University of Virginia Library

GODDWYN.

A TRAGEDY BY THOMAS ROWLEIE.

PROLOGUE

[Whilom by writers much ungentle name]

GODDWYN.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

• Harolde, by T. Rowleie, the Author.
• Goddwyn, by Johan de Iscamme.
• Edwarde, by Sir Thybbot Gorges.
• Alstan, by Sir Alan de Vere.
• Kynge Edwarde, by Master Willyam Canynge.
• Others by Knights and Minstrels.

Enter Goddwyn and Harolde.

I.

Goddwyn.
Harold!

Har.
My loverde!

God.
O! I weep to think
What foemen rise up to devour the land.
They batten on her flesh, her heart's blood drink,
And all is granted from the royal hand.

Har.
Let not thy grievance cease, nor aledge stand.
Am I to weep? I weep in tears of gore.
Am I betrayed? So should my burly brand
Depict the wrongs on him from whom I bore.

II.

God.
I know thy sprite full well; gentle thou art,
Strong, dreadful, rough, as smoking armies seem;
Yet oft, I fear, thy heat's too great a part,
And that thy counsel's oft born down by breme.
What tidings from the king?

Har.
His Normans know;
I make no comrade of the shimmering train.

God.
Ah Harold! 'tis a sight of mickle woe,
To know these Normans every glory gain.
What tidings with the folk?

III.

Har.
Still murmuring at their fate, still to the king
They roll their troubles, like a surgy sea.
Hath England then a tongue, but not a sting?
Do all complain, yet none will righted be?

God.
Await the time, when God will send us aid.

Har.
No; we must strive to aid ourselves with power.
When God will send us aid! 'tis bravely prayed!
Must we thus cast away the livelong hour?
Thus cross our arms, and not to live dareygn,
Unburlèd, undelievre, unespryte?
Far from my heart be fled that thought of pain,
I'll free my country, or I'll die in fight.

IV.

God.
But let us wait until some season fit.
My Kentishmen, thy Somertons shall rise;
Prowess adapted to the garb of wit,
Again the argent horse shall dance in skies.
Oh Harold, here distracting wanhope lies.
England, oh England, 'tis for thee I blethe.
Whilst Edward to thy sons will naught alyse,
Should any of thy sons feel aught of ethe?
Upon the throne I set thee, held thy crown;
But oh! 'twere homage now to pluck thee down.

V.

[God.]
Thou art all priest and nothing of the king,
Thou art all Norman, nothing of my blood;
Know, it beseems thee not a mass to sing;
Serving thy liegefolk, thou art serving God.

VI.

Har.
Then I'll do heaven a service. To the skies
The daily quarrels of the land ascend.
The widow's, fatherless', and bondsmen's cries
Choke all the murky air and heaven astende.
On us, the rulers, doth the folk depend.
Cut off from earth these Norman hinds shall be.
Like a loud-roaring flame, my sword shall brende,
Like raindrops falling soft, I will them slea.
We wait too long, our purpose will defayte,
Prepare the high emprise, and rouse the champions straight.

VII.

God.
Thy sister—

Har.
Aye, I know, she is his queen;
Albeit, did she speak her foemen fair,
I would destroy her comely seemlykeen,
And fold my bloody anlace in her hair.

God.
Thy fury cease—

Har.
No, bid the lethal mere,
Upraised by secret winds and cause unkenn'd,
Command it to be still; so 'twill appear,
Ere Harold hide his name, his country's friend.
The red-stained brigandyne, the aventayl,
The fiery anlace broad shall make my cause prevail.

VIII.

God.
Harold, what wouldest do?

Har.
Bethink thee what.
Here lieth England, all her rights unfree,
Here lie the Normans cutting her by lot,
Restraining every native plant to gre,
What would I do? I furious would them sle,
Tear out their sable heart by rightful breme.
Their death a means unto my life should be,
My sprite should revel in their heart-blood's stream.
Eftsoons I will reveal my rageful ire,
And Goddès anlace wield in fury dire.

IX.

God.
What wouldst thou with the king?

Har.
Take off his crown;
The ruler of some minster him ordain,
Set up some worthier than I have plucked down,
And peace in England should be brayd again.

God.
No, let the super-holy saint-king reign.
And some more prudent rule th'uncared-for realm;
King Edward, in his courtesy, will deign
To yield the spoils, and only wear the helm.
But from my heart be every thought of gain,
Not any of my kin I wish him to ordain.

X.

Har.
Tell me the means, and I will 'bout it straight.
Bid me to slay myself, it shall be done.

God.
To thee I quickly will the means unplait,
By which thou, Harold, shalt be proved my son.
I have long seen what pains were undergone,
What miseries branch out from the general tree.
The time is coming, when the mollock groun'
Drainèd of all its swelling waves shall be.
My remedy is good; our men shall rise,
Eftsoons the Normans and our grievance flies.

XI.

Har.
I will to the West, and gather all my knights,
With bills that pant for blood, and shields as brede
As the y-broched moon, when white she dights
The woodland ground or water-mantled mead;
With hands whose might can make the doughtiest bleed,
Who oft have knelt upon their slaughtered foes,
Who with their feet o'erturn a castle-stede,
Who dare on kings for to awreak their woes.
Now will the men of England hail the day,
When Goddwyn leads them to the rightful fray.

XII.

God.
But first we'll call the nobles of the West,
The earls of Mercia, Coventry, and all.
The more we gain, the cause will prosper best,
With such a number we can never fall.

XIII.

Har.
True, so we shall do best to link the chain,
And all at once the spreading kingdom bind.
No crossèd champion with a heart more fain
Did issue out the holy sword to find,
Than I now strive to rid my land of pain.
Goddwyn, what thanks our labours will enheap!
I'll rouse my friends unto the bloody plain;
I'll wake the honour that is now asleep.
When will the chiefs meet at thy festive hall,
That I with voice aloud may there upon them call?

XIV.

God.
Next eve, my son.

Har.
Now, England, is the time,
When thou or thy fell foemen's cause must die.
Thy geason wrongs are run into their prime;
Now will thy sons unto thy succour fly;
E'en like a storm engathering in the sky,
'Tis full, and bursteth on the barren ground,
So shall my fury on the Normans fly,
And all their mighty men be slain around.
Now, now will Harold or oppression fall,
No more the Englishmen in vain for help shall call.

[Exeunt.

XV.

Enter King Edwarde and his Queen.
Qu.
But, loverde, why so many Normans here?
Me thinketh, we be not in English land,
These broided strangers alway do appear,
They part your throne, and sit at your right hand.

King.
Go to, go to, you do not understand.
They gave me life, and did my person keep;
They did me feast, and did embower me grand;
To treat them ill would let my kindness sleep.

Qu.
Mancas you have in store, and to them part;
Your liege-folk make much dole, you have their worth asterte.

XVI.

King.
I ask no rede of you. I ken my friends.
Holy are they, full ready me to hele.
Their volundès are dead to selfish ends,
No denwere in my breast I of them feel.
I must to prayers; go in, and you do well;
I must not lose the duty of the day;
Go in, go in, and view the azure rele,
Full well I wot you have no mind to pray.

Qu.
I leave you to do homage heaven-were;
To serve your liege-folk too, is doing homage there.

[Exit Queen.

XVII.

Enter Sir Hugh.
King.
My friend, Sir Hugh, what tidings bring thee here?

Hugh.
There are no mancas in my loverdes ente;
The house-expenses do unpaid appear,
The last receipt is even now dispent.

King.
Then tax the West.

Hugh.
My loverde, I did speak
Unto the brave Earl Harold of the thing;
He raised his hand, and smote me on the cheek,
Saying, “Go, bear that message to the king.”

King.
Divest him of his power; by Goddès word,
No more that Harold shall y-wield the earlès sword.

XVIII.

Hugh.
At season fit, my loverde, let it be,
But now the folk do so embrace his name,
In striving to sle him, ourselves we sle;
Such is the doughtiness of his great fame.

King.
Hugh, I bethink, thy rede is not to blame.
But thou mayest find full store of marks in Kent.

Hugh.
My noble loverde, Goddwyn is the same;
He swears he will not swell the Norman's ent.

King.
Ah traitor! but my rage I will command;
Thou art a Norman, Hugh, a stranger to the land.

XIX.

[King]
Thou kennest how these English earls do bear
Such steadiness in the ill and evil thing,
But at the good they hover in denwere,
Unknowledging if thereunto to cling.

Hugh.
Unworthy such a marvel of a king!
Oh Edward! thou deservest purer leege,
To thee they shoulden all their mancas bring,
Thy nod should save men, and thy frown forslege.
I am no flatterer, I lack no wit,
I speak what is the truth, and what all see is right.

XX.

King.
Thou art a holy man, I do thee prize.
Come, come, and hear, and help me in thy prayers,
Full twenty mancas I will thee alise,
And twain of hamlets to thee and thy heirs.
So shall all Normans from my land be fed,
They only have such love as to acquire their bread.

[Exeunt.

XXI.

Chorus.
When Freedom, dressed in bloodstained vest,
To every knight her warsong sung,
Upon her head wild weeds were spread,
A gory weapon by her hung.
She dancèd on the heath,
She heard the voice of death.

XXII.

[Chorus]
Pale-eyed Affright, his heart of silver hue,
In vain essayed her bosom to acale.
She heard, unscared, the shrieking voice of woe,
And sadness in the owlet shake the dale.
She shook the armèd spear,
On high she raised her shield,
Her foemen all appear,
And fly along the field.

XXIII.

[Chorus]
Power, with his head out-stretched into the skies,
His spear a sunbeam, and his shield a star;
E'en like two burning meteors rolls his eyes,
Stamps with his iron feet, and sounds to war.
She sits upon a rock,
She bends before his spear,
She rises from the shock,
Wielding her own in air.

XXIV.

[Chorus]
Hard as the thunder doth she drive it on,
Wit, closely wimpled, guides it to his crown;
His long sharp spear, his spreading shield is gone,
He falls, and falling, rolleth thousands down.
War, gore-faced War, by Envy armed, arist,
His fiery helmet nodding to the air,
Ten bloody arrows in his straining fist— [OMITTED]