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LXXXVI.

Sold.
On, Ælla, on; we long for bloody fray,
We long to hear the raven sing in vain;
On, Ælla, on; we, certès, gain the day,
When thou dost lead us to the deadly plain.


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Cel.
Thy speech, O master, fireth the whole train;
They pant for war, as hunted wolves for breath.
Go, and sit crown'd on corpses of the slain,
Go thou and wield the massy sword of death.

Sold.
From thee, O Ælla, all our courage reigns,
Each one in phantasy doth lead the Danes in chains.