes,An armyd knyghte was seen deth-doynge there,Under this motte, He conquers or he dies.This standard rych, endazzlynge mortal eyes, 185Was borne neare Harolde at the Renters heade,Who chargd hys broders for the grete empryzeThat straite the hest for battle should be spredde.To evry erle and knyghte the worde is gyven,And criesa guerreand slughornes shake the vaulted heaven. 190
As when the erthe, torne by convulsyons dyre,In reaulmes of darkness hid from human syghte,The warring force of water, air, and fyre,Brast from the regions of eternal nyghte,Thro the darke caverns seeke the reaulmes of lyght; 195Some loftie mountaine, by its fury torne,Dreadfully moves, and causes grete affryght;Now here, now there, majestic nods the bourne,And awfulle shakes, mov'd by the almighty force,Whole woods and forests nod, and ryvers change theyr course. 200
So did the men of war at once advaunce,Linkd man to man, enseemed one boddie light;Above a wood, yform'd of bill and launce,That noddyd in the ayre most straunge to syght.Harde as the iron were the menne of mighte, 205Ne neede of slughornes to enrowse theyr minde;Eche shootynge spere yreaden for the fyghte,More feerce than fallynge rocks, more swefte than wynd;With solemne step, by ecchoe made more dyre,One single boddie all theie marchd, theyr eyen on fyre. 210
And now the greie-eyd morne with vi'lets drest,Shakyng the dewdrops on the flourie meedes,Fled with her rosie radiance to the West:Forth from the Easterne gatte the fyerie steedesOf the bright sunne awaytynge spirits leedes: 215The sunne, in fierie pompe enthrond on hie,Swyfter than thoughte alonge hys jernie gledes,And scatters nyghtes remaynes from oute the skie:He sawe the armies make for bloudie fraie,And stopt his driving steeds, and hid his lyghtsome raye. 220
Kynge Harolde hie in ayre majestic raysdHis mightie arme, deckt with a manchyn rare;With even hande a mighty javlyn paizde,Then furyouse sent it whystlynge thro the ayre.It struck the helmet of the Sieur de Beer; 225In vayne did brasse or yron stop its waie;Above his eyne it came, the bones dyd tare,Peercynge quite thro, before it dyd allaie;He tumbled, scritchyng wyth hys horrid payne;His hollow cuishes rang upon the bloudie pleyne. 230
This Willyam saw, and soundynge Rowlandes songeHe bent his yron interwoven bowe,Makynge bothe endes to meet with myghte full stronge,From out of mortals syght shot up the floe;Then swyfte as fallynge starres to earthe belowe 235It slaunted down on Alfwoldes payncted sheelde;Quite thro the silver-bordurd crosse did goe,Nor loste its force, but stuck into the feelde;The Normannes, like theyr sovrin, dyd prepare,And shotte ten thousande floes uprysynge in the aire. 240
As when a flyghte of cranes, that takes their waieIn householde armies thro the flanched skie,Alike the cause, or companie or prey,If that perchaunce some boggie fenne is nie.Soon as the muddie natyon theie espie, 245Inne one blacke cloude theie to the erth descende;Feirce as the fallynge thunderbolte they flie;In vayne do reedes the speckled folk defend:So prone to heavie blowe the arrowes felle,And peered thro brasse, and sente manie to heaven or helle. 250
Ælan Adelfred, of the stowe of Leigh,Felte a dire arrowe burnynge in his breste;Before he dyd, he sente hys spear awaie,Thenne sunke to glorie and eternal reste.Nevylle, a Normanne of alle Normannes beste, 255Throw the joint cuishe dyd the javlyn feel,As hee on horsebacke for the fyghte addressd,And sawe hys bloude come smokynge oer the steele;He sente the avengynge floe into the ayre,And turnd hys horses hedde, and did to leeche repayre. 260
And now the javelyns, barbd with deathhis wynges,Hurld from the Englysh handes by force aderne,Whyzz dreare alonge, and songes of terror synges,Such songes as alwaies clos'd in lyfe eterne.Hurld by such strength along the ayre theie burne, 265Not to be quenched butte ynn Normannes bloude;Wherere theie came they were of lyfe forlorn,And alwaies followed by a purple floude;Like cloudes the Normanne arrowes did descend,Like cloudes of carnage full in purple drops dyd end. 270
Nor, Leofwynus, dydst thou still estande;Full soon thie pheon glytted in the aire;The force of none but thyne and Harolds handeCould hurle a javlyn with such lethal geer;Itte whyzzd a ghastlie dynne in Normannes ear, 275Then thundryng dyd upon hys greave alyghte,Peirce to his hearte, and dyd hys bowels tear,He closd hys eyne in everlastynge nyghte;Ah! what avayld the lyons on his creste!His hatchments rare with him upon the grounde was prest. 280
Willyam agayne ymade his bowe-ends meet,And hie in ayre the arrowe wynged his waie,Descendyng like a shafte of thunder sleete,Lyke thunder rattling at the noon of daie,Onne Algars sheelde the arrowe dyd assaie, 285There throghe dyd peerse, and stycke into his groine;In grypynge torments on the feelde he laie,Tille welcome dethe came in and clos'd his eyne;Distort with peyne he laie upon the borne,Lyke sturdie elms by stormes in uncothe wrythynges torne. 290
Alrick his brother, when hee this perceevd,He drewe his swerde, his lefte hande helde a speere,Towards the duke he turnd his prauncyng steede,And to the Godde of heaven he sent a prayre;Then sent his lethale javlyn in the ayre, 295On Hue de Beaumontes backe the javelyn came,Thro his redde armour to hys harte it tare,He felle and thondred on the place of fame;Next with his swerde he 'sayld the Seiur de Roe,And braste his sylver helme, so furyous was the blowe. 300
But Willyam, who had seen hys prowesse great,And feered muche how farre his bronde might goe,Tooke a strong arblaster, and bigge with fateFrom twangynge iron sente the fleetynge floe.As Alric hoistes hys arme for dedlie blowe, 305Which, han it came, had been Du Roees laste,The swyfte-wyngd messenger from Willyams boweQuite throwe his arme into his syde ypaste;His eyne shotte fyre, lyke blazyng starre at nyghte,He grypd his swerde, and felle upon the place of fyghte. 310
O Alfwolde, saie, how shalle I synge of theeOr telle how manie dyd benethe thee falle;Not Haroldes self more Normanne knyghtes did slee,Not Haroldes self did for more praises call;How shall a penne like myne then shew it all? 315Lyke thee their leader, eche Bristowyanne foughte;Lyke thee, their blaze must be canonical,Fore theie, like thee, that daie bewrecke yroughte:Did thirtie Normannes fall upon the grounde,Full half a score from thee and theie receive their fatale wounde. 320
First Fytz Chivelloys felt thie direful force;Nete did hys helde out brazen sheelde availe;Eftsoones throwe that thie drivynge speare did peerceNor was ytte stopped by his coate of mayle;Into his breaste it quicklie did assayle; 325Out ran the bloude, like hygra of the tyde;With purple stayned all hys adventayle;In scarlet was his cuishe of sylver dyde:Upon the bloudie carnage house he laie,Whylst hys longe sheelde dyd gleem with the sun's rysing ray. 330
Next Fescampe felle; O Chrieste, howe harde his fateTo die the leckedst knyghte of all the thronge!His sprite was made of malice deslavate,Ne shoulden find a place in anie songe.The broch'd keene javlyn hurld from honde so stronge 335As thine came thundrynge on his crysted beave;Ah! neete avayld the brass or iron thonge,With mightie force his skulle in twoe dyd cleave;Fallyng he shooken out his smokyng braine,As witherd oakes or elmes are hewne from off the playne. 340
For, Norcie, could thie myghte and skilfulle lorePreserve thee from the doom of Alfwold's speere;Couldste thou not kenne, most skyll'd Astrelagoure.How in the battle it would wythe thee fare?When Alfwolds javelyn, rattlynge in the ayre, 345From hande dyvine on thie habergeon came,Oute at thy backe it dyd thie hartes bloude bear,It gave thee death and everlastynge fame;Thy deathe could onlie come from Alfwolde arme,As diamondes onlie can its fellow diamonds harme. 350
Next Sire du Mouline fell upon the grounde,Quite throughe his throte the lethal javlyn preste,His soule and bloude came roushynge from the wounde;He closd his eyen, and opd them with the blest.It can ne be I should behight the rest, 355That by the myghtie arme of Alfwolde felle,Paste bie a penne to be counte or expreste,How manie Alfwolde sent to heaven or helle;As leaves from trees shook by derne Autumns hand,So laie the Normannes slain by Alfwold on the strand. 360
As when a drove of wolves withe dreary yellesAssayle some flocke, ne care if shepster ken't,Besprenge destructione oer the woodes and delles;The shepster swaynes in vayne theyr lees lement;So foughte the Brystowe menne; ne one crevent, 365Ne onne abashd enthoughten for to flee;With fallen Normans all the playne besprent,And like theyr leaders every man did flee;In vayne on every syde the arrowes fled;The Brystowe menne styll ragd, for Alfwold was not dead. 370
Manie meanwhile by Haroldes arm did falle,And Leofwyne and Gyrthe encreasd the slayne;'Twould take a Nestor's age to synge them all,Or telle how manie Normannes preste the playne;But of the erles, whom recorde nete hath slayne, 375O Truthe! for good of after-tymes relate,That, thowe they're deade, theyr names may lyve agayne,And be in deathe, as they in life were, greate;So after-ages maie theyr actions see,And like to them æternal alwaie stryve to be. 380
Adhelm, a knyghte, whose holie deathless fireFor ever bended to St. Cuthbert's shryne,Whose breast for ever burnd with sacred fyre.And een on erthe he myghte be calld dyvine;To Cuthbert's church he dyd his goodes resygne, 385And lefte hys son his God's and fortunes knyghte;His son the Saincte behelde with looke adigne,Made him in gemot wyse, and greate in fyghte;Saincte Cuthberte dyd him ayde in all hys deedes,His friends he lets to live, and all his fomen bleedes. 390
He married was to Kenewalchae faire,The fynest dame the sun or moone adave;She was the myghtie Aderedus heyre,Who was alreadie hastynge to the grave;As the blue Bruton, rysinge from the wave, 395Like sea-gods seeme in most majestic guise.And rounde aboute the risynge waters lave,And their longe hayre arounde their bodie flies,Such majestic was in her porte displaid,To be excelld bie none but Homer's martial maid. 400
White as the chaulkie clyffes of Brittaines isle,Red as the highest colour'd Gallic wine,Gaie as all nature at the mornynge smile,Those hues with pleasaunce on her lippes combine,Her lippes more redde than summer evenynge skyne, 405Or Phoebus rysinge in a frostie morne,Her breste more white than snow in feeldes that lyene,Or lillie lambes that never have been shorne,Swellynge like bubbles in a boillynge welle,Or new-braste brooklettes gently whyspringe in the delle. 410
Browne as the fylberte droppyng from the shelle,Browne as the nappy ale at Hocktyde game,So browne the crokyde rynges, that featlie fellOver the neck of the all-beauteous dame.Greie as the morne before the ruddie flame 415Of Phoebus charyotte rollynge thro the skie,Greie as the steel-horn'd goats Conyan made tame,So greie appeard her featly sparklyng eye;Those eyne, that did oft mickle pleased lookOn Adhelm valyaunt man, the virtues doomsday book. 420
Majestic as the grove of okes that stoodeBefore the abbie buylt by Oswald kynge;Majestic as Hybernies holie woode,Where sainctes and soules departed masses synge;Such awe from her sweete looke forth issuynge 425At once for reveraunce and love did calle;Sweet as the voice of thraslarkes in the Spring,So sweet the wordes that from her lippes did falle;None fell in vayne; all shewed some entent;Her wordies did displaie her great entendement. 430
Tapre as candles layde at Cuthberts shryne,Tapre as elmes that Goodrickes abbie shrove,Tapre as silver chalices for wine,So tapre was her armes and shape ygrove.As skyllful mynemenne by the stones above 435Can ken what metalle is ylach'd belowe,So Kennewalcha's face, ymade for love,The lovelie ymage of her soule did shewe;Thus was she outward form'd; the sun her mindDid guilde her mortal shape and all her charms refin'd. 440
What blazours then, what glorie shall he clayme,What doughtie Homere shall hys praises synge,That lefte the bosome of so fayre a dameUncall'd, unaskt, to serve his lorde the kynge?To his fayre shrine goode subjects oughte to bringe 445The armes, the helmets, all the spoyles of warre,Throwe everie reaulm the poets blaze the thynge,And travelling merchants spredde hys name to farre;The stoute Norwegians had his anlace felte,And nowe amonge his foes dethe-doynge blowes he delte. 450
As when a wolfyn gettynge in the meedesHe rageth sore, and doth about hym slee,Nowe here a talbot, there a lambkin bleeds,And alle the grasse with clotted gore doth stree;As when a rivlette rolles impetuouslie, 455And breaks the bankes that would its force restrayne,Alonge the playne in fomynge rynges doth flee,Gaynste walles and hedges doth its course maintayne;As when a manne doth in a corn-fielde mowe,With ease at one felle stroke full manie is laide lowe. 460
So manie, with such force, and with such ease,Did Adhelm slaughtre on the bloudie playne;Before hym manie dyd theyr hearts bloude lease,Ofttymes he foughte on towres of smokynge slayne.Angillian felte his force, nor felte in vayne; 465He cutte hym with his swerde athur the breaste;Out ran the bloude, and did hys armoure stayne,He clos'd his eyen in æternal reste;Lyke a tall oke by tempeste borne awaie,Stretchd in the armes of dethe upon the plaine he laie. 470
Next thro the ayre he sent his javlyn feerce,That on De Clearmoundes buckler did alyghte,Throwe the vaste orbe the sharpe pheone did peerce,Rang on his coate of mayle and spente its mighte.But soon another wingd its aiery flyghte, 475The keen broad pheon to his lungs did goe;He felle, and groand upon the place of fighte,Whilst lyfe and bloude came issuynge from the blowe.Like a tall pyne upon his native playne,So fell the mightie sire and mingled with the slaine. 480
Hue de Longeville, a force doughtre mere,Advauncyd forwarde to provoke the darte,When soone he founde that Adhelmes poynted speereHad founde an easie passage to his hearte.He drewe his bowe, nor was of dethe astarte, 485Then fell down brethlesse to encrease the corse;But as he drewe hys bowe devoid of arte,So it came down upon Troyvillains horse;Deep thro hys hatchments wente the pointed floe;Now here, now there, with rage bleedyng he rounde doth goe. 490
Nor does he hede his mastres known commands,Tyll, growen furiouse by his bloudie wounde,Erect upon his hynder feete he staundes,And throwes hys mastre far off to the grounde.Near Adhelms feete the Normanne laie astounde, 495Besprengd his arrowes, loosend was his sheelde,Thro his redde armoure, as he laie ensoond,He peercd his swerde, and out upon the feeldeThe Normannes bowels steemd, a dedlie syghte!He opd and closd hys eyen in everlastynge nyghte. 500
Caverd, a Scot, who for the Normannes foughte,A man well skilld in swerde and soundynge strynge,Who fled his country for a crime enstrote,For darynge with bolde worde hys loiaule kynge,He at Erie Aldhelme with grete force did flynge 505An heavie javlyn, made for bloudie wounde,Alonge his sheelde askaunte the same did ringe,Peered thro the corner, then stuck in the grounde;So when the thonder rauttles in the skie,Thro some tall spyre the shaftes in a torn clevis flie. 510
Then Addhelm hurld a croched javlyn stronge,With mighte that none but such grete championes know;Swifter than thoughte the javlyn past alonge,Ande hytte the Scot most feirclie on the prowe;His helmet brasted at the thondring blowe, 515Into his brain the tremblyn javlyn steck;From eyther syde the bloude began to flow,And run in circling ringlets rounde his neck;Down fell the warriour on the lethal strande,Lyke some tall vessel wreckt upon the tragick sande. 520
Where fruytlefs heathes and meadowes cladde in greie,Save where derne hawthornes reare theyr humble heade,The hungrie traveller upon his waieSees a huge desarte alle arounde hym spredde,The distaunte citie scantlie to be spedde, 525The curlynge force of smoke he sees in vayne,Tis too far distaunte, and hys onlie beddeIwimpled in hys cloke ys on the playne,Whylste rattlynge thonder forrey oer his hedde,And raines come down to wette hys harde uncouthlie bedde. 530
A wondrous pyle of rugged mountaynes standes,Placd on eche other in a dreare arraie,It ne could be the worke of human handes,It ne was reared up bie menne of claie.Here did the Brutons adoration paye 535To the false god whom they did Tauran name,Dightynge hys altarre with greete fyres in Maie,Roastynge theyr vyctimes round aboute the flame,'Twas here that Hengyst did the Brytons slee,As they were mette in council for to bee. 540
Neere on a loftie hylle a citie standes,That lyftes yts scheafted heade ynto the skies,And kynglie lookes arounde on lower landes,And the longe browne playne that before itte lies.Herewarde, borne of parentes brave and wyse, 545Within this vylle fyrste adrewe the ayre,A blessynge to the erthe sente from the skies,In anie kyngdom nee coulde fynde his pheer;Now rybbd in steele he rages yn the fyghte,And sweeps whole armies to the reaulmes of nyghte. 550
So when derne Autumne wyth hys sallowe handeTares the green mantle from the lymed trees,The leaves besprenged on the yellow strandeFlie in whole armies from the blataunte breeze;Alle the whole fielde a carnage-howse he sees, 555And sowles unknelled hover'd oer the bloude;From place to place on either hand he slees,And sweepes alle neere hym lyke a bronded floude;Dethe honge upon his arme; he sleed so maynt,'Tis paste the pointel of a man to paynte. 560
Bryghte sonne in haste han drove hys fierie wayneA three howres course alonge the whited skyen,Vewynge the swarthless bodies on the playne,And longed greetlie to plonce in the bryne.For as hys beemes and far-stretchynge eyne 565Did view the pooles of gore yn purple sheene,The wolsomme vapours rounde hys lockes dyd twyne,And dyd disfygure all hys femmlikeen;Then to harde actyon he hys wayne dyd rowse,In hyssynge ocean to make glair hys browes. 570
Duke Wyllyam gave commaunde, eche Norman knyghte,That been war-token in a shielde so fyne,Shoulde onward goe, and dare to closer fyghteThe Saxonne warryor, that dyd so entwyne,Lyke the neshe bryon and the eglantine, 575Orre Cornysh wrastlers at a Hocktyde game.The Normannes, all emarchialld in a lyne,To the ourt arraie of the thight Saxonnes came;There 'twas the whaped Normannes on a parreDyd know that Saxonnes were the sonnes of warre. 580
Oh Turgotte, wheresoeer thie spryte dothe haunte,Whither wyth thie lovd Adhelme by thie syde,Where thou mayste heare the swotie nyghte larke chaunte,Orre wyth some mokynge brooklette swetelie glide,Or rowle in ferselie wythe ferse Severnes tyde, 585Whereer thou art, come and my mynde enlemeWyth such greete thoughtes as dyd with thee abyde,Thou sonne, of whom I ofte have caught a beeme,Send mee agayne a drybblette of thie lyghte,That I the deeds of Englyshmenne maie wryte. 590
Harold, who saw the Normannes to advaunce,Seizd a huge byll, and layd hym down hys spere;Soe dyd ech wite laie downe the broched launce,And groves of bylles did glitter in the ayre.Wyth showtes the Normannes did to battel steere; 595Campynon famous for his stature highe,Fyrey wythe brasse, benethe a shyrte of lere,In cloudie daie he reechd into the skie;Neere to Kyng Harolde dyd he come alonge,And drewe hys steele Morglaien sworde so stronge. 600
Thryce rounde hys heade hee swung hys anlace wyde,On whyche the sunne his visage did agleeme,Then straynynge, as hys membres would dyvyde,Hee stroke on Haroldes sheelde yn manner breme;Alonge the field it made an horrid cleembe, 605Coupeynge Kyng Harolds payncted sheeld in twayne,Then yn the bloude the fierie swerde dyd steeme,And then dyd drive ynto the bloudie playne;So when in ayre the vapours do abounde,Some thunderbolte tares trees and dryves ynto the grounde. 610
Harolde upreer'd hys bylle, and furious senteA stroke, lyke thondre, at the Normannes syde;Upon the playne the broken brasse besprenteDyd ne hys bodie from dethe-doeynge hyde;He tournyd backe, and dyd not there abyde; 615With straught oute sheelde hee ayenwarde did goe,Threwe downe the Normannes, did their rankes divide,To save himselfe lefte them unto the foe;So olyphauntes, in kingdomme of the sunne,When once provok'd doth throwe theyr owne troopes runne. 620
Harolde, who ken'd hee was his armies staie,Nedeynge the rede of generaul so wyse,Byd Alfwoulde to Campynon haste awaie,As thro the armie ayenwarde he hies,Swyfte as a feether'd takel Alfwoulde flies, 625The steele bylle blushynge oer wyth lukewarm bloude;Ten Kenters, ten Bristowans for th' emprizeHasted wyth Alfwoulde where Campynon stood,Who aynewarde went, whylste everie Normanne knyghteDyd blush to see their champyon put to flyghte. 630
As painctyd Bruton, when a wolfyn wylde,When yt is cale and blustrynge wyndes do blowe,Enters hys bordelle, taketh hys yonge chylde,And wyth his bloude bestreynts the lillie snowe,He thoroughe mountayne hie and dale doth goe, 635Throwe the quyck torrent of the bollen ave,Throwe Severne rollynge oer the sandes beloweHe skyms alofe, and blents the beatynge wave,Ne stynts, ne lagges the chace, tylle for hys eyneIn peecies hee the morthering theef doth chyne. 640
So Alfwoulde he dyd to Campynon haste;Hys bloudie bylle awhap'd the Normannes eyne;Hee fled, as wolfes when bie the talbots chac'd,To bloudie byker he dyd ne enclyne.Duke Wyllyam stroke hym on hys brigandyne, 645And sayd; Campynon, is it thee I see?Thee? who dydst actes of glorie so bewryen,Now poorlie come to hyde thieselfe bie mee?Awaie! thou dogge, and acte a warriors parte.Or with mie swerde I'll perce thee to the harte. 650
Betweene Erie Alfwoulde and Duke Wyllyam's brondeCampynon thoughte that nete but deathe coulde bee,Seezed a huge swerde Morglaien yn his honde,Mottrynge a praier to the Vyrgyne:So hunted deere the dryvynge hounds will flee, 655When theie dyscover they cannot escape;And feerful lambkyns, when theie hunted bee,Theyre ynfante hunters doe theie oft awhape;Thus stoode Campynon, greete but hertlesse knyghte,When feere of dethe made hym for deathe to fyghte. 660
Alfwoulde began to dyghte hymselfe for fyghte,Meanewhyle hys menne on everie syde dyd slee,Whan on hys lyfted sheelde withe alle hys myghteCampynon's swerde in burlie-brande dyd dree;Bewopen Alfwoulde fellen on his knee; 665Hys Brystowe menne came in hym for to save;Eftsoons upgotten from the grounde was hee,And dyd agayne the touring Norman brave;Hee graspd hys bylle in syke a drear arraie,Hee seem'd a lyon catchynge at hys preie. 670
Upon the Normannes brazen adventayleThe thondrynge bill of myghtie Alfwould came;It made a dentful bruse, and then dyd fayle;Fromme rattlynge weepons shotte a sparklynge flame;Eftsoons agayne the thondrynge bill ycame, 675Peers'd thro hys adventayle and skyrts of lare;A tyde of purple gore came wyth the same,As out hys bowells on the feelde it tare;Campynon felle, as when some cittie-walleInne dolefulle terrours on its mynours falle. 680
He felle, and dyd the Norman rankes dyvide;So when an oke, that shotte ynto the skie,Feeles the broad axes peersynge his broade syde,Slowlie hee falls and on the grounde doth lie,Pressynge all downe that is wyth hym anighe, 685And stoppynge wearie travellers on the waie;So straught upon the playne the Norman hie
* * * * *
Bled, gron'd, and dyed; the Normanne knyghtes astoundTo see the bawsin champyon preste upon the grounde. 690
As when the hygra of the Severne roars,And thunders ugsom on the sandes below,The cleembe reboundes to Wedecesters shore,And sweeps the black sande rounde its horie prowe;So bremie Alfwoulde thro the warre dyd goe; 695Hys Kenters and Brystowans slew ech syde,Betreinted all alonge with bloudless foe,And seemd to swymm alonge with bloudie tyde;Fromme place to place besmeard with bloud they went,And rounde aboute them swarthless corse besprente. 700
A famous Normanne who yclepd Aubene,Of skyll in bow, in tylte, and handesworde fyghteThat daie yn feelde han manie Saxons sleene,Forre hee in sothen was a manne of myghte;Fyrste dyd his swerde on Adelgar alyghte, 705As hee on horseback was, and peersd hys gryne,Then upwarde wente: in everlastynge nyghteHee closd hys rollyng and dymsyghted eyne.Next Eadlyn, Tatwyn, and fam'd Adelred,Bie various causes sunken to the dead. 710
But now to Alfwoulde he opposynge went,To whom compar'd hee was a man of stre,And wyth bothe hondes a myghtie blowe he senteAt Alfwouldes head, as hard as hee could dree;But on hys payncted sheelde so bismarlie 715Aslaunte his swerde did go ynto the grounde;Then Alfwould him attack'd most furyouslie,Athrowe hys gaberdyne hee dyd him wounde,Then soone agayne hys swerde hee dyd upryne,And clove his creste and split hym to the eyne. 720
* * * * *
[Footnote 1: In Turgott's tyme Holenwell braste of erthe so fierce that it threw a stone-mell carrying the same awaie. J. Lydgate ne knowynge this lefte out o line.]
[Editor's note: l. 578see Introductionp. xlij]
As onn a hylle one eve sittynge,At oure Ladie's Chyrche mouche wonderynge,The counynge handieworke so fyne,Han well nighe dazeled mine eyne;Quod I; some counynge fairie hande 5Yreer'd this chapelle in this lande;Full well I wote so fine a syghteWas ne yreer'd of mortall wighte.Quod Trouthe; thou lackest knowlachynge;Thou forsoth ne wotteth of the thynge. 10A Rev'rend Fadre, William Canynge hight,Yreered uppe this chapelle brighte;And eke another in the Towne,Where glassie bubblynge Trymme doth roun.Quod I; ne doubte for all he's given 15His sowle will certes goe to heaven.Yea, quod Trouthe; than goe thou home,And see thou doe as hee hath donne.Quod I; I doubte, that can ne bee;I have ne gotten markes three. 20Quod Trouthe; as thou hast got, give almes-dedes soe;Canynges and Gaunts culde doe ne moe.
Stay, curyous traveller, and pass not bye,Until this fetive pile astounde thine eye.Whole rocks on rocks with yron joynd surveie,And okes with okes entremed disponed lie.This mightie pile, that keeps the wyndes at baie, 5Fyre-levyn and the mokie storme defie,That shootes aloofe into the reaulmes of daie,Shall be the record of the Buylders fame for aie.
Thou seest this maystrie of a human hand,The pride of Brystowe and the Westerne lande, 10Yet is the Buylders vertues much moe greete,Greeter than can bie Rowlies pen be scande.Thou seest the saynctes and kynges in stonen state,That seemd with breath and human soule dispande,As payrde to us enseem these men of slate, 15Such is greete Canynge's mynde when payrd to God elate.
Well maiest thou be astound, but view it well;Go not from hence before thou see thy fill,And learn the Builder's vertues and his name;Of this tall spyre in every countye telle, 20And with thy tale the lazing rych men shame;Showe howe the glorious Canynge did excelle;How hee good man a friend for kynges became,And gloryous paved at once the way to heaven and fame.
Thys mornynge starre of Radcleves rysynge raie,A true manne good of mynde and Canynge hyghte,Benethe thys stone lies moltrynge ynto claie,Untylle the darke tombe sheene an eterne lyghte.Thyrde fromme hys loynes the present Canynge came;Houton are wordes for to telle hys doe;For aye shall lyve hys heaven-recorded name,Ne shall yt dye whanne tyme shalle bee no moe;Whanne Mychael's trumpe shall sounde to rise the solle,He'll wynge to heavn wyth kynne, and happie bee hys dolle.
Anent a brooklette as I laie reclynd,Listeynge to heare the water glyde alonge,Myndeynge how thorowe the grene mees yt twynd,Awhilst the cavys respons'd yts mottring songe,At dystaunt rysyng Avonne to be sped, 5Amenged wyth rysyng hylles dyd shewe yts head;
Engarlanded wyth crownes of osyer weedesAnd wraytes of alders of a bercie scent,And stickeynge out wyth clowde agested reedes,The hoarie Avonne show'd dyre semblamente, 10Whylest blataunt Severne, from Sabryna clepde,Rores flemie o'er the sandes that she hepde.
These eynegears swythyn bringethe to mie thowghteOf hardie champyons knowen to the floude,How onne the bankes thereof brave Ælle foughte, 15Ælle descended from Merce kynglie bloude,Warden of Brystowe towne and castel stede,Who ever and anon made Danes to blede.
Methoughte such doughtie menn must have a sprighteDote yn the armour brace that Mychael bore, 20Whan he wyth Satan kynge of helle dyd fyghte,And earthe was drented yn a mere of gore;Orr, soone as theie dyd see the worldis lyghte,Fate had wrott downe, thys mann ys borne to fyghte.
Ælle, I sayd, or els my mynde dyd saie, 25Whie ys thy actyons left so spare yn storie?Were I toe dispone, there should lyvven aieIn erthe and hevenis rolles thie tale of glorie;Thie actes soe doughtie should for aie abyde,And bie theyre teste all after actes be tryde. 30
Next holie Wareburghus fylld mie mynde,As fayre a sayncte as anie towne can boaste,Or bee the erthe wyth lyghte or merke ywrynde,I see hys ymage waulkeyng throwe the coaste:Fitz Hardynge, Bithrickus, and twentie moe 35Ynn visyonn fore mie phantasie dyd goe.
Thus all mie wandrynge faytour thynkeynge strayde,And eche dygne buylder dequac'd onn mie mynde,Whan from the distaunt streeme arose a mayde,Whose gentle tresses mov'd not to the wynde; 40Lyche to the sylver moone yn frostie neete,The damoiselle dyd come soe blythe and sweete.
Ne browded mantell of a scarlette hue,Ne shoone pykes plaited o'er wyth ribbande geere,Ne costlie paraments of woden blue, 45Noughte of a dresse, but bewtie dyd shee weere;Naked shee was, and loked swete of youthe,All dyd bewryen that her name was Trouthe.
The ethie ringletts of her notte-browne hayreWhat ne a manne should see dyd swotelie hyde, 50Whych on her milk-white bodykin so fayreDyd showe lyke browne streemes fowlyng the white tyde,Or veynes of brown hue yn a marble cuarr,Whyche by the traveller ys kenn'd from farr.
Astounded mickle there I sylente laie, 55Still scauncing wondrous at the walkynge syghte;Mie senses forgarde ne coulde reyn awaie;But was ne forstraughte whan shee dyd alyghteAnie to mee, dreste up yn naked viewe,Whych mote yn some ewbrycious thoughtes abrewe. 60
But I ne dyd once thynke of wanton thoughte;For well I mynded what bie vowe I hete,And yn mie pockate han a crouchee broughte,Whych yn the blosom woulde such sins anete;I lok'd wyth eyne as pure as angelles doe, 65And dyd the everie thoughte of foule eschewe.
Wyth sweet semblate and an angel's graceShee 'gan to lecture from her gentle breste;For Trouthis wordes ys her myndes face,False oratoryes she dyd aie deteste: 70Sweetnesse was yn eche worde she dyd ywreene,Tho shee strove not to make that sweetnesse sheene.
Shee sayd; mie manner of appereynge hereMie name and sleyghted myndbruch maie thee telle;I'm Trouthe, that dyd descende fromm heavenwere, 75Goulers and courtiers doe not kenne mee welle;Thie inmoste thoughtes, thie labrynge brayne I sawe,And from thie gentle dreeme will thee adawe.
Full manie champyons and menne of lore,Payncters and carvellers have gaind good name, 80But there's a Canynge, to encrease the store,A Canynge, who shall buie uppe all theyre fame.Take thou mie power, and see yn chylde and manneWhat troulie noblenesse yn Canynge ranne.
As when a bordelier onn ethie bedde, 85Tyr'd wyth the laboures maynt of sweltrie daie,Yn slepeis bosom laieth hys deft headde,So, senses sonke to reste, mie boddie laie;Eftsoons mie sprighte, from erthlie bandes untyde,Immengde yn flanched ayre wyth Trouthe asyde. 90
Strayte was I carryd back to tymes of yore,Whylst Canynge swathed yet yn fleshlie bedde,And saw all actyons whych han been before,And all the scroll of Fate unravelled;And when the fate-mark'd babe acome to syghte, 95I saw hym eager gaspynge after lyghte.
In all hys shepen gambols and chyldes plaie.In everie merriemakeyng, fayre or wake,I kenn'd a perpled lyghte of Wysdom's raie;He eate downe learnynge wyth the wastle cake. 100As wise as anie of the eldermenne,He'd wytte enowe toe make a mayre at tenne.
As the dulce downie barbe beganne to gre,So was the well thyghte texture of hys lore;Eche daie enhedeynge mockler for to bee, 105Greete yn hys councel for the daies he bore.All tongues, all carrols dyd unto hym synge,Wondryng at one soe wyse, and yet soe yinge.
Encreaseynge yn the yeares of mortal lyfe,And hasteynge to hys journie ynto heaven, 110Hee thoughte ytt proper for to cheese a wyfe,And use the sexes for the purpose gevene.Hee then was yothe of comelie semelikeede,And hee had made a mayden's herte to blede.
He had a fader, (Jesus rest hys soule!) 115Who loved money, as hys charie joie;Hee had a broder (happie manne be's dole!)Yn mynde and boddie, hys owne fadre's boie;What then could Canynge wissen as a parteTo gyve to her whoe had made chop of hearte? 120
But landes and castle tenures, golde and bighes,And hoardes of sylver rousted yn the ent,Canynge and hys fayre sweete dyd that despyse,To change of troulie love was theyr content;Theie lyv'd togeder yn a house adygne, 125Of goode fendaument commilie and fyne.
But soone hys broder and hys syre dyd die,And lefte to Willyam states and renteynge rolles,And at hys wyll hys broder Johne supplie.Hee gave a chauntrie to redeeme theyre soules; 130And put hys broder ynto syke a trade,That he lorde mayor of Londonne towne was made.
Eftsoons hys mornynge tournd to gloomie nyghte;Hys dame, hys seconde selfe, gyve upp her brethe,Seekeynge for eterne lyfe and endless lyghte, 135And sleed good Canynge; sad mystake of dethe!Soe have I seen a flower ynn Sommer tymeTrodde downe and broke and widder ynn ytts pryme.
Next Radeleeve chyrche (oh worke of hande of heav'n,Whare Canynge sheweth as an instrumente.) 140Was to my bismarde eyne-syghte newlie giv'n;'Tis past to blazonne ytt to good contente.You that woulde faygn the fetyve buyldynge seeRepayre to Radcleve, and contented bee.
I sawe the myndbruch of hys nobille soule 145Whan Edwarde meniced a seconde wyfe;I saw what Pheryons yn hys mynde dyd rolle;Nowe fyx'd fromm seconde dames a preeste for lyfe.Thys ys the manne of menne, the vision spoke;Then belle for even-songe mie senses woke. 150
ON HAPPIENESSE, by WILLIAM CANYNGE.
Maie Selynesse on erthes boundes bee hadde?Maie yt adyghte yn human shape bee founde?Wote yee, ytt was wyth Edin's bower bestadde,Or quite eraced from the scaunce-layd grounde,Whan from the secret fontes the waterres dyd abounde?Does yt agrosed shun the bodyed waulke,Lyve to ytself and to yttes ecchoe taulke?
All hayle, Contente, thou mayde of turtle-eyne,As thie behoulders thynke thou arte iwreene,To ope the dore to Selynesse ys thyne,And Chrystis glorie doth upponne thee sheene.Doer of the foule thynge ne hath thee seene;In caves, ynn wodes, ynn woe, and dole distresse,Whoere hath thee hath gotten Selynesse.
ONN JOHNE A DALBENIE, by the same.
Johne makes a jarre boute Lancaster and Yorke;Bee stille, gode manne, and learne to mynde thie worke.
THE GOULER'S REQUIEM, by the same.
Mie boolie entes, adieu! ne moe the syghteOf guilden merke shall mete mie joieous eyne,Ne moe the sylver noble sheenynge bryghteSchall fyll mie honde with weight to speke ytt fyne;Ne moe, ne moe, alass! I call you myne: 5Whydder must you, ah! whydder must I goe?I kenn not either; oh mie emmers dygne,To parte wyth you wyll wurcke mee myckle woe;I muste be gonne, botte whare I dare ne telle;O storthe unto mie mynde! I goe to helle. 10
Soone as the morne dyd dyghte the roddie sunne,A shade of theves eche streake of lyght dyd seeme;Whann ynn the heavn full half hys course was runn,Eche stirryng nayghbour dyd mie harte afleme;Thye loss, or quyck or slepe, was aie mie dreme; 15For thee, O gould, I dyd the lawe ycrase;For thee I gotten or bie wiles or breme;Ynn thee I all mie joie and good dyd place;Botte now to mee thie pleasaunce ys ne moe,I kenne notte botte for thee I to the quede must goe. 20