Straunge dome ytte ys, that, yn these daies of oures,Nete[35] butte a bare recytalle can hav place;Nowe shapelie poesie hast loste yttes powers,And pynant hystorie ys onlie grace;Heie[36] pycke up wolsome weedes, ynstedde of flowers, 5And famylies, ynstedde of wytte, theie trace;Nowe poesie canne meete wythe ne regrate[37],Whylste prose, & herehaughtrie[38], ryse yn estate.
Lette kynges, & rulers, whan heie gayne a throne,Shewe whatt theyre grandsieres, & great grandsieres bore, 10Emarschalled armes, yatte, ne before theyre owne,Now raung'd wythe whatt yeir fadres han before;Lette trades, & toune folck, lett syke[39] thynges alone,Ne fyghte for sable yn a fielde of aure;Seldomm, or never, are armes vyrtues mede, 15Shee nillynge[40] to take myckle[41] aie dothe hede.
A man ascaunse upponn a piece maye looke,And shake hys hedde to styrre hys rede[42] aboute;Quod he, gyf I askaunted oere thys booke,Schulde fynde thereyn that trouthe ys left wythoute; 20Eke, gyf[43] ynto a vew percase[44] I tookeThe long beade-rolle of al the wrytynge route,Asserius, Ingolphus, Torgotte, Bedde,Thorow hem[45] al nete lyche ytte I coulde rede.—
Pardon, yee Graiebarbes[46], gyff I saie, onwise 25Yee are, to stycke so close & bysmarelie[47]To hystorie; you doe ytte tooe moche pryze,Whyche amenused[48] thoughtes of poesie;Somme drybblette[49] share you shoulde to yatte[50] alyse[51],Nott makynge everyche thynge bee hystorie; 30Instedde of mountynge onn a wynged horse,You onn a rouncy[52] dryve yn dolefull course.
Cannynge & I from common course dyssente;Wee ryde the stede, botte yev to hym the reene;Ne wylle betweene crased molterynge bookes be pente, 35Botte soare on hyghe, & yn the sonne-bemes sheene;And where wee kenn somme ishad[53] floures besprente,We take ytte, & from oulde rouste doe ytte clene;Wee wylle ne cheynedd to one pasture bee,Botte sometymes soare 'bove trouthe of hystorie. 40
Saie, Canynge, whatt was vearse yn daies of yore?Fyne thoughtes, and couplettes fetyvelie[54] bewryen[55],Notte syke as doe annoie thys age so sore,A keppened poyntelle[56] restynge at eche lyne.Vearse maie be goode, botte poesie wantes more, 45An onlist[57] lecturn[58], and a songe adygne[59];Accordynge to the rule I have thys wroughte,Gyff ytt please Canynge, I care notte a groate.
The thynge yttself moste bee ytts owne defense;Som metre maie notte please a womannes ear. 50Canynge lookes notte for poesie, botte sense;And dygne, & wordie thoughtes, ys all hys care.Canynge, adieu! I do you greete from hence;Full soone I hope to taste of your good cheere;Goode Byshoppe Carpynter dyd byd mee saie, 55Hee wysche you healthe & selinesse for aie.
[Footnote 35: nought.]
[Footnote 36: they.]
[Footnote 37: esteem.]
[Footnote 38: heraldry.]
[Footnote 39: such.]
[Footnote 40: unwilling.]
[Footnote 41: much.]
[Footnote 42: wisdom, council.]
[Footnote 43: if.]
[Footnote 44: perchance.]
[Footnote 45: them.]
[Footnote 46: Greybeards.]
[Footnote 47: curiously.]
[Footnote 48: lessened.]
[Footnote 49: small.]
[Footnote 50: that.]
[Footnote 51: allow.]
[Footnote 52: cart-horse.]
[Editor's note: ll. 15-16See Introductionp. xli]
[Footnote 53: broken.]
[Footnote 54: elegantly.]
[Footnote 55: declared, expressed.]
[Footnote 56: a pen, used metaphorically, as a muse or genius.]
[Footnote 57: boundless.]
[Footnote 58: subject.]
[Footnote 59: nervous, worthy of praise.]
Somme cherisounce[60] it ys to gentle mynde,Whan heie have chevyced[61] theyre londe from bayne[62],Whan theie ar dedd, theie leave yer name behynde,And theyre goode deedes doe on the earthe remayne;Downe yn the grave wee ynhyme[63] everych steyne, 5Whylest al her gentlenesse ys made to sheene,Lyche fetyve baubels[64] geasonne[65] to be seene.
ÆLLA, the wardenne of thys[66] castell[67] stede,Whylest Saxons dyd the Englysche sceptre swaie,Who made whole troopes of Dacyan men to blede, 10Then seel'd[68] hys eyne, and seeled hys eyne for aie,Wee rowze hym uppe before the judgment daie,To saie what he, as clergyond[69], can kenne,And howe hee sojourned in the vale of men.
[Footnote 60: comfort.]
[Footnote 61: preserved.]
[Footnote 62: ruin.]
[Footnote 63: inter.]
[Footnote 64: jewels.]
[Footnote 65: rare.]
[Footnote 66: Bristol.]
[Footnote 67: castle.]
[Footnote 68: closed.]
[Footnote 69: taught.]
CELMONDE, att BRYSTOWE.
Before yonne roddie sonne has droove hys wayneThrowe halfe hys joornie, dyghte yn gites[1] of goulde,Mee, happeless mee, hee wylle a wretche behoulde,Mieselfe, and al that's myne, bounde ynne myschaunces chayne.
Ah! Birtha, whie dydde Nature frame thee fayre? 5Whie art thou all thatt poyntelle[2] canne bewreene[3]?Whie art thou nott as coarse as odhers are?—Botte thenn thie soughle woulde throwe thy vysage sheene,Yatt shemres onn thie comelie semlykeene[4],Lyche nottebrowne cloudes, whann bie the sonne made redde, 10Orr scarlette, wythe waylde lynnen clothe ywreene[5],Syke[6] woulde thie spryte upponn thie vysage spredde.Thys daie brave Ælla dothe thyne honde & harteClayme as hys owne to be, whyche nee fromm hys moste parte.
And cann I lyve to see herr wythe anere[7]! 15Ytt cannotte, muste notte, naie, ytt shalle not bee.Thys nyghte I'll putte stronge poysonn ynn the beere,And hymm, herr, and myselfe, attenes[8] wyll slea.Assyst mee, Helle! lett Devylles rounde mee tende,To slea mieselfe, mie love, & eke mie doughtie[9] friende. 20
Notte, whanne the hallie prieste dyd make me knyghte,Blessynge the weaponne, tellynge future dede,Howe bie mie honde the prevyd[10] Dane shoulde blede,Howe I schulde often bee, and often wynne, ynn fyghte;
Notte, whann I fyrste behelde thie beauteous hue, 25Whyche strooke mie mynde, & rouzed mie softer soule;Nott, whann from the barbed horse yn fyghte dyd vieweThe flying Dacians oere the wyde playne roule,Whan all the troopes of Denmarque made grete dole,Dydd I fele joie wyth syke reddoure[11] as nowe, 30Whann hallie preest, the lechemanne of the soule,Dydd knytte us both ynn a caytysnede[12] vowe:Now hallie Ælla's selynesse ys grate;Shap[13] haveth nowe ymade hys woes for to emmate[14].
Mie lorde, & husbande, syke a joie ys myne; 35Botte mayden modestie moste ne soe saie,Albeytte thou mayest rede ytt ynn myne eyne,Or ynn myne harte, where thou shalte be for aie;Inne sothe, I have botte meeded oute thie faie[15];For twelve tymes twelve the mone hathe bin yblente[16], 40As manie tymes hathe vyed the Godde of daie,And on the grasse her lemes[17] of sylverr sente,Sythe thou dydst cheese mee for thie swote to bee,Enactynge ynn the same moste faiefullie to mee.
Ofte have I seene thee atte the none-daie feaste, 45Whanne deysde bie thieselfe, for wante of pheeres[18],Awhylst thie merryemen dydde laughe and jeaste,Onn mee thou semest all eyne, to mee all eares.Thou wardest mee as gyff ynn hondred feeres,Alest a daygnous[19] looke to thee be sente, 50And offrendes[20] made mee, moe thann yie compheeres,Offe scarpes[21] of scarlette, & fyne paramente[22];All thie yntente to please was lyssed[23] to mee,I saie ytt, I moste streve thatt you ameded bee.
Mie lyttel kyndnesses whyche I dydd doe, 55Thie gentleness doth corven them soe grete,Lyche bawsyn[24] olyphauntes[25] mie gnattes doe shewe;Thou doest mie thoughtes of paying love amate[26].Botte hann mie actyonns straughte[27] the rolle of fate,Pyghte thee fromm Hell, or broughte Heaven down to thee, 60Layde the whol worlde a falldstole atte thie feete,On smyle woulde be suffycyll mede for mee.I amm Loves borro'r, & canne never paie,Bott be hys borrower stylle, & thyne, mie swete, for aie.
Love, doe notte rate your achevmentes[28] soe smalle; 65As I to you, syke love untoe mee beare;For nothynge paste wille Birtha ever call,Ne on a foode from Heaven thynke to cheere.As farr as thys frayle brutylle flesch wylle spere,Syke, & ne fardher I expecte of you; 70Be notte toe slacke yn love, ne overdeare;A smalle fyre, yan a loude flame, proves more true.
Thie gentle wordis doe thie volunde[29] kenneTo bee moe clergionde thann ys ynn meyncte of menne.
Alle blessynges showre on gentle Ælla's hedde! 75Oft maie the moone, yn sylverr sheenynge lyghte,Inne varied chaunges varyed blessynges shedde,Besprengeynge far abrode mischaunces nyghte;And thou, fayre Birtha! thou, fayre Dame, so bryghte,Long mayest thou wyth Ælla fynde muche peace, 80Wythe selynesse, as wyth a roabe, be dyghte,Wyth everych chaungynge mone new joies encrease!I, as a token of mie love to speake,Have brought you jubbes of ale, at nyghte youre brayne to breake.
Whan sopperes paste we'lle drenche youre ale soe stronge, 85Tyde lyfe, tyde death.
Ye Mynstrelles, chaunt your songe.
Mynstrelles Songe, bie a Manne and Womanne.
Tourne thee to thie Shepsterr[30] swayne;Bryghte sonne has ne droncke the deweFrom the floures of yellowe hue;Tourne thee, Alyce, backe agayne. 90
No, bestoikerre[31], I wylle goe,Softlie tryppynge o'ere the mees[32],Lyche the sylver-footed doe,Seekeynge shelterr yn grene trees.
See the moss-growne daisey'd banke, 95Pereynge ynne the streme belowe;Here we'lle sytte, yn dewie danke;Tourne thee, Alyce, do notte goe.
I've hearde erste mie grandame saie,Yonge damoyselles schulde ne bee, 100Inne the swotie moonthe of Maie,Wythe yonge menne bie the grene wode tree.
Sytte thee, Alyce, sytte, and harke,Howe the ouzle[33] chauntes hys noate,The chelandree[34], greie morn larke, 105Chauntynge from theyre lyttel throate;
I heare them from eche grene wode tree,Chauntynge owte so blatauntlie[35],Tellynge lecturnyes[36] to mee,Myscheefe ys whanne you are nygh. 110
See alonge the mees so grenePied daisies, kynge-coppes swote;Alle wee see, bie non bee scene,Nete botte shepe settes here a fote.
Shepster swayne, you tare mie gratche[37]. 115Oute uponne ye! lette me goe.Leave mee swythe, or I'lle alatche.Robynne, thys youre dame shall knowe.
See! the crokynge brionieRounde the popler twyste hys spraie; 120Rounde the oake the greene ivieFlorryschethe and lyveth aie.
Lette us seate us bie thys tree,Laughe, and synge to lovynge ayres;Comme, and doe notte coyen bee; 125Nature made all thynges bie payres.Drooried cattes wylle after kynde;Gentle doves wylle kyss and coe.
Botte manne, hee moste bee ywrynde,Tylle syr preeste make on of two. 130
Tempte mee ne to the foule thynge;I wylle no mannes lemanne be;Tyll syr preeste hys songe doethe synge,Thou shalt neere fynde aught of mee.
Bie oure ladie her yborne, 135To-morrowe, soone as ytte ys daie,I'lle make thee wyfe, ne bee forsworne,So tyde me lyfe or dethe for aie.
Whatt dothe lette, botte thatte noweWee attenes[38], thos honde yn honde, 140Unto divinistre[39] goe,And bee lyncked yn wedlocke bonde?
I agree, and thus I plyghteHonde, and harte, and all that's myne;Goode syr Rogerr, do us ryghte, 145Make us one, at Cothbertes shryne.
We wylle ynn a bordelle[40] lyve,Hailie, thoughe of no estate;Everyche clocke moe love shall gyve;Wee ynne godenesse wylle bee greate. 150
I lyche thys songe, I lyche ytt myckle well;And there ys monie for yer syngeynge nowe;Butte have you noone thatt marriage-blessynges telle?
In marriage, blessynges are botte fewe, I trowe.
Laverde[41], wee have; and, gyff you please, wille synge, 155As well as owre choughe-voyces wylle permytte.
Comme then, and see you swotelie tune the strynge,And stret[42], and engyne all the human wytte,Toe please mie dame.
We'lle strayne owre wytte and synge.
Mynstrelles Songe.
The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte; 160The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue;Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte;The nesh[43] yonge coweslepe bendethe wyth the dewe;The trees enlefed, yntoe Heavenne straughte.Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe, to whestlyng dynne ys broughte. 165
The evenynge commes, and brynges the dewe alonge;The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne;Arounde the alestake Mynstrells synge the songe;Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne;I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle, 170Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe somethynge stylle.
So Adam thoughtenne, whann, ynn Paradyse,All Heavenn and Erthe dyd hommage to hys mynde;Ynn Womman alleyne mannes pleasaunce lyes;As Instrumentes of joie were made the kynde. 175Go, take a wyfe untoe thie armes, and seeWynter, and brownie hylles, wyll have a charme for thee.
Whanne Autumpne blake[44] and sonne-brente doe appere,With hys goulde honde guylteynge the falleynge lefe,Bryngeynge oppe Wynterr to folfylle the yere, 180Beerynge uponne hys backe the riped shefe;Whan al the hyls wythe woddie sede ys whyte;Whanne levynne-fyres and lemes do mete from far the syghte;
Whann the fayre apple, rudde as even skie,Do bende the tree unto the fructyle grounde; 185When joicie peres, and berries of blacke die,Doe daunce yn ayre, and call the eyne arounde;Thann, bee the even foule, or even fayre,Meethynckes mie hartys joie ys steynced wyth somme care.
Angelles bee wrogte to bee of neidher kynde; 190Angelles alleyne fromme chafe[45] desyre bee free;Dheere ys a somwhatte evere yn the mynde,Yatte, wythout wommanne, cannot stylled bee;Ne seyncte yn celles, botte, havynge blodde and tere[46],Do fynde the spryte to joie on syghte of womanne fayre: 195
Wommen bee made, notte for hemselves, botte manne,Bone of hys bone, and chyld of hys desire;Fromme an ynutyle membere fyrste beganne,Ywroghte with moche of water, lyttele fyre;Therefore theie seke the fyre of love, to hete 200The milkyness of kynde, and make hemselfes complete.
Albeytte, wythout wommen, menne were pheeresTo salvage kynde, and wulde botte lyve to flea,Botte wommenne efte the spryghte of peace so cheres,Tochelod yn Angel joie heie Angeles bee; 205Go, take thee swythyn[47] to thie bedde a wyfe,Bee bante or blessed hie, yn proovynge marryage lyfe.
Anodher Mynstrelles Songe, bie SyrThybbot Gorges.
As Elynour bie the green lesselle was syttynge,As from the sones hete she harried,She sayde, as herr whytte hondes whyte hosen was knyttynge, 210Whatte pleasure ytt ys to be married!
Mie husbande, Lorde Thomas, a forrester boulde,As ever clove pynne, or the baskette,Does no cherysauncys from Elynour houlde,I have ytte as soone as I aske ytte. 215
Whann I lyved wyth mie fadre yn merrie Clowd-dell.Tho' twas at my liefe to mynde spynnynge,I stylle wanted somethynge, botte whatte ne coulde telle,Mie lorde fadres barbde haulle han ne wynnynge.Eche mornynge I ryse, doe I sette mie maydennes, 220Somme to spynn, somme to curdell, somme bleachynge,Gyff any new entered doe aske for mie aidens,Thann swythynne you fynde mee a teachynge.
Lorde Walterre, mie fadre, he loved me welle,And nothynge unto mee was nedeynge, 225Botte schulde I agen goe to merrie Cloud-dell,In sothen twoulde bee wythoute redeynge.
Shee sayde, and lorde Thomas came over the lea,As hee the fatte derkynnes was chacynge,Shee putte uppe her knyttynge, and to hym wente shee; 230So wee leave hem bothe kyndelie embracynge.
I lyche eke thys; goe ynn untoe the feaste;Wee wylle permytte you antecedente bee;There swotelie synge eche carolle, and yaped[48] jeaste;And there ys monnie, that you merrie bee; 235Comme, gentle love, wee wylle toe spouse-feaste goe,And there ynn ale and wyne bee dreyncted[49] everych woe.
Ælla, the Danes ar thondrynge onn our coaste;Lyche scolles of locusts, caste oppe bie the sea,Magnus and Hurra, wythe a doughtie hoaste, 240Are ragyng, to be quansed[50] bie none botte thee;Haste, swyfte as Levynne to these royners flee:Thie dogges alleyne can tame thys ragynge bulle.Haste swythyn, fore anieghe the towne theie bee,And Wedecesterres rolle of dome bee fulle. 245Haste, haste, O Ælla, to the byker flie,For yn a momentes space tenne thousand menne maie die.
Beshrew thee for thie newes! I moste be gon.Was ever lockless dome so hard as myne!Thos from dysportysmente to warr to ron, 250To chaunge the selke veste for the gaberdyne!
O! lyche a nedere, lette me rounde thee twyne,And hylte thie boddie from the schaftes of warre.Thou shalte nott, must not, from thie Birtha ryne,Botte kenn the dynne of slughornes from afarre. 255
O love, was thys thie joie, to shewe the treate,Than groffyshe to forbydde thie hongered guestes to eate?
O mie upswalynge[51] harte, whatt wordes can saieThe peynes, thatte passethe ynn mie soule ybrente?Thos to bee torne uponne mie spousalle daie, 260O! 'tys a peyne beyond entendemente.Yee mychtie Goddes, and is yor favoures senteAs thous faste dented to a loade of peyne?Moste wee aie holde yn chace the shade content.And for a bodykyn[52] a swarthe obteyne? 265O! whie, yee seynctes, oppress yee thos mie fowle?How shalle I speke mie woe, mie freme, mie dreerie dole?
Sometyme the wyseste lacketh pore mans rede.Reasonne and counynge wytte efte flees awaie.Thanne, loverde, lett me saie, wyth hommaged drede(Bieneth your fote ylayn) mie counselle saie; 271Gyff thos wee lett the matter lethlen[53] laie,The foemenn, everych honde-poyncte, getteth fote.Mie loverde, lett the speere-menne, dyghte for fraie,And all the sabbataners goe aboute. 275I speke, mie loverde, alleyne to upryseYoure wytte from marvelle, and the warriour to alyse.
Ah! nowe thou pottest takells[54] yn mie harte;Mie soulghe dothe nowe begynne to see herselle;I wylle upryse mie myghte, and doe mie parte, 280To flea the foemenne yn mie furie felle.Botte howe canne tynge mie rampynge fourie telle.Whyche ryseth from mie love to Birtha fayre?Ne coulde the queede, and alle the myghte of Helle,Founde out impleasaunce of syke blacke a geare. 285Yette I wylle bee mieselfe, and rouze mie spryteTo acte wythe rennome, and goe meet the bloddie fyghte.
No, thou schalte never leave thie Birtha's syde;Ne schall the wynde uponne us blowe alleyne;I, lyche a nedre, wylle untoe thee byde; 290Tyde lyfe, tyde deathe, ytte shall behoulde us twayne.I have mie parte of drierie dole and peyne;Itte brasteth from mee atte the holtred eyne;Ynne tydes of teares mie swarthynge spryte wyll drayne,Gyff drerie dole ys thyne, tys twa tymes myne. 295Goe notte, Ælla; wythe thie Birtha staie;For wyth thie femmlykeed mie spryte wyll goe awaie.
O! tys for thee, for thee alleyne I fele;Yett I muste bee mieselfe; with valoures gearI'lle dyghte mie hearte, and notte mie lymbes yn stele, 300And shake the bloddie swerde and steyned spere.
Can Ælla from hys breaste hys Birtha teare?Is shee so rou and ugsomme[55] to hys fyghte?Entrykeynge wyght! ys leathall warre so deare?Thou pryzest mee belowe the joies of fyghte. 305Thou scalte notte leave mee, albeytte the ertheHong pendaunte bie thie swerde, and craved for thy morthe.
Dyddest thou kenne howe mie woes, as starres ybrente,Headed bie these thie wordes doe onn mee falle,Thou woulde stryve to gyve mie harte contente, 310Wakyng mie slepynge mynde to honnoures calle.Of selynesse I pryze thee moe yan allHeaven can mee sende, or counynge wytt acquyre,Yette I wylle leave thee, onne the foe to falle,Retournynge to thie eyne with double fyre. 315
Moste Birtha boon requeste and bee denyd?Receyve attenes a darte yn selynesse and pryde?Doe staie, att leaste tylle morrowes sonne apperes.
Thou kenneste welle the Dacyannes myttee powere;Wythe them a mynnute wurchethe bane for yeares; 320Theie undoe reaulmes wythyn a syngle hower.Rouze all thie honnoure, Birtha; look attoureThie bledeynge countrie, whych for hastie dedeCalls, for the rodeynge of some doughtie power,To royn yttes royners, make yttes foemenne blede. 325
Rouze all thie love; false and entrykyng wyghte!Ne leave thie Birtha thos uponne pretence of fyghte.
Thou nedest notte goe, untyll thou haste commandUnder the sygnette of oure lorde the kynge.
And wouldest thou make me then a recreande? 330Hollie Seyncte Marie, keepe mee from the thynge!Heere, Birtha, thou hast potte a double stynge,One for thie love, anodher for thie mynde.
Agylted[56] Ælla, thie abredynge[57] blynge[58].Twas love of thee thatte foule intente ywrynde. 335Yette heare mie supplycate, to mee attende,Hear from mie groted[59] harte the lover and the friende.Lett Celmonde yn thie armour-brace be dyghte;And yn thie stead unto the battle goe;Thie name alleyne wylle putte the Danes to flyghte, 340The ayre thatt beares ytt woulde presse downe the foe.
Birtha, yn vayne thou wouldste mee recreand doe;I moste, I wylle, fyghte for mie countries wele,And leave thee for ytt. Celmonde, sweftlie goe,Telle mie Brystowans to bedyghte yn stele; 345Tell hem I scorne to kenne hem from afar,Botte leave the vyrgyn brydall bedde for bedde of warre.
And thou wylt goe; O mie agroted harte!
Mie countrie waites mie marche; I muste awaie;Albeytte I schulde goe to mete the darte 350Of certen Dethe, yette here I woulde notte staie.Botte thos to leave thee, Birtha, dothe asswaieMoe torturynge peynes yanne canne be sedde bie tyngue,Yette rouze thie honoure uppe, and wayte the daie,Whan rounde aboute mee songe of warre heie synge. 355O Birtha, strev mie agreeme[60] to accaie[61],And joyous see mie armes, dyghte oute ynn warre arraie.
Difficile[62] ys the pennaunce, yette I'lle strevTo keepe mie woe behyltren yn mie breaste.Albeytte nete maye to mee pleasaunce yev, 360Lyche thee, I'lle strev to sette mie mynde atte reste.Yett oh! forgeve, yff I have thee dystreste;Love, doughtie love, wylle beare no odher swaie.Juste as I was wythe Ælla to be bleste,Shappe foullie thos hathe snatched hym awaie. 365It was a tene too doughtie to bee borne,Wydhoute an ounde of teares and breaste wyth syghes ytorne.
Thie mynde ys now thieselfe; why wylte thou beeAll blanche, al kyngelie, all soe wyse yn mynde,Alleyne to lett pore wretched Ælla see, 370Whatte wondrous bighes[63] he nowe muste leave behynde?O Birtha fayre, warde everyche commynge wynde,On everych wynde I wylle a token sende;Onn mie longe shielde ycorne thie name thoul't fynde.Butte here commes Celmonde, wordhie knyghte and friende. 375
speaking.
Thie Brystowe knyghtes for thie forth-comynge lynge[64];Echone athwarte hys backe hys longe warre-shield dothe slynge.
Birtha, adieu; but yette I cannotte goe.
Lyfe of mie spryte, mie gentle Ælla staie. 380Engyne mee notte wyth syke a drierie woe.
I muste, I wylle; tys honnoure cals awaie.
O mie agroted harte, braste, braste ynn twaie.Ælla, for honnoure, flyes awaie from mee.
Birtha, adieu; I maie notte here obaie. 385I'm flyynge from mieselfe yn flying thee.
O Ælla, housband, friend, and loverde, staie.He's gon, he's gone, alass! percase he's gone for aie.
Hope, hallie suster, sweepeynge thro' the skie,In crowne of goulde, and robe of lillie whyte, 390Whyche farre abrode ynne gentle ayre doe flie,Meetynge from dystaunce the enjoyous fyghte,Albeytte efte thou takest thie hie flyghteHecket[65] ynne a myste, and wyth thyne eyne yblente,Nowe commest thou to mee wythe starrie lyghte; 395Ontoe thie veste the rodde sonne ys adente[66];The Sommer tyde, the month of Maie appere,Depycte wythe skylledd honde upponn thie wyde aumere.
I from a nete of hopelen am adawed,Awhaped[67] atte the fetyveness of daie; 400Ælla, bie nete moe thann hys myndbruche awed,Is gone, and I moste followe, toe the fraie.Celmonde canne ne'er from anie byker staie.Dothe warre begynne? there's Celmonde yn the place.Botte whanne the warre ys donne, I'll haste awaie.The reste from nethe tymes masque must shew yttes face. 405I see onnombered joies arounde mee ryse;Blake[68] stondethe future doome, and joie dothe mee alyse.
O honnoure, honnoure, whatt ys bie thee hanne?Hailie the robber and the bordelyer, 410Who kens ne thee, or ys to thee bestanne,And nothynge does thie myckle gastness fere.Faygne woulde I from mie bosomme alle thee tare.Thou there dysperpellest[69] thie levynne-bronde;Whylest mie soulgh's forwyned, thou art the gare; 415Sleene ys mie comforte bie thie ferie honde;As somme talle hylle, whann wynds doe shake the ground,Itte kerveth all abroade, bie brasteynge hyltren wounde.
Honnoure, whatt bee ytte? tys a shadowes shade,A thynge of wychencref, an idle dreme; 420On of the fonnis whych the clerche have madeMenne wydhoute sprytes, and wommen for to fleme;Knyghtes, who efte kenne the loude dynne of the beme,Schulde be forgarde to syke enfeeblynge waies,Make everych acte, alyche theyr soules, be breme, 425And for theyre chyvalrie alleyne have prayse.O thou, whatteer thie name,Or Zabalus or Queed,Comme, steel mie sable spryte,For fremde[70] and dolefulle dede. 430
MAGNUS, HURRA,andHIE PREESTE,wyth theARMIE,neareWatchette.
Swythe[71] lette the offrendes[72] to the Goddes begynne.To knowe of hem the issue of the fyghte.Potte the blodde-steyned sword and pavyes ynne;Spreade swythyn all arounde the hallie lyghte.
HIE PREESTEsyngeth.
Yee, who hie yn mokie ayre 435Delethe seasonnes foule or fayre,Yee, who, whanne yee weere agguylte,The mone yn bloddie gyttelles[73] hylte,Mooved the starres, and dyd unbyndeEveryche barriere to the wynde; 440Whanne the oundynge waves dystreste,Stroven to be overest,Sockeynge yn the spyre-gyrte towne,Swolterynge wole natyones downe,Sendynge dethe, on plagues astrodde, 445Moovynge lyke the erthys Godde;To mee send your heste dyvyne,Lyghte eletten[74] all myne eyne,Thatt I maie now undevyseAll the actyonnes of th'empprize. 450[falleth downe and efte rysethe.Thus sayethe the Goddes; goe, yssue to the playne;Forr there shall meynte of mytte menne bee slayne.
Whie, foe there evere was, whanne Magnus foughte.Efte have I treynted noyance throughe the hoaste,Athorowe swerdes, alyche the Queed dystraughte, 455Have Magnus pressynge wroghte hys foemen loaste.As whanne a tempeste vexethe soare the coaste,The dyngeynge ounde the sandeie stronde doe tare,So dyd I inne the warre the javlynne toste,Full meynte a champyonnes breaste received mie spear. 460Mie sheelde, lyche sommere morie gronfer droke,Mie lethalle speere, alyche a levyn-mylted oke.
Thie wordes are greate, full hyghe of sound, and eekeLyche thonderre, to the whych dothe comme no rayne.Itte lacketh notte a doughtie honde to speke; 465The cocke saiethe drefte[75], yett armed ys he alleyne.Certis thie wordes maie, thou motest have sayneOf mee, and meynte of moe, who eke canne fyghte,Who haveth trodden downe the adventayle,And tore the heaulmes from heades of myckle myghte. 470Sythence syke myghte ys placed yn thie honde,Lette blowes thie actyons speeke, and bie thie corrage stonde.
Thou are a warrioure, Hurra, thatte I kenne,And myckle famed for thie handie dede.Thou fyghtest anente[76] maydens and ne menne, 475Nor aie thou makest armed hartes to blede.Efte I, caparyson'd on bloddie stede,Havethe thee seene binethe mee ynn the fyghte,Wythe corses I investynge everich mede,And thou aston, and wondrynge at mie myghte. 480Thanne wouldest thou comme yn for mie renome,Albeytte thou wouldst reyne awaie from bloddie dome?
How! butte bee bourne mie rage. I kenne aryghteBothe thee and thyne maie ne bee wordhye peene.Eftsoones I hope wee scalle engage yn fyghte; 485Thanne to the souldyers all thou wylte bewreene.I'll prove mie courage onne the burled greene;Tys there alleyne I'll telle thee whatte I bee.Gyf I weelde notte the deadlie sphere adeene,Thanne lett mie name be fulle as lowe as thee. 490Thys mie adented shielde, thys mie warre-speare,Schalle telle the falleynge foe gyf Hurra's harte can feare.
Magnus woulde speke, butte thatte hys noble spryteDothe soe enrage, he knowes notte whatte to saie.He'dde speke yn blowes, yn gottes of blodde he'd wryte, 495And on thie heafod peyncte hys myghte for aie.Gyf thou anent an wolfynnes rage wouldest staie,'Tys here to meet ytt; botte gyff nott, bee goe;Lest I in furrie shulde mie armes dysplaie,Whyche to thie boddie wylle wurche[77] myckle woe. 500Oh! I bee madde, dystraughte wyth brendyng rage;Ne seas of smethynge gore wylle mie chafed harte asswage.
I kenne thee, Magnus, welle; a wyghte thou artThat doest aslee alonge ynn doled dystresse,Strynge bulle yn boddie, lyoncelle yn harte, 505I almost wysche thie prowes were made lesse.Whan Ælla (name drest uppe yn ugsomness[78]To thee and recreandes[79]) thondered on the playne,Howe dydste thou thorowe fyrste of fleers presse!Swefter thanne federed takelle dydste thou reyne. 510A ronnynge pryze onn seyncte daie to ordayne,Magnus, and none botte hee, the ronnynge pryze wylle gayne.
Eternalle plagues devour thie baned tyngue!Myrriades of neders pre upponne thie spryte!Maiest thou fele al the peynes of age whylst yynge, 515Unmanned, uneyned, exclooded aie the lyghte,Thie senses, lyche thieselfe, enwrapped yn nyghte,A scoff to foemen & to beastes a pheere;Maie furched levynne onne thie head alyghte,Maie on thee falle the fhuyr of the unweere; 520Fen vaipoures blaste thie everiche manlie powere,Maie thie bante boddie quycke the wolfome peenes devoure.
Faygne woulde I curse thee further, botte mie tyngueDenies mie harte the favoure soe toe doe.
Nowe bie the Dacyanne goddes, & Welkyns kynge, 525Wythe fhurie, as thou dydste begynne, persue;Calle on mie heade all tortures that bee rou,Bane onne, tylle thie owne tongue thie curses fele.Sende onne mie heade the blyghteynge levynne blewe,The thonder loude, the swellynge azure rele[80]. 530Thie wordes be hie of dynne, botte nete besyde;Bane on, good chieftayn, fyghte wythe wordes of myckle pryde.
Botte doe notte waste thie breath, lest Ælla come.
Ælla & thee togyder synke toe helle!Bee youre names blasted from the rolle of dome! 535I feere noe Ælla, thatte thou kennest welle.Unlydgefulle traytoure, wylt thou nowe rebelle?'Tys knowen, thatte yie menn bee lyncked to myne,Bothe sente, as troopes of wolves, to sletre felle;Botte nowe thou lackest hem to be all yyne. 540Nowe, bie the goddes yatte reule the Dacyanne state,Speacke thou yn rage once moe, I wyll thee dysregate.
I pryze thie threattes joste as I doe thie banes,The sede of malyce and recendize al.Thou arte a steyne unto the name of Danes; 545Thou alleyne to thie tyngue for proofe canst calle.Thou beest a worme so groffile and so smal,I wythe thie bloude woulde scorne to foul mie sworde,Botte wythe thie weaponnes woulde upon thee falle,Alyche thie owne feare, slea thee wythe a worde. 550I Hurra amme miesel, & aie wylle bee,As greate yn valourous actes, & yn commande as thee.
MAGNUS, HURRA, ARMYE & MESSENGER.
Blynne your contekions[81], chiefs; for, as I stodeUponne mie watche, I spiede an armie commynge,Notte lyche ann handfulle of a fremded[82] foe, 555Botte blacke wythe armoure, movynge ugsomlie,Lyche a blacke fulle cloude, thatte dothe goe alongeTo droppe yn hayle, & hele the thonder storme.
Ar there meynte of them?
Thycke as the ante-flyes ynne a sommer's none, 560Seemynge as tho' theie stynge as persante too.
Whatte matters thatte? lettes sette oure warr-arraie.Goe, sounde the beme, lette champyons prepare;Ne doubtynge, we wylle stynghe as faste as heie.Whatte? doest forgard[83] thie blodde? ys ytte for feare? 565Wouldest thou gayne the towne, & castle-stere,And yette ne byker wythe the soldyer guarde?Go, hyde thee ynn mie tente annethe the lere;I of thie boddie wylle keepe watche & warde.
Oure goddes of Denmarke know mie harte ys goode. 570
For nete uppon the erthe, botte to be choughens foode.
As from mie towre I kende the commynge foe,I spied the crossed shielde, & bloddie swerde,The furyous Ælla's banner; wythynne kenneThe armie ys. Dysorder throughe oure hoaste 575Is fleynge, borne onne wynges of Ælla's name;Styr, styr, mie lordes!
What? Ælla? & soe neare?Thenne Denmarques roiend; oh mie rysynge feare!
What doeste thou mene? thys Ælla's botte a manne.Nowe bie mie sworde, thou arte a verie berne[84]. 580Of late I dyd thie creand valoure scanne,Whanne thou dydst boaste soe moche of actyon derne.Botte I toe warr mie doeynges moste atturne,To cheere the Sabbataneres to deere dede.
I to the knyghtes onne everyche syde wylle burne, 585Telleynge 'hem alle to make her foemen blede;Sythe shame or deathe onne eidher syde wylle bee,Mie harte I wylle upryse, & inne the battelle slea.
ÆLLA, CELMONDE, & ARMIEnearWATCHETTE.
Now havynge done oure mattynes & oure vowes,Lette us for the intended fyghte be boune, 590And everyche champyone potte the joyous crowneOf certane mastershhyppe upon hys glestreynge browes.
As for mie harte, I owne ytt ys, as ereItte has beene ynne the sommer-sheene of fate,Unknowen to the ugsomme gratche of fere; 595Mie blodde embollen, wythe masterie elate,Boyles ynne mie veynes, & rolles ynn rapyd state,Impatyente forr to mete the persante stele,And telle the worlde, thatte Ælla dyed as greateAs anie knyghte who foughte for Englondes weale. 600Friends, kynne, & soldyerres, ynne blacke armore drere,Mie actyons ymytate, mie presente redynge here.
There ys ne house, athrow thys shap-scurged[85] isle,Thatte has ne loste a kynne yn these fell fyghtes,Fatte blodde has sorfeeted the hongerde soyle, 605And townes enlowed[86] lemed[87] oppe the nyghtes.Inne gyte of fyre oure hallie churche dheie dyghtes;Oure sonnes lie storven[88] ynne theyre smethynge gore;Oppe bie the rootes oure tree of lyfe dheie pyghtes,Vexynge oure coaste, as byllowes doe the shore. 610Yee menne, gyf ye are menne, displaie yor name,Ybrende yer tropes, alyche the roarynge tempest flame.
Ye Chrystyans, doe as wordhie of the name;These roynerres of oure hallie houses slea;Braste, lyke a cloude, from whence doth come the flame, 615Lyche torrentes, gushynge downe the mountaines, bee.And whanne alonge the grene yer champyons flee,Swefte as the rodde for-weltrynge[89] levyn-bronde,Yatte hauntes the flyinge mortherer oere the lea,Soe flie oponne these royners of the londe. 620Lette those yatte are unto yer battayles fledde,Take slepe eterne uponne a feerie lowynge bedde.
Let cowarde Londonne see herre towne onn fyre,And strev wythe goulde to staie the royners honde,Ælla & Brystowe havethe thoughtes thattes hygher, 625Wee fyghte notte forr ourselves, botte all the londe.As Severnes hyger lyghethe banckes of sonde,Pressynge ytte downe binethe the reynynge streme,Wythe dreerie dynn enswolters[90] the hyghe stronde,Beerynge the rockes alonge ynn fhurye breme, 630Soe wylle wee beere the Dacyanne armie downe,And throughe a storme of blodde wyll reache the champyon crowne.
Gyff ynn thys battelle locke ne wayte oure gare,To Brystowe dheie wylle tourne yeyre fhuyrie dyre;Brystowe, & alle her joies, wylle synke toe ayre, 635Brendeynge perforce wythe unenhantende[91] fyre:Thenne lette oure safetie doublie moove oure ire,Lyche wolfyns, rovynge for the evnynge pre,See[ing] the lambe & shepsterr nere the brire,Doth th'one forr safetie, th'one for hongre slea; 640Thanne, whanne the ravenne crokes uponne the playne,Oh! lette ytte bee the knelle to myghtie Dacyanns slayne.
Lyche a rodde gronfer, shalle mie anlace sheene,Lyche a strynge lyoncelle I'lle bee ynne fyghte,Lyche fallynge leaves the Dacyannes shalle bee sleene, 645Lyche [a] loud dynnynge streeme scalle be mie myghte.Ye menne, who woulde deserve the name of knyghte,Lette bloddie teares bie all your paves be wepte;To commynge tymes no poyntelle shalle ywrite,Whanne Englonde han her foemenn, Brystow slepte. 650Yourselfes, youre chyldren, & youre fellowes crie,Go, fyghte ynne rennomes gare, be brave, & wynne or die.
I saie ne moe; youre spryte the reste wylle saie;Youre spryte wylle wrynne, thatte Brystow ys yer place;To honoures house I nede notte marcke the waie; 655Inne youre owne hartes you maie the foote-pathe trace.'Twexte shappe & us there ys botte lyttelle space;The tyme ys nowe to proove yourselves bee menne;Drawe forthe the bornyshed bylle wythe fetyve grace,Rouze, lyche a wolfynne rouzing from hys denne. 660Thus I enrone mie anlace; goe thou shethe;I'lle potte ytt ne ynn place, tyll ytte ys sycke wythe deathe.
Onn, Ælla, onn; we longe for bloddie fraie;Wee longe to here the raven synge yn vayne;Onn, Ælla, onn; we certys gayne the daie, 665Whanne thou doste leade us to the leathal playne.
Thie speche, O Loverde, fyrethe the whole trayne;Theie pancte for war, as honted wolves for breathe;Go, & sytte crowned on corses of the slayne;Go, & ywielde the massie swerde of deathe. 670
From thee, O Ælla, alle oure courage reygnes;Echone yn phantasie do lede the Danes ynne chaynes.
Mie countrymenne, mie friendes, your noble sprytesSpeke yn youre eyne, & doe yer master telle.Swefte as the rayne-storme toe the erthe alyghtes, 675Soe wylle we fall upon these royners felle.Oure mowynge swerdes shalle plonge hem downe to helle;Theyre throngynge corses shall onlyghte the starres;The barrowes brastynge wythe the sleene schall swelle,Brynnynge[92] to commynge tymes our famous warres; 680Inne everie eyne I kenne the lowe of myghte,Sheenynge abrode, alyche a hylle-fyre ynne the nyghte.
Whanne poyntelles of oure famous fyghte shall saie,Echone wylle marvelle atte the dernie dede,Echone wylle wyssen hee hanne seene the daie, 685And bravelie holped to make the foemenn blede;Botte for yer holpe oure battelle wylle notte nede;Oure force ys force enowe to staie theyre honde;Wee wylle retourne unto thys grened mede,Oer corses of the foemen of the londe. 690Nowe to the warre lette all the slughornes sounde,The Dacyanne troopes appere on yinder rysynge grounde.
Chiefes, heade youre bandes, and leade.
DANESflyinge, neareWATCHETTE.
Fly, fly, ye Danes; Magnus, the chiefe, ys sleene;The Saxonnes comme wythe Ælla atte theyre heade; 695Lette's strev to gette awaie to yinder greene;Flie, flie; thys ys the kyngdomme of the deadde.
O goddes! have thousandes bie mie anlace bledde,And muste I nowe for safetie flie awaie?See! farre besprenged alle oure troopes are spreade, 700Yette I wylle synglie dare the bloddie fraie.Botte ne; I'lle flie, & morther yn retrete;Deathe, blodde, & fyre, scalle[93] marke the goeynge of my feete.
Enthoghteynge forr to scape the brondeynge foe,As nere unto the byllowd beche I came, 705Farr offe I spied a fyghte of myckle woe,Oure spyrynge battayles wrapte ynn sayles of flame.The burled Dacyannes, who were ynne the same,Fro syde to syde fledde the pursuyte of deathe;The swelleynge fyre yer corrage doe enflame, 710Theie lepe ynto the sea, & bobblynge yield yer breathe;Whylest those thatt bee uponne the bloddie playne,Bee deathe-doomed captyves taene, or yn the battle slayne.
Nowe bie the goddes, Magnus, dyscourteous knyghte,Bie cravente[94] havyoure havethe don oure woe, 715Dyspendynge all the talle menne yn the fyghte,And placeyng valourous menne where draffs mote goe.Sythence oure fourtunie havethe tourned foe,Gader the souldyers lefte to future shappe,To somme newe place for safetie wee wylle goe, 720Inne future daie wee wylle have better happe.Sounde the loude flughorne for a quicke forloyne[95];Lette alle the Dacyannes swythe untoe oure banner joyne.
Throw hamlettes wee wylle sprenge sadde dethe & dole,Bathe yn hotte gore, & wasch oureselves thereynne; 725Goddes! here the Saxonnes lyche a byllowe rolle.I heere the anlacis detested dynne.Awaie, awaie, ye Danes, to yonder penne;Wee now wylle make forloyne yn tyme to fyghte agenne.
CELMONDE,nearWATCHETTE.
O forr a spryte al feere! to telle the daie, 730The daie whyche scal astounde the herers rede,Makeynge oure foemennes envyynge hartes to blede,Ybereynge thro the worlde oure rennomde name for aie.
Bryghte sonne han ynne hys roddie robes byn dyghte,From the rodde Easte he flytted wythe hys trayne, 735The howers drewe awaie the geete of nyghte,Her sable tapistrie was rente yn twayne.The dauncynge streakes bedecked heavennes playne,And on the dewe dyd smyle wythe shemrynge eie,Lyche gottes of blodde whyche doe blacke armoure steyne, 740Sheenynge upon the borne[96] whyche stondeth bie;The souldyers stoode uponne the hillis syde,Lyche yonge enlefed trees whyche yn a forreste byde.
Ælla rose lyche the tree besette wyth brieres;Hys talle speere sheenynge as the starres at nyghte, 745Hys eyne ensemeynge as a lowe of fyre;Whanne he encheered everie manne to fyghte,Hys gentle wordes dyd moove eche valourous knyghte;Itte moovethe 'hem, as honterres lyoncelle;In trebled armoure ys theyre courage dyghte; 750Eche warrynge harte forr prayse & rennome swelles;Lyche flowelie dynnynge of the croucheynge streme,Syche dyd the mormrynge sounde of the whol armie seme.
Hee ledes 'hem onne to fyghte; oh! thenne to saieHow Ælla loked, and lokyng dyd encheere, 755Moovynge alyche a mountayne yn affraie,Whanne a lowde whyrlevynde doe yttes boesomme tare,To telle howe everie loke wulde banyshe feere,Woulde aske an angelles poyntelle or hys tyngue.Lyche a talle rocke yatte ryseth heaven-were, 760Lyche a yonge wolfynne brondeous & strynge,Soe dydde he goe, & myghtie warriours hedde;Wythe gore-depycted wynges masterie arounde hym fledde.
The battelle jyned; swerdes uponne swerdes dyd rynge;Ælla was chased, as lyonns madded bee; 765Lyche fallynge starres, he dydde the javlynn flynge;Hys mightie anlace mightie menne dyd slea;Where he dydde comme, the flemed[97] foe dydde flee,Or felle benethe hys honde, as fallynge rayne,Wythe syke a fhuyrie he dydde onn 'hemm dree, 770Hylles of yer bowkes dyd ryse opponne the playne;Ælla, thou arte—botte staie, mie tynge; saie nee;Howe greate I hymme maye make, stylle greater hee wylle bee.
Nor dydde hys souldyerres see hys actes yn vayne.Heere a stoute Dane uponne hys compheere felle; 775Heere lorde & hyndlette sonke uponne the playne;Heere sonne & fadre trembled ynto helle.Chief Magnus sought hys waie, &, shame to telle!Hee soughte hys waie for flyghte; botte Ælla's speereUponne the flyynge Dacyannes schoulder felle. 780Quyte throwe hys boddie, & hys harte ytte tare,He groned, & sonke uponne the gorie greene,And wythe hys corse encreased the pyles of Dacyannes sleene.
Spente wythe the fyghte, the Danyshe champyons stonde,Lyche bulles, whose strengthe & wondrous myghte ys fledde; 785Ælla, a javelynne grypped yn eyther honde,Flyes to the thronge, & doomes two Dacyannes deadde.After hys acte, the armie all yspedde;Fromm everich on unmyssynge javlynnes flewe;Theie straughte yer doughtie swerdes; the foemenn bledde; 790Fulle three of foure of myghtie Danes dheie slewe;The Danes, wythe terroure rulynge att their head,Threwe downe theyr bannere talle, & lyche a ravenne fledde.
The soldyerres followed wythe a myghtie crie,Cryes, yatte welle myghte the stouteste hartes affraie. 795Swefte, as yer shyppes, the vanquyshed Dacyannes flie;Swefte, as the rayne uponne an Aprylle daie,Pressynge behynde, the Englysche soldyerres slaie.Botte halfe the tythes of Danyshe menne remayne;Ælla commaundes 'heie shoulde the sleetre staie, 800Botte bynde 'hem prysonners on the bloddie playne.The fyghtynge beynge done, I came awaie,In odher fieldes to fyghte a moe unequalle fraie.Mie servant squyre!