University of Virginia Library

II. VOL. II.

BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE;

OR, THE DETHE OF SYR CHARLES BAWDIN.

ÆLLA,

A TRAGYCAL ENTERLUDE, OR DISCOORSEYNGE TRAGEDIE,

EPISTLE TO MASTRE CANYNGE ON ÆLLA.

LETTER TO THE DYGNE MASTRE CANYNGE.

ENTRODUCTIONNE.

ÆLLA.

PERSONNES REPRESENTEDD.

• Ælla, bie Thomas Rowleie, Preeste, the Aucthoure.
• Celmonde . . Johan Iscamm, Preeste.
• Hurra . . . Syrr Thybbotte Gorges, Knyghte.
• Birtha. . . Mastre Edwarde Canynge.
• Odherr Partes bie Knyghtes, Mynstrelles &c.

SCENE, BRISTOL.
Enter Celmonde.

I.

Celmonde.
Before yon ruddy sun hath driv'n his wain
Through half his journey, dight in robes of gold,
Me, hapless me, he will a wretch behold,
Myself, and all that's mine, bound in mischance's chain.

II.

[Celmonde.]
Ah! Bertha, why did Nature frame thee fair?
Why art thou all that pencil can bewreene?
Why art thou not as coarse as others are?
But then—thy soul would through thy visage sheene,
That shimmers on thy comely semlykeene,
Like nutbrown clouds, when by the sun made red,
Or scarlet, with choice linen cloth ywreene;
Such would thy sprite upon thy visage spread.
This day brave Ælla doth thine hand and heart
Claim as his own to be, which ne'er from his must part.

III.

[Celmonde.]
And can I live to see her with anere?
It cannot, must not, nay, it shall not be!
This night I'll put strong poison in the beer,
And him, her, and myself, at once will sle.
Assist me, Hell! let devils round me 'tend,
To slay myself, my love, and eke my doughty friend.
[Exit.
Enter Ælla and Bertha.

IV.

Æl.
Not when the holy priest did make me knight,
Blessing the weapon, telling future deed,
How by my hand the hardy Dane should bleed,
How I should often be, and often win, in fight;

V.

[Æl.]
Not when I first beheld thy beauteous hue,
Which struck my mind, and rous'd my softer soul;
Not when the barbèd horse in fight did view
The flying Dacians o'er the wide plain roll,
When all the troops of Denmark made great dole,
Did I feel joy with such reddoure as now,
When holy priest, physician of the soul,
Did knit us both in an enforcing vow;
Now blissful Ælla's happiness is great,
Fate having now y-made his woes for to abate.

VI.

Ber.
My lord and husband, such a joy is mine;
But maiden modesty must not so say,
Albeit thou mayest read it in mine eyne,
Or in my heart, where thou shalt be for aye;
In sooth, I have but recompensed thy faie;
For twelve times twelve the moon hath been yblent,
As many times vied with the god of day,
And on the grass her gleams of silver sent,
Since thou didst choose me for thy sweet to be,
Still acting in the same most faithfully to me.

VII.

[Ber.]
Oft have I seen thee at the noon-day feast,
When seated by thyself, for want of peers,
The while thy merrymen did laugh and jest,
On me thou seem'st all eyes, to me all ears.
Thou guardest me as if in hundred fears
Lest a disdainful look to thee be sent,
And presents mad'st me, more than thy compeers,
Of scarfs of scarlet, and fine parament;
All thy intent to please was turned to me,
I say it, I must strive that thou rewarded be.

VIII.

Æl.
My little kindnesses which I did do
Thy gentleness doth represent so great,
Like mighty elephants my gnats do shew;
Thou dost my thoughts of paying love abate.
But had my actions stretched the roll of fate,
Plucked thee from hell, or brought heav'n down to thee,
Laid the whole world a footstool at thy feet,
One smile would be sufficient meed for me.
I am love's borrow'r, and can never pay,
But be his borrower still, and thine, my sweet, for aye.

IX.

Ber.
Love, do not rate your services so small,
As I to you, such love unto me bear;
For nothing past will Bertha ever call,
Nor on a food from heaven think to cheer.
As far as this frail brittle flesh will spare,
Such, and no further, I expect of you;
Be not too slack in love, nor over-dear;
A small fire than a loud flame proves more true.

Æl.
Thy gentle words thy disposition kenne
To be instructed more than is in most of men.

X.

Enter Celmonde and Minstrels.
Cel.
All blessings show'r on gentle Ælla's head!
Oft may the moon, in silver shining light,
In varied changes varied blessings shed,
Dispersing far abroad mischance's night;
And thou, fair Bertha! thou, fair dame, so bright,
Long mayest thou with Ælla find much peace,
With happiness, as with a robe, be dight,
With every changing moon new joys increase!
I, as a token of my love to speak,
Have brought you jugs of ale, at night your brain to break.

XI.

Æl.
When supper's past we'll drink your ale so strong,
Come life, come death.

Cel.
Ye minstrels, chant your song.

XII.

Man.
Turn thee to thy shepherd swain,
Bright sun hath not drunk the dew
From the flowers of yellow hue;
Turn thee, Alice, back again.

XIII.

Wom.
No, deceiver, I will go,
Softly tripping o'er the leas,
Like the silver-footed doe,
Seeking shelter in green trees.

XIV.

Man.
See the moss-grown daisied bank,
Peering in the stream below;
Here we'll sit, on verdure dank,
Turn thee, Alice, do not go.

XV.

Wom.
Once I heard my grandame say,
Youthful damsels should not be
In the pleasant month of May,
With young men by the greenwood tree.

XVI.

Man.
Sit thee, Alice, sit and hark,
How the blackbird chants his note,
The goldfinch, and gray morning lark
Chanting from their little throat.

XVII.

Wom.
I hear them from each greenwood tree,
Chanting forth so lustily,
Telling warning tales to me,
Mischief is when you are nigh.

XVIII.

Man.
See along the meads so green
Pièd daisies, kingcups sweet;
All we see, by none are seen,
None but sheep set here their feet.

XIX.

Wom.
Shepherd swain, you tear my shawl,
Out upon you! let me go,
Leave me, or for help I'll call;
Robin, this your dame shall know.

XX.

Man.
See! the crooked bryony
Round the poplar twists his spray;
Round the oak the green ivỳ
Flourisheth and liveth aye.

XXI.

[Man.]
Let us seat us by this tree,
Laugh, and sing to loving airs;
Come, so coy you must not be,
Nature made all things by pairs.

XXII.

[Man.]
Dainty cats will after kind;
Gentle doves will kiss and coo.

Wom.
Man's appeal must be declined
Till sir priest make one of two.

XXIII.

[Wom.]
Tempt me not to do foul thing,
I will no man's mistress be;
Till sir priest his song doth sing,
Thou shalt ne'er find aught of me.

XXIV.

Man.
By the Child of Virgin born,
Tomorrow, soon as it is day,
I'll make thee wife, nor be forsworn,
So 'tide me life or death for aye.

XXV.

Wom.
What doth hinder, but that now
We at once, thus hand in hand,
Unto holy clerk may go,
And be linked in wedlock's band?

XXVI.

Man.
I agree, and thus I plight
Hand and heart, and all that's mine;
Good sir Roger, do us right,
Make us one at Cuthbert's shrine.

XXVII.

Both.
We will in a cottage live,
Happy, though of no estate;
Every hour more love shall give,
We in goodness will be great.

XXVIII.

Æl.
I like this song, I like it passing well;
And there is money for your singing now.
But have you none that marriage-blessings tell?

Cel.
In marriage, blessings are but few, I trow.

Mynst.
My lord, we have; and, if you please, will sing,
As well as our chough-voices will permit.

Æl.
Come then, and see you sweetly tune the string,
And stretch and torture all the human wit,
To please my dame.

Minst.
We'll strain our wit and sing.

XXIX.

First M.
The budding floweret blushes at the light,
The meads are sprinkled with the yellow hue;
In daisied mantles is the mountain dight,
The nesh young cowslip bendeth with the dew;
The trees enleafèd, unto heaven straught,
When gentle winds do blow, to whistling din are brought.

XXX.

[First M.]
The evening comes, and brings the dew along;
The ruddy welkin shineth to the eyne;
Around the ale-stake minstrels sing the song,
Young ivy round the doorpost doth entwine;
I lay me on the grass; yet, to my will,
Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still.

XXXI.

Second.
So Adam thought when once, in Paradise,
All heaven and earth did homage to his mind;
In woman only man's chief solace lies,
As instruments of joy are those of kind.
Go, take a wife unto thine arms, and see
Winter, and barren hills, will have a charm for thee.

XXXII.

Third.
When Autumn sere and sunburnt doth appear,
With his gold hand gilding the falling leaf,
Bringing up Winter to fulfil the year,
Bearing upon his back the ripened sheaf,
When all the hills with woody seed are white,
When lightning-fires and gleams do meet from far the sight;

XXXIII.

[Third.]
When the fair apples, red as evening sky,
Do bend the tree unto the fruitful ground,
When juicy pears, and berries of black dye,
Do dance in air, and call the eyes around;
Then, be the evening foul, or be it fair,
Methinks my heart's delight is mingled with some care.

XXXIV.

Second.
Angels are wrought to be of neither kind,
Angels alone from hot desire are free,
There is a somewhat ever in the mind,
That, without woman, cannot stillèd be
No saint in cell, but, having blood and tere,
Doth find the sprite to joy in sight of woman fair.

XXXV.

[Second.]
Women are made not for themselves but man,
Bone of his bone, and child of his desire;
First from a useless member they began,
Y-wrought with much of water, little fire;
Therefore they seek the fire of love, to heat
The milkiness of kind, and make themselves complete.

XXXVI.

[Second.]
Albeit, without women, men were peers
To savage kind, and would but live to slay;
But woman oft the sprite of peace so cheers,
Blest with angelic joy, what angels they!
Go, take thee quickly to thy bed a wife,
Be banned, or highly blest, in proving married life.

XXXVII.

As Elinor by the green arbour was sitting,
As from the sun's heat she hurried,
She said, as her white hands white hosen were knitting,
“What pleasure it is to be married!

XXXVIII.

My husband, Lord Thomas, a forester bold,
As ever clove pin or the basket,
Doth no source of comfort from Elinor hold,
I have it as soon as I ask it.

XXXIX.

When I lived with my father in merry Cloud-dell,
Tho' 'twas at my choice to mind spinning;
I still wanted something, but what, could not tell;
My lord father's barb'd hall had naught winning.

XL.

Each morning I rise, do I order my maidens,
Some to spin, some to curdle, some bleaching;
If any new entered do ask for my aidance,
Then quickly you find me a-teaching.

XLI.

Lord Walter, my father, he lovèd me well,
And nothing unto me was needing;
But should I again go to merry Cloud-dell,
In sooth it would be without redeynge.”

XLII.

She said, and Lord Thomas came over the lea,
As he the fat deerkins was chasing,
She put up her knitting, and to him went she;
So we leave them both kindly embracing.

XLIII.

Æl.
I like eke this; go in unto the feast,
We will permit you antecedent be;
There sweetly sing each carol, and jap'd jest,
And there is money, that you merry be.
Come, gentle love, we will to spouse-feast go,
And there in ale and wine shall drown'd be every wo.

XLIV.

Ælla, Bertha, Celmond, Messenger.
Mess.
Ælla, the Danes are thund'ring on our coast,
Like shoals of locusts, cast up by the sea;
Magnus and Hurra, with a doughty host,
Are raging, to be quenched by none but thee;
Haste, swift as lightning, to these rovers flee,
Thy dogs alone can tame this raging bull.
Haste quickly, for anigh the town they be,
And Wedëcester's roll of doom is full.
Haste, haste, O Ælla, to the bicker fly,
For in a moment's space ten thousand men may die.

XLV.

Æl.
Beshrew thee for thy news! I must be gone,
Was ever luckless doom so hard as mine?
Thus from enjoyment unto war to run,
To change the silk vest for the gaberdine.

Ber.
O! like an adder, let me round thee twine,
And shield thy body from the shafts of war.
Thou shalt not, must not, from thy Bertha ryne,
But ken the din of slogans from afar.

Æl.
O love, was this thy joy, to shew the treat,
Then rudely to forbid thy hungered guests to eat?

XLVI.

[Æl.]
O my upswelling heart, what words can say
The pains, that pass within my soul ybrent?
Thus to be torn upon my spousal day,
O! 'tis a pain beyond entendëment.
Ye mighty Gods, and are your favours sent,
As thus, fast linkèd to a load of pain?
Must we aye hold in chase the shade content,
And, for the substance, but a ghost obtain?
O! why, ye saints, oppress ye thus my soul?
How shall I speak my woe, my grief, my dreary dole?

XLVII.

Cel.
Sometimes the wisest lack a poor man's rede.
Reason and cunning wit oft flee away.
Then, lord, now let me say, with homaged dread,
(Beneath your feet y-laid), my counsel say.
If thus we let the matter idle lay,
The foemen, every moment, gain a foot.
My lord, now let the spearmen, dight for fray,
And all the booted soldiers go about.
I speak, my lord, but only to uprise
Your wit from marvel, and the warrior to alyse.

XLVIII.

Æl.
Ah! now thou puttest takells in my heart,
My soul doth now begin to see hersel',
I will uprouse my might, and do my part
To slay the foemen in my fury fell.
But how can tongue my ramping fury tell,
Which riseth from my love to Bertha fair?
Nor could the fiend, and all the might of hell,
Invent th'annoyance of so black a gear.
Yet I will be myself, and rouse my sprite
To act with glory, and go meet the bloody fight.

XLIX.

Ber.
No, thou shalt never leave thy Bertha's side,
Nor shall the wind upon us blow alleyne;
I, like an adder, will untò thee bide,
'Tide life, 'tide death, it shall behold us twain.
I have my part of dreary grief and pain,
It bursteth from me at the hidden eyne;
In floods of tears my dying soul will drain;
If dreary dole is thine, 'tis two times mine.
Go not, O Ælla; with thy Bertha stay,
For, with thy seemliness, my soul will go away.

L.

Æl.
Oh! 'tis for thee, for thee alone I feel;
Yet I must be myself; with valour's gear
I'll deck my heart, and knot my limbs in steel,
And shake the bloody sword and stainèd spear.

Ber.
Can Ælla from his breast his Bertha tear?
Is she so rough and ugly to his sight?
Intriguing wight, is mortal war so dear?
Thou prizest me below the joys of fight.
Thou shalt not leave me, albeit the earth
Hung pendent by thy sword, and cravèd for thy morthe.

LI.

Æl.
Didst thou know how my woes, as stars ybrent,
Headed by these thy words, do on me fall,
Thou wouldest strive to give my heart content,
Waking my sleeping mind to honour's call.
Of happiness, I prize thee more than all
Heaven can me send, or cunning wit acquire;
Yet will I leave thee, on the foe to fall,
Returning to thine eyes with double fire.

Ber.
Must Bertha boon request, and be denied?
Receive at once a dart, in happiness and pride?

LII.

[Ber.]
Do stay, at least, till morrow's sun appears.

Æl.
Thou knowest well the Dacian's mighty power;
With them a minute worketh bane for years;
They undo realms within a single hour.
Rouse all thy honour, Bertha; look attoure
Thy bleeding country, which for hasty deed
Calls, for the working of some doughty power,
To spoil its spoilers, make its foemen bleed.

Ber.
Rouse all thy love, false and intriguing wight,
Nor leave thy Bertha thus upon pretence of fight.

LIII.

[Ber.]
Thou needst not go, until thou hast command
Under the signet of our lord the king.

Æl.
And wouldst thou make me then a recreand?
Holy Saint Mary, keep me from the thing!
Here, Bertha, thou hast put a double sting,
One for thy love, another for thy mind.

Ber.
Offended Ælla, thine upbraiding blynge;
'Twas love of thee that foul intent ywrynde.
Yet hear me supplicate, to me attend,
Hear from my bursting heart the lover and the friend.

LIV.

[Ber.]
Let Celmonde in thine armour-suit be dight,
And in thy stead unto the battle go.
Thy name alone will put the Danes to flight,
The air that bears it would press down the foe.

Æl.
Bertha, in vain thou wouldst me recreant do;
I must, I will, fight for my country's weal,
And leave thee for it. Celmonde, swiftly go,
Tell my Brystowans to be dight in steel;
Tell them I scorn to ken them from afar,
But leave the virgin bridal bed for bed of war.

[Exeunt Celmonde and Messenger.

LV.

Ber.
And thou wilt go? Alas! my bursting heart!

Æl.
My country waits my march, I must away;
Albeit I should go to meet the dart
Of certain death, yet here I would not stay.
But thus to leave thee, Bertha, doth asswaie
More torturing pains than can be said by tyngue.
Yet rouse thy honour up, and wait the day,
When round about me songs of war they sing.
O Bertha, strive my sorrow to accaie,
And joyous see my arms, dight out in war's array.

LVI.

Ber.
Difficile is the penance, yet I'll strive
To keep my wo deep hidden in my breast;
Albeit naught may to me pleasure give,
Like thee, I'll strive to set my mind at rest.
Yet oh! forgive if I have thee distressed;
Love, doughty love, will bear no other sway.
Just as I was with Ælla to be blest,
Fate foully thus hath snatchèd him away.
It was a grief too weighty to be born,
Without a flood of tears and breast with sighs y-torn.

LVII.

Æl.
Thy mind is now thyself; why wilt thou be
All fair, all kingly, all so wise in mind,
Only to let poor wretched Ælla see
What wondrous gems he now must leave behind?
O Bertha fair, watch every coming wind,
On every wind I will a token send;
On my long shield thy name engraved thou'lt find;
But here comes Celmonde, worthy knight and friend.

Enter Celmonde.
Cel.
Thy Bristol knights for thy forthcoming lynge;
Each one athwart his back his long war-shield doth sling.

LVIII.

Æl.
Bertha, adieu; but yet I cannot go.

Ber.
Life of my soul, my gentle Ælla, stay;
Torment me not with such a dreary woe.

Æl.
I must; I will; 'tis honour calls away.

Ber.
Alas! my bursting heart, break, break in twaie.
Ælla, for honour, flies away from me!

Æl.
Bertha, adieu; I may not here obaie.
I'm flying from myself in flying thee.

[Exit.
Ber.
O Ælla, husband, friend, and loverde, stay;
He's gone, he's gone, alas! perchance he's gone for aye.

[Exit.

LIX.

Celmond, alone.
Cel.
Hope, holy sister, sweeping through the sky
In crown of gold, and robe of lily white,
Which far abroad in gentle air doth fly,
Meeting from distance the delighted sight,
Albeit oft thou takest thy high flight
Wrapped in a mist, and with thine eyes yblent,
Now comest thou to me with starry light;
Unto thy vest the red sun is adente;
The summer tide and month of May appear
Painted with skilful hand upon thy wide aumere.

LX.

[Cel.]
I from a night of hopelen am adawed,
Astonished at the joyousness of day;
Ælla, by naught more than his myndbruche awed,
Is gone, and I must follow to the fray;
Celmonde can ne'er from any bicker stay.
Doth war begin? There's Celmonde in the place;
But when the war is done, I'll haste away.
The rest from 'neath time's mask must shew its face.
I see unnumbered joys around me rise,
Clear standeth future doom, and joy doth me alyse.

LXI.

[Cel.]
Oh honour, honour, what is by thee hanne?
Happy the robber and the bordelyer,
Who knows thee not, or is to thee bestanne,
And nothing does thy mickle terror fear;
Fain would I from my bosom all thee tear.
Thou there dost scatter wide thy lightning-brand;
When withered is my soul, thou art the gare;
Slain is my comfort by thy fiery hand;
As some tall hill, when winds do shake the ground,
It carveth all abroad, by bursting secret wound.

LXII.

[Cel.]
Honour! what is it? 'tis a shadow's shade,
A thing of witchcraft, or an idle dream,
One of the mysteries which clerks have made,
Men without souls and women for to fleme.
Knights, who oft know the loud din of the beme,
Should be forgarde to such enfeebling ways,
Make every action, like their souls, be breme,
And for their chivalry alone have praise.
Oh thou, whate'er thy name,
Or Zabulus or Queed,
Come, steel my sable sprite
For strange and doleful deed!
[Exit.

LXIII.

Enter Magnus, Hurra, and High Priest, with the Army, near Watchet.
Mag.
Quick, let the offerings to the Gods begin,
To know of them the issue of the fight.
Put the blood-stainèd sword and pavyes in,
Spread quickly all around the holy light.

High Priest
sings.
[Falls down and rises again.

LXIV.

Mag.
Why, so there ever was, when Magnus fought,
Oft have I dealt destruction through the host;
Through crossing swords, e'en like a fiend distraught,
Hath Magnus pressing wrought his foemen loaste.
As when a tempest vexeth sore the coast,
The sounding surge the sandy strand doth tear,
So have I in the war the javelin toss'd,
Full many a champion's breast received my spear.
My shield, like summer marshy gronfer droke,
My deadly spear is like a lightning-melted oak.

LXV.

Hur.
Thy words are great, full high of sound, and eke
Like thunder, to the which doth come no rain.
It needeth not a doughty hand to speak;
The cock saith drefte, yet armed is he alleyne.
Certès thy wordès mightest thou have sayne
Of me, and many more, who eke can fight,
Who oft have trodden down the adventayle,
And torn the helms from heads of mickle might.
Since then such might is placèd in thy hand,
Let blows thine actions speak, and by thy courage stand.

LXVI.

Mag.
Thou art a warrior, Hurra, that I ken,
And mickle famèd for thy handy deed.
Thou fightest but 'gainst maidens, and not men,
Nor e'er thou makest armed hearts to bleed.
Oft I, caparison'd on bloody steed,
Have seen thee close beneath me in the fight,
With corpses I investing every mead,
And thou astonished, wondering at my might.
Then wouldest thou come in for my renome,
Albeit thou would'st run away from bloody doom.

LXVII.

Hur.
How! but be still, my rage—I know aright
Both thee and thine may not be worthy peene;
Eftsoons I hope we shall engage in fight,
Then to the soldiers all thou wilt bewreene.
I'll prove my courage on the armèd green,
'Tis there alone I'll tell thee what I be.
If I wield not the deadly spear adeene,
Then let my name be full as low as thee.
This my indented shield, this my war-spear
Shall tell the falling foe if Hurra's heart can fear.

LXVIII.

Mag.
Magnus would speak, but that his noble sprite
Is so enraged, he knows not what to say.
He'd speak in blows, in drops of blood he'd write,
And on thy head would paint his might for aye.
If thou against a wolf's keen rage wouldst stay,
'Tis here to meet it; but if not, be goe,
Lest I in fury should my arms display,
Which to thy body will work mickle woe.
Oh! I am mad, distraught with burning rage,
Nor seas of smoking gore will my chaf'd heart assuage.

LXIX.

Hur.
I know thee, Magnus, well; a wight thou art,
That dost but slide along in sad distress,
Strong bull in body, lion's cub in heart,
I almost wish thy prowess were made less!
When Ælla (named dressed up in ugsomness
To thee and recreants) thundered on the plain,
How didst thou through the first of fliers press!
Swifter than feathered arrow didst thou reyne.
A running prize on saint's day to ordain,
Magnus, and none but he, the running prize will gain.

LXX.

Mag.
Eternal plagues devour thy cursed tongue!
Myriads of adders prey upon thy sprite!
Mayst thou feel all the pains of age while young,
Unmann'd, uney'd, excluded aye the light,
Thy senses, like thyself, enwrapped in night,
A scoff to foemen, and to beasts a peer.
May forkèd lightning on thy head alight,
May on thee fall the fury of th'unweere,
Fen-vapours blast thy every manly power,
May thy curs'd body quick the loathsome pangs devour!

LXXI.

[Mag.]
Fain would I curse thee further, but my tyngue
Denies my heart the favour so to do.

Hur.
Now by the Dacian Gods, and Heaven's king,
With fury, as thou didst begin, pursue;
Call on my head all tortures that be rou,
Curse on, till thine own tongue thy curses feel;
Send on my head the blighting levin blue,
The thunder loud, the swelling azure rele.
Thy words are high of din, but naught beside,
Curse on, good chieftain, fight with words of mickle pride;

LXXII.

Hur.
But do not waste thy breath, lest Ælla come.

Mag.
Ælla and thou together sink to hell!
Be your names blasted from the roll of doom!
I fear not Ælla, that thou knowest well.
Disloyal traitor, wilt thou now rebel?
'Tis knowèn, that thy men are link'd to mine,
Both sent, as troops of wolves to slaughter fell;
But now thou wantest them to be all thine.
Now, by the Gods that rule the Dacian state,
Speak thou in rage once more, I will thee dysregate.

LXXIII.

Hur.
I prize thy threats just as I do thy banes,
The seed of malice and resentment all.
Thou art a stain unto the name of Danes;
Thou only to thy tongue for proof canst call.
Thou art a worm so grovelling and small,
I with thy blood would scorn to foul my sword.
But with thy weapons would upon thee fall,
And like thine own fear, slay thee with a word.
I Hurra am myself, and aye will be
As great in valorous acts and in command as thee.

LXXIV.

Enter a Messenger.
Mes.
Cease your contentions, chiefs; for, as I stood
Upon my watch, I spied an army coming,
Not like a handful of a frighted foe,
But black with armour, moving terribly,
Like a black full cloud, that doth go along
To drop in hail, and hides the thunder-storm.

Mag.
Are there many of them?

Mes.
Thick as the ant-flies in a summer's noon,
Seeming as though they sting as sharply too.

LXXV.

Hur.
What matters that? let's set our war-array.
Go, sound the trump, let champions prepare,
Not doubting we will sting as fast as they.
What? dost thou lose thy blood? is it for fear?
Wouldest thou gain the town and castle-stere,
And yet not bicker with the soldier-guard?
Go, hide thee in my tent, beneath the lere,
I of thy body will keep watch and ward.

Mag.
Our Gods of Denmark know my heart is good—

Hur.
For naught upon the earth, but to be raven's food!

LXXVI.

Enter a second Messenger.
2 Mes.
As from my tower I spied the coming foe,
I spied the crossèd shield and bloody sword,
The furious Ælla's banner; within ken
The army is. Disorder through our host
Is flying, borne on wings of Ælla's name;
Stir, stir, my lords.

Mag.
What, Ælla! and so near!
Then Denmark's ruined. Oh! my rising fear!

LXXVII.

Hur.
What dost thou mean? this Ælla's but a man.
Now by my sword, thou art a very berne.
Of late I did thy coward valour scan,
When thou didst boast so much of action derne.
But I to war my doings now must turn,
To cheer the soldiers on to desperate deed.

Mag.
I to the knights on every side will burn,
Telling them all to make their foemen bleed.
Since shame or death on either side will be,
My heart I will upraise, and in the battle slea.

[Exeunt.

LXXVIII.

Ælla, Celmonde, and Army, near Watchet.
Æl.
Now, having done our matins and our vows,
Let us for the intended fight be boune,
And every champion put the joyous crown
Of certain victory upon his glist'ring brows.

LXXIX.

[Æl.]
As for my heart, I own it is, as e'er
It hath been in the summer-shine of fate,
Unknowèn to the hideous garb of fear;
My swelling blood, with mastery elate,
Boils in my veins, and rolls in rapid state,
Impatient for to meet the piercing steel
And tell the world, that Ælla died as great
As any knight who fought for England's weal.
Friends, kin, and soldiers, in black armour drear,
My actions imitate, my present counsel hear.

LXXX.

[Æl.]
There is no house, throughout this fate-scourged isle,
That hath not lost some kin in these fell fights;
Fat blood hath surfeited the hungry soil,
And towns aflame have gleamed upon the nights.
In robe of fire our holy church they dights,
Our sons lie smothered in their smoking gore;
Up by the roots our tree of life they pights,
Vexing our coast, as billows do the shore.
Ye men, if ye are men, display your name,
Consume their troops, as doth the roaring tempest flame.

LXXXI.

[Æl.]
Ye Christians, do as worthy of the name,
These spoilers of our holy houses slea;
Burst like a cloud from which doth come the flame,
Like torrents, gushing down the mountains, be.
And when along the green their champions flee,
Swift as the red consuming lightning-brand
That haunts the flying murderer o'er the lea,
So fly upon these spoilers of the land.
Let those that are unto their vessels fled
Take sleep eterne upon a fiery flaming bed.

LXXXII.

[Æl.]
Let coward London see her town on fire,
And strive with gold to stay the spoiler's hand;
Ælla and Bristol have a thought that's higher,
We fight not for ourselves, but all the land.
As Severn's eagre layeth banks of sand,
Pressing it down beneath the running stream,
With horrid din engulfing the high strand,
Bearing the rocks along in fury breme,
So will we bear the Dacian army down,
And through a storm of blood will reach the champion's crown.

LXXXIII.

[Æl.]
If in this battle luck deserts our gare,
To Bristol they will turn their fury dire;
Bristol, and all her joys, will sink to air,
Burning perforce with unaccustomed fire.
Then let our safety doubly move our ire,
As wolves, wide-roving for the evening prey,
Seeing the lamb and shepherd near the briar,
Doth th'one for safety, th'one for hunger slay.
Then when the raven croaks upon the plain,
Oh! let it be the knell to mighty Dacians slain!

LXXXIV.

[Æl.]
Like a red meteor shall my weapon shine,
Like a strong lion-cub I'll be in fight,
Like falling leaves the Dacians shall be slain,
Like loudly-dinning stream shall be my might.
Ye men, who would deserve the name of knight,
Let bloody tears by all your paves be wept;
To coming times no pencil e'er shall write,
When England had her foemen, Bristol slept.
Yourselves, your children, and your fellows cry,
Go, fight in honour's cause, be brave, and win or die.

LXXXV.

[Æl.]
I say no more; your souls the rest will say,
Your souls wil shew that Bristol is their place;
To honour's house I need not mark the way,
In your own hearts ye may the foot-path trace.
'Twixt fate and us there is but little space;
The time is now to prove yourselves are men;
Draw forth the burnished bill with dexterous grace,
Rouse, like a wolf when rousing from his den.
Thus I unsheath my weapon. Go, thou sheath!
I'll put it not in place, till it is sick with death.

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.

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.

LXXXVII.

Æl.
My countrymen, my friends, your noble sprites
Speak in your eyes, and do your master tell,
Swift as the rain-storm to the earth alights,
So will we fall upon these spoilers fell.
Our mowing swords shall plunge them down to hell,
Their thronging corpses shall obscure the stars;
The barrows bursting with the slain shall swell,
Shewing to coming times our famous wars;
In every eye I see the flame of might,
Shining abroad, e'en like a hill-fire in the night.

LXXXVIII.

[Æl.]
When pencils of our famous fight shall say,
Each one will marvel at the valiant deed;
Each one will wish that he had seen the day,
And bravely helped to make the foemen bleed.
But for their help our battle will not need,
Our force is force enough to stay their hand.
We will return unto this verdant mead,
O'er corpses of the foemen of the land.
Now to the war let all the slogans sound,
The Dacian troops appear on yonder rising ground.

LXXXIX.

[Æl.]
Chiefs, head your bands, and lead.

Danes flying, near Watchet.
1 Da.
Fly, fly, ye Danes! Magnus, the chief, is slain,
The Saxons come with Ælla at their head;
Let's strive to get away to yonder green,
Fly, fly; this is the kingdom of the dead.

2 Da.
O gods! have thousands by my weapon bled,
And must I now for safety fly away?
See! far dispersèd all our troops are spread,
Yet I will singly dare the bloody fray.
But no! I'll fly, and murder in retreat,
Death, blood, and fire shall mark the going of my feet.

XC.

3 Da.
Intending to escape the fiery foe,
As near unto the billow'd beach I came,
Far off I spied a sight of mickle woe,
Our lofty vessels wrapped in sails of flame;
The armèd Dacians, who were in the same,
From side to side fled the pursuit of death,
The swelling fire their courage doth inflame,
They leap into the sea, and bubbling yield their breath;
Whilst those that are upon the bloody plain,
Are death-doomed captives ta'en, or in the battle slain.

XCI.

Hur.
Now by the gods, Magnus, discourteous knight,
By craven conduct hath achieved our woe,
Expending all the tall men in the fight
And placing valorous men where dregs might go.
Since then our fortune thus hath turnèd so,
Gather the soldiers left to future shappe,
To some new place for safety we will go,
In future day we will have better hap.
Sound the loud slogan for a quick forloyne,
Let all the Dacians quickly to our banner join.

XCII.

[Hur.]
Through hamlets we will scatter death and dole,
Bathe in hot gore, and wash ourselves therein;
Gods! here the Saxons, like a billow, roll,
I hear the clashing swords' detested din!
Away, away, ye Danes, to yonder penne,
We now will make retreat, in time to fight again.
[Exeunt.

XCIII.

Enter Celmond, near Watchet.
[Hur.]
Oh for a soul all fire! to tell the day,
The day which shall astound the hearer's rede,
Making our foemen's envying hearts to bleed,
And bearing through the world our name, renowned for aye.

XCIV.

[Hur.]
Bright sun had in his ruddy robes been dight,
From the red East he flitted with his train,
The hoürs drew away the robe of night,
Her sable tapestry was rent in twain.
The dancing streaks bedeckèd heaven's plain,
And on the dew did smile with shimmering eye,
Like drops of blood which do black armour stain,
Shining upon the borne which standeth by.
The soldiers stood upon the hillès side,
Like young enleafèd trees which in a forest bide.

XCV.

[Hur.]
Ælla rose like the tree beset with briars,
His tall spear shining like the stars at night,
His eyes appearing like a flame of fire;
When he exhorted every man to fight,
His gentle words did move each valorous knight.
It moveth them, as hunters lyoncels;
In trebled armour is their courage dight,
Each warring heart for praise and glory swells;
Like sluggish dinning of the winding stream,
Such did the murmuring sound of the whole army seem.

XCVI.

[Hur.]
He leads them on to fight. Oh! then to say
How Ælla looked, and looking did encheere,
Aye moving like a mountain in affraie,
When a loud whirlwind doth its bosom tear.
To tell how every look would banish fear
Would ask an angel's pencil or his tongue.
Like a tall rock that riseth heaven-were,
Like a young wolf most furious and strong,
So did he go, and mighty warriors head,
With gore-depicted wings Victory around him fled.

XCVII.

[Hur.]
The battle joined; swords upon swords did ring;
Ælla was chafed, as lions maddened be;
Like falling stars, he did the javelin fling,
His mighty broadsword mighty men did slea,
Where he did come, the frighted foe did flee,
Or fell beneath his hand, as falling rain;
With such a fury he did on them dree,
Hills of their bodies rose upon the plain.
Ælla, thou art—but stay, my tongue, say nee;
How great I him may make, still greater he will be.

XCVIII.

[Hur.]
Nor did his soldiers see his acts in vain;
Here a stout Dane upon his comrade fell,
Here lord and peasant sank upon the plain,
Here son and father trembled into hell.
Chief Magnus sought his way, and, shame to tell,
He sought his way for flight; but Ælla's spear
Upon the flying Dacian's shoulder fell
Quite through his body, and his heart it tare;
He groaned, and sank upon the gory green,
And with his corse encreased the piles of Dacians sleen.

XCIX.

[Hur.]
Spent with the fight, the Danish champions stand,
Like bulls whose strength and wondrous might are fled;
Ælla, a javelin gripp'd in either hand,
Flies to the throng, and dooms two Dacians dead.
After his act, the army all y-sped;
From every one unmissing javelins flew;
They drew their doughty swords, the foemen bled;
Full three of four of mighty Danes they slew.
The Danes, with terror ruling at their head,
Threw down their banner tall, and like a raven fled.

C.

[Hur.]
The soldiers followed with a mighty cry,
Cries that might well the stoutest hearts affray.
Swift as their ships, the vanquished Dacians fly;
Swift as the rain upon an April day,
Pressing behind, the English soldiers slay;
But half the tenths of Danish men remain.
Ælla commands they should the slaughter stay,
But bind them prisoners on the bloody plain.
The fighting being done, I came away,
In other fields to fight a more unequal fray.

CI.

Enter a Squire.
[Hur.]
My servant squire, prepare a flying horse,
Whose feet are wings, whose pace is like the wind,
Who will outstrip the morning light in course,
Leaving the mantle of the dark behind;
Some secret matters do my presence find.
Give out to all that I was slain in fight;
If in this cause thou dost my order mind,
When I return, thou shalt be made a knight.
Fly, fly, be gone! an hoür is a day,
Quick dight my best of steeds, and bring him here; away!
Exit Squire.

CII.

[Hur.]
Ælla is wounded sore, and in the town
He waiteth, till his wounds be brought to ethe.
And shall I from his brows pluck off the crown,
Making the victor in his victory blethe?
Oh no! full sooner should my heart's blood smethe,
Full sooner would I tortured be to death!
But—Bertha is the prize; ah! it were ethe,
To gain so fair a prize with loss of breath.
But then renown eterne—it is but air,
Bred in the phantasy, and only living there.

CIII.

[Hur.]
Albeit everything in life conspire
To tell me of the fault I now should do,
Yet would I recklessly assuage my fire,
And the same means, as I shall now, pursue.
The qualities I from my parents drew
Were blood and murder, mastery and war;
These will I hold to now, and heed no moe
A wound in honour than a body-scar.
Now, Ælla, now I'm planting of a thorn,
By which thy peace, thy love, thy glory shall be torn.
[Exit.

CIV.

Scene, Bristol. Enter Bertha and Egwina.
Ber.
Gentle Egwina, do not preach me joy;
I cannot join in any thing but weere.
Oh! that aught should our happiness destroy,
Flooding the face with woe and briny tear!

Egw.
You must, you must endeavour for to cheer
Your heart unto some comfortable rest.
Your loverde from the battle will appear,
In honour and in greater love be dress'd;
But I will call the minstrels' roundelay,
Perchance the pleasant sound may chase your grief away.

[Enter Minstrels.

CV.

Oh sing unto my roundelay,
Oh drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more on holiday;
Like a running river be.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CVI.

Black his hair as the winter night,
White his skin as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CVII.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
Oh! he lies by the willow-tree.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CVIII.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing,
In the briar'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CIX.

See! the white moon shines on high,
Whiter is my true love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CX.

Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CXI.

With my hands I'll fix the briars,
Round his holy corse to gre,
Elfin fairies, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CXII.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood all away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

CXIII.

Ber.
This singing hath whate'er can make it please,
But my unhappy fate bereaves me of all ease.

[Exeunt.

CXIV.

Scene, Watchet. Ælla, alone.
Æl.
Curse on my tardy wounds! bring me a steed!
I will away to Bertha by to-night;
Albeit from my wounds my soul doth bleed,
I will away, and die within her sight.
Bring me a steed, with eagle-wings for flight;
Swift as my wish, and, as my love is, strong.
The Danes have wrought me mickle woe in fight,
In keeping me from Bertha's arms so long.
Oh! what a doom was mine, since mastery
Can give no pleasure, nor my land's good leme mine eye!

CXV.

[Æl.]
Ye Gods, how is a lover's temper formed!
Sometimes the same thing will both ban and bless;
One time enchilled, then by the same thing warm'd,
First forth extended, and again brought less.
'Tis Bertha's loss which doth my thoughts possess.
I will, I must away; why stays my steed?
My servants, hither haste; prepare a dress
Which couriers in hasty journies need.
Oh heavens! I must away to Bertha's eyne,
For in her looks I find my being doth entwine.

[Exit.

CXVI.

Scene, Bristol. Celmond, alone.
[Æl.]
The world is dark with night; the winds are still,
Faintly the moon her pallid light makes gleam,
The risen sprites the silent churchyard fill,
With elfin fairies joining in the dream;
The forest shineth with the silver leme;
Now may my love be sated in its treat;
Upon the brink of some swift running stream,
At the sweet banquet I will sweetly eat.
This is the house; quickly, ye hinds, appear.

Enter a Servant.
Cel.
Go tell to Bertha straight, a stranger waiteth here.

[Exit Servant. Soon after, enter Bertha.

CXVII.

Ber.
Celmond! ye saints! I hope thou hast good news.

Cel.
The hope is lost; for heavy news prepare.

Ber.
Is Ælla well?

Cel.
He is; and still may use
The hidden blessings of a future year.

Ber.
What heavy tidings then have I to fear?
Of what mischance didst thou so lately say?

Cel.
For heavy tidings quickly now prepare;
Ælla sore wounded is, in bickerous fray;
In Wedëcester's wallèd town he lies.

Ber.
Alas! my swelling breast!

Cel.
Without your sight, he dies.

CXVIII.

Ber.
Will Bertha's presence ease her Ælla's pain?
I fly; new wings do from my shoulders spring.

Cel.
My steed without will deftly bear us twain.

Ber.
Oh! will fly as wind, and noway lynge;
Swiftly caparisons for riding bring.
I have a mind winged with the lightning's plume.
O Ælla! Ælla! didst thou ken the sting,
The which doth canker in my hertys room,
Thou wouldst see plain thyself the cause to be.
Arise, upon thy love, and fly to meeten me.

CXIX.

Cel.
The steed on which I came is swift as air,
My servitors do wait me near the wood;
Anon with me unto the place repair,
To Ælla will I give you conduct good.
Your eyes, e'en like a balm, will staunch his blood,
Heal up his wounds, and give his heart all cheer;
Upon your eyes he holds his livelihood;
You do his sprite and all his pleasure bear.
Come, let's away, albeit it is moke,
Yet love will be a torch to turn to fire night's smoke.

CXX.

Ber.
Albeit tempests did the welkin rend,
And rain, like falling rivers, fierce did be,
And earth with air enchafèd did contend,
And every breath of wind with plagues did sle,
Yet I to Ælla's eyes eftsoons would flee.
Albeit hawthorns did my flesh enseam,
Owlets, with shrieking, shaking every tree,
And water-adders wriggling in each stream,
Yet would I fly, nor under covert stay,
But seek my Ælla out; brave Celmond, lead the way.

[Exeunt.

CXXI.

Scene, a Wood. Enter Hurra and Danes.
Hur.
Here in this forest let us watch for prey,
Awreaking on our foemen our will war;
Whatever shall be English we will slay,
Spreading our terrible renown afar.
Ye Dacian men, if Dacian men ye are,
Let naught but blood sufficient for you be;
On every breast in gory letters scar,
What sprites ye have, and how those sprites may dree.
And if ye get away to Denmark's shore,
Eftsoons we will return, and vanquished be no more.

CXXII.

[Hur.]
The battle lost a battle was indeed;
Not fiends themselves could stand so hard a fray:
Our very armour and our helms did bleed,
The Dacian's sprites, like dew-drops, fled away.
It was an Ælla did command the day;
In spite of foeman, I must say his might.
But we in peasant's blood the loss will pay,
Shewing that we know how to win in fight.
We will, like wolves enloosed from chains, destroy,
Our arms, like winter night, shut out the day of joy.

CXXIII.

[Hur.]
When swift-foot time doth roll the day along,
Some hamlet shall unto our fiery brend;
Bursting e'en like a rock, or mountain strong,
The tall church-spire upon the green shall bend;
We will the walls and ancient towers rend,
Raze every tree which golden fruit doth bear,
Down to the gods the owners thereof send,
Besprinkling all abroad sad war and bloody weere.
But first to yonder oak-tree we will fly
And thence will issue out on all that cometh by.

[Exeunt.

CXXIV.

Another part of the Wood; enter Celmond and Bertha.
Ber.
This darkness doth affray my woman's breast;
How sable is the spreading sky array'd!
Happy the cottager, who lives to rest,
Nor is at night's affrighting hue dismayed.
The stars do scantily the sable braid;
Wide are the silver gleams of comfort wove.
Speak, Celmond, does it make thee not afraid?

Cel.
Darker the night, the fitter time for love.

Ber.
Sayest thou for love? ah! love is far away.
Fain would I see once more the ruddy beams of day.

CXXV.

Cel.
Love may be nigh, would Bertha call it here.

Ber.
How, Celmond, dost thou mean?

Cel.
This Celmond means—
No beam, no eyes, nor mortal men appear,
Nor light, an act of love for to bewreen;
Naught in this forest but this torch doth sheen,
The which, put out, doth leave the whole in night.
See! how the branching trees do here entwine,
Making this bower so pleasing to the sight;
This was for love first made, and here it stands,
That herein lovers may enlink in true love's bands.

CXXVI.

Ber.
Celmond, speak what thou mean'st, or else my thought
Perchance may rob thy honesty so fair.

Cel.
Then hear, and know, hereto I have you brought,
My long-hid love unto you to make clear.

Ber.
Oh heaven and earth! what is it I do hear?
Am I betrayed? where is my Ælla, say?

Cel.
Oh do not now to Ælla such love bear,
But some bestow on Celmond's head.

Ber.
Away!
I will begone, and grope my passage out,
Albeit adder's stings my legs do twine about.

CXXVII.

Cel.
Now, by the saints, I will not let thee go,
Until thou dost my burning love abate.
Those eyes have causèd Celmond mickle woe,
Then let their smile first take him in regrate.
O! didst thou see my breastès troubled state,
Where love doth harrow up my joy and ethe!
I wretched am, beyond the help of fate,
If Bertha still will make my heart-strings blethe.
Soft as the summer flowerets, Bertha, look,
Full ill can I thy frowns and hard displeasure brook.

CXXVIII.

Ber.
Thy love is foul; I would be deaf for aye,
Rather than hear such deslavatie said;
Fly quickly from me, and no further say,
Rather than hear thy love, I would be dead.
Ye saints! and shall I wrong my Ælla's bed?
And would thou, Celmond, tempt me to this thing?
Let me be gone—all curses on thy head!
Was it for this thou didst a message bring?
Let me begone, thou man of sable heart,
Or heaven and her stars will take a maiden's part.

CXXIX.

Cel.
Sithence you will not let my suit avail,
My love will have its joy, although with guilt;
Your limbs shall bend, albeit strong as steel,
The murky season will your blushes hylte.

Ber.
Help, help, ye saints! Oh that my blood was spilt!

Cel.
The saints at distance stand in time of need;
Strive not to go; thou canst not, if thou wilt.
Unto my wish be kind, and naught else heed.

Ber.
No, foul deceiver! I will rend the air
Till death doth stay my din, or some kind traveller hear,

CXXX.

[Ber.]
Help, help, oh God!

Enter Hurra and Danes.
Hur.
Ah! that's a woman cries.
I know them; say, who are you, that be there?

Cel.
Ye hinds, away! or by this sword ye dies.

Hur.
Thy words will ne'er my hart is sete affear.

Ber.
Save me! oh save me from this spoiler here!

Hur.
Stand thou by me; now say thy name and land,
Or quickly shall my sword thy body tear.

Cel.
Both will I shew thee by my furious brand.

Hur.
Beset him round, ye Danes.

Cel.
Come on and see
If my strong anlace may discover what I be.

[All fight against Celmond; he slays many Danes, but falls before Hurra.

CXXXI.

Cel.
Oh! oh! I am forslain! Ye Danes, now ken
I am that Celmond, second in the fight,
Who did, at Watchet, so forslay your men.
I feel mine eyes to swim in eterne night:—
To her be kind.

[Dies.
Hur.
Then fell a worthy knight.
Say, who art thou?

Ber.
I am great Ælla's wife.

Hur.
Ah!

Ber.
If against him ye harbour foul despite,
Now with the deadly anlace take my life.
My thanks I ever on you will bestow,
From ewbryce you me plucked, the worst of mortal woe.

CXXXII.

Hur.
I will; it shall be so; ye Dacians, hear.
This Ælla, he hath been our foe for aye.
Thórough the battle he did furious tear,
Being the life and head of every fray;
From every Dacian power he won the day,
Magnus he slew, and all our ships he brent.
By his fell arm we now are made to stray,
The spear of Dacia he in pieces shent.
When hunted barks unto our land did come,
Ælla the cause they said, and wished him bitter doom.

CXXXIII.

Ber.
Mercy!

Hur.
Be still.
But yet he is a foeman good and fair,
When we are spent, he soundeth the forloyne;
The captive's chain he tosseth in the air,
Cheereth the wounded both with bread and wine.
Hath he not unto some of them been digne?
Ye would have smoked on Wedëcestrian field,
But he behylte the slogan for to cleyne,
Throwing on his wide back his wider-spreading shield.
When ye, as captives, in the field did be,
He oathed you to be still, and straight did set you free.

CXXXIV.

[Hur.]
Shall we then slay his wife, because he's brave?
Because he fighteth for his country's gare?
Will he, who late hath been this Ælla's slave,
Rob him of what perchance he holdeth dear?
Or shall we men of manly sprites appear,
Doing him favour for his favour done,
Swift to his palace this fair damsel bear,
Declare our case, and to our way be gone?
The last you do approve; so let it be.
Fair damsel, come away; you safe shall be with me.

CXXXV.

Ber.
All blessings may the saints unto you give!
All pleasure may your lengthened livings be!
Ælla, when knowing that by you I live,
Will think too small a gift the land and sea.
O Celmond! I may deftly read by thee,
What ill betideth the enfoulèd kind.
May not thy cross-stone of thy crime bewree!
May all men know thy valour, few thy mind!
Soldier! for such thou art in noble fray,
I will thy goings 'tend, and do thou lead the way.

CXXXVI.

Hur.
The morning 'gins along the east to sheene;
Darkling the light doth on the waters play,
The faint red gleam slow creepeth o'er the green,
To chase the murkiness of night away;
Swift fly the hours that will bring out the day.
The soft dew falleth on the growing grass;
The shepherd-maiden, dighting her array,
Scarce sees her visage in the wavy glass.
By the full daylight we shall Ælla see,
Or Bristol's wallèd town; fair damsel, follow me.

[Exeunt.
Scene, Bristol. Enter Ælla and Servants.

CXXXVII.

Æl.
'Tis now full morn. I thought, e'en by last night,
To have been here; my steed hath not my love.
This is my palace; let my hinds alight,
Whilst I go up, and wake my sleeping dove.
Stay here, my servants; I shall go above.
Now, Bertha, will thy look soon heal my sprite,
Thy smiles unto my wounds a balm will prove,
My leaden body will be set aright.
Egwina, haste, and ope the portal-door,
That I on Bertha's breast may think of war no more.

CXXXVIII.

Enter Egwina.
Egw.
Oh, Ælla!

Æl.
Ah! that countenance to me
Speaketh a legendary tale of woe.

Egw.
Bertha is—

Æl.
What? where? how? say, what of she?

Egw.
Gone—

Æl.
Gone! ye gods!

Egw.
Alas! it is too true.
Ye saints, he dies away with mickle woe!
Ælla! what? Ælla! Oh! he lives again!

Æl.
Call me not Ælla; I am he no moe.
Where is she gone away? ah! speak! how? when?

Egw.
I will.

Æl.
Caparison a score of steeds; fly, fly.
Where is she? quickly speak, or instant thou shalt die.

CXXXIX.

Egw.
Still thy loud rage, and hear thou what I know.

Æl.
Oh, speak.

Egw.
Like primrose, drooping with the heavy rain,
Last night I left her, drooping with her weere,
Her love the cause that gave her heart such pain.

Æl.
Her love! to whom?

Egw.
To thee, her spouse alleyne.
As is my custom every morn to go,
I went, and oped her chamber-door in twain,
But found her not, as I was wont to do.
Then all around the palace I did seere,
But could, to my heart's woe, not find her any where.

CXL.

Æl.
Thou liest, foul hag! thou liest! thou art her aid
To cheer her lust:—but no; it cannot be.

Egw.
If truth appear not in what I have said,
Draw forth thine anlace, quickly then me sle.

Æl.
But yet it must, it must be so; I see,
She with some lusty paramour is gone.
It must be so.—Oh! how it racketh me!
My race of love, my race of life, is run.
Now rage, and furious storm, and tempest come!
Naught living upon earth can now make sweet my doom.

Enter a Servant.

CXLI.

Serv.
My lord! I am about the truth to say.
Last night, full late I did return to rest;
As to my chamber I did bend my way,
To Bertha one his name and place addressed;
Down to him came she, but thereof the rest
I know no matter; so, my homage made—

Æl.
Oh! speak no more; my heart flames in its hest.
I once was Ælla, now am not his shade.
Had all the fury of misfortune's will
Fall'n on my bannèd head, I had been Ælla still.

CXLII.

[Æl.]
This only was unarmed, of all my sprite:
My honour, honour, frowned on the soft wind
That steekèd on it; now with rage I'm pight;
A furious tempest is my tortured mind.
My honour yet some driblet joy may find,
To the Dane's wounds I will another give.
When thus my glory and my peace is rynde,
It were a cowardice to think to live.
My servants, unto every asker tell,
If nobly Ælla lived, as nobly Ælla fell!
[Stabs his breast.

CXLIII.

Ser.
Ælla is slain; the flower of England's marred!

Æl.
Be still; loud let the churches ring my knell.
Call hither brave Coërnyke; he, as ward
Of this my Bristol castle, will do well.

Knell rings. Enter Coernyke.
Æl.
(to Coer.)
Thee I ordain the ward; so all may tell.
I have but little time to drag this life;
My deadly tale, e'en like a deadly bell,
Sound in the ears of her I wish'd my wife.
But ah! she may be fair.

Egw.
That she must be.

Æl.
Ah! say not so; that word would Ælla doubly sle.

CXLIV.

Enter Bertha and Hurra.
Æl.
Ah! Bertha here!

Ber.
What sound is this? what means this lethal knell?
Where is my Ælla? speak; where? how is he?
Oh Ælla! art thou then alive and well?

Æl.
I live indeed; but do not live for thee.

Ber.
What means my Ælla?

Æl.
Here my meaning see.
Thy foulness urged my hand to give this wound;
It me unsprites.

Ber.
It hath unsprited me.

Æl.
Ah heavens! my Bertha falleth to the ground!
But yet I am a man, and so will be.

Hur.
Ælla! I am a Dane, but yet a friend to thee.

CXLV.

[Hur.]
This damoisel I found within a wood,
Striving full hard against an armèd swain.
I sent him wallowing in my comrades' blood,
Celmond his name, chief of thy warring train.
This damoisel sought to be here again,
The which, albeit foemen, we did will;
So here we brought her with you to remain.

Coer.
Ye noble Danes! with gold I will you fill.

Æl.
Bertha, my life! my love! Oh, she is fair.
What faults could Bertha have? what faults could Ælla fear?

CXLVI.

Ber.
Am I then thine? I cannot blame thy fear,
But rest me here upon my Ælla's breast.
I will to thee bewray the woeful gare.
Celmond did come to me at time of rest,
Praying for me to fly, at your request,
To Watchet town, where you deceasing lay.
I with him fled; through a dark wood we pressed,
Where he foul love unto my ears did say;
The Danes—

Æl.
Oh! I die content.—

[Dies.
Ber.
Oh! is my Ælla dead?
Oh! I will make his grave my virgin spousal bed.

[Bertha faints.

CXLVII.

Coer.
What? Ælla dead? and Bertha dying too?
So fall the fairest flowerets of the plain.
Who can unfold the works that heaven can do,
Or who untwist the roll of fate in twain?
Ælla, thy glory was thy only gain,
For that, thy pleasure and thy joy was lost.
Thy countrymen shall rear thee on the plain
A pile of stones, as any grave can boast.
Further, a just reward to thee to be,
In heaven thou sing of God, on earth we'll sing of thee.

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]

ENGLISH METAMORPHOSIS.

AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE

TO JOHNE LADGATE.

(SENT WITH THE FOLLOWING “SONGE TO ÆLLA.”)

SONGE TO ÆLLA,

LORD OF THE CASTLE OF BRISTOL IN DAYS OF YORE.

THE UNDERWRITTEN LINES WERE COMPOSED BY JOHN LADGATE, A PRIEST IN LONDON,

AND SENT TO ROWLIE, AS AN ANSWER TO THE PRECEDING SONGE TO ÆLLA.

THE TOURNAMENT.

I.

Enter a Herald.
Herald.
The tournament begins; the hammers sound,
The coursers run about the measured field;
The shimmering armour throws its sheen around;
Quaint fancies are depicted on each shield.
The fiery helmets, with the wreaths amield,
Support the ramping lioncel or bear,
With strange devices, Nature may not yield,
Unseemly to all order doth appear,
Yet that to men, who think and have a sprite,
Make knowen that the phantasies unright.

II.

[Herald]
I, son of honour, 'spenser of her joys,
Must quickly go to give the spears around;
With aventayle and borne I men employ,
Who without me would fall unto the ground.
So the tall oak the ivy twisteth round,
So the nesh flow'r grows in the woodland shade.
The world by difference is in order found,
Without unlikeness nothing could be made;
As in the bowke naught only can be done,
So in the weal of kind all things are parts of one.

III.

Enter Sir Simon de Bourtonne.
[Sir Simon de Bourtonne]
Herald, by heav'n, these tilters stay too long,
My phantasy is dying for the fight;
The minstrels have begun the third war-song,
Yet not a spear of them doth greet my sight.
I fear there be no man worthy my might.
I lack a Guid, a William to entilt.
To run against a feeble-bodied knight,
It gets no glory if his blood be spilt.
By heaven and Mary, it is time they're here.
I like not idly thus to wield the spear.

IV.

Her.
Methinks I hear their slogan's din from far.

Bour.
Ah! soon my shield and tilting-lance are bound;
Eftsoons command my Squyër to the war.
I fly before to claim a challenge-ground.

[Exit.
Her.
Thy valorous acts would many men astound,
Hard is their fate encountering thee in fight;
Against all men, thou bearest to the ground,
Like the hard hail doth the tall rushes pight.
As when the morning-sun doth drink the dew,
So do thy valorous acts drink each knight's hue.

V.

The Lists. Enter the King, Syrr Symonne de Bourtonne, Syrr Hugo Ferraris, Syrr Ranulph Neville, Syrr Lodovick de Clynton, Syrr Johan de Berghamme, and other Knights, Heralds, Minstrels, and Servitors.
King.
The barganette! ye minstrels, tune the string,
Some action dire of ancient kings now sing.

VI.

Minst.
William, the Norman's flower, but England's thorn,
The man whose might activity had knit,
Snatched up his long strung bow and shield aborne,
Commanding all his hommageres to fight.
Go, rouse the lion from his secret den,
Let thy floes drink the blood of anything but men.

VII.

[Minst.]
In the treed forest do the knights appear,
William with might his bow en-iron'd plies;
Loud dins the arrow in the wolfin's ear;
He riseth battent, roars, he pants, he dies;
Forslagen at thy feet let wolfins be,
Let thy floes drink their blood, but do not brethren sle.

VIII.

[Minst.]
Through the mirk shade of twisting trees he rides,
The frighted owlet flaps her eve-specked wing,
The lording toad in all his passes bides;
The pois'nous adders at him dart the sting.
Still, still he passes on, his steed a-strod,
Nor heeds the dangerous way if leading unto blood.

IX.

[Minst.]
The lioncel, from sultry countries brought,
Couching beneath the shelter of the briar,
At coming din doth raise himself distraught,
He looketh with an eye of flames of fire.
Go, stick the lion to his secret den,
Let thy floes drink the blood of anything but men.

X.

[Minst.]
With pacing step the lion moves along,
William his iron-woven bow he bends,
With might alych the rolling thunder strong,
The lion in a roar his sprite forth sends.
Go, slay the lion in his blood-stained den,
But be thine arrow dry from blood of other men.

XI.

[Minst.]
Swift from the thicket starts the stag away,
The couraciers as swift do after fly.
He leapeth high, he stands, he keeps at bay,
But meets the arrow, and eftsoons doth die.
Forslagen at thy foot let wild beasts be,
Let thy floes drink their blood, yet do not brethren sle.

XII.

[Minst.]
With murder tired, he slings his bow alyne.
The stag is ouch'd with crowns of lily flowers.
Around their helms they green vert do entwine,
Joying and revelous in the greenwood bowers.
Forslagen with thy flo let wild beasts be,
Feast thee upon their flesh, do not thy brethren sle.

XIII.

King.
Now to the tourney; who will first affray?

Her.
Nevylle, a baron, be that honour thine.

Bour.
I claim the passage.

Nev.
I contest thy way.

Bour.
Then there's my gauntlet on my gaberdine.

Her.
A lawful challenge, knights and champions digne,
A lawful challenge! Let the slogan sound. [Sir Simon and Nevylle tilt.

Nevylle is going, man and horse, to ground. [Nevylle falls.

My lords, how doughtily the tilters join!
Ye champions, here Symonne de Bourtonne fights,
One hath he quash'd; assail him, O ye knights.

XIV.

Fer.
I will against him go. My squire, my shield!
Or one or other will do mickle scethe;
Before I do depart the listed field,
Myself or Bourtonne hereupon will blethe.
My shield!

Bour.
Come on, and fit thy tilt-lance ethe.
When Bourtonne fights, he meets a doughty foe. [They tilt. Ferraris falls.

He falleth; now, by heaven, thy wounds do smethe;
I fear me, I have wrought thee mickle wo.

Her.
Bourtonne his second beareth to the field.
Come on, ye knights, and win the honour'd shield.

XV.

Bergh.
I take the challenge; squire, my lance and steed.
I, Bourtonne, take the gauntlet; for me stay.
But, if thou fightest me, thou shalt have meed.
Some other I will champion to affray;
Perchance from them I may possess the day,
Then shall I be a foeman for thy spear.
Herald, unto the ranks of knightès say,
De Berghamme waiteth for a foeman here.

Clin.
But long thou shalt not 'tend. I do thee 'fy;
Like foraying levin shall my tilt-lance fly.

[Berghamme and Clinton tilt. Clinton falls.

XVI.

Bergh.
Now, now, sir knight, attour thy beaver'd eyne,
I have borne down, and eft do gauntlet thee.
Quickly begin, and wryn thy fate or mine,
If thou discomfit, it will doubly be.

[Bourtonne and Berghamme tilt. Berghamme falls.
Her.
Symonne de Bourtonne now hath borne down three,
And by the third had honour of a fourth.
Let him be set aside, till he doth see
A tilting for a knight of gentle worth.
Here come strange knightès, and, if courteous they,
It well beseems to give them right of fray.

XVII.

1st Kn.
Strangers we be, and humbly do we claim
The honour in this tourney for to tilt;
Thereby to prove from cravens our good name,
Bewraying that we gentle blood have spilt.

Her.
Ye knights, of courtesy these strangers say,
Be ye full willing for to give them fray?

[Five Knights tilt with the strange Knight, and are all overthrown.

XVIII.

Bour.
Now, by Saint Mary, if on all the field
Y-crased spears and helmets were besprent,
If every knight did hold a piercèd shield,
If all the field with champions' blood were stent,
Yet to encounter him I am content.
Another lance, Marshal, another lance.
Albeit he with flames of fire y-brent,
Yet Bourtonne would against his val advance.
Five now have fallen down beneath his spear,
But he shall be the next that falleth here.

XIX.

[Bour.]
By thee, Saint Mary, and thy Son I swear,
That in what place yon doughty knight shall fall
Beneath the strong push of my outstretched spear,
There shall arise a holy church's wall,
The which in honour, I will Mary call,
With pillars large, and spire full high and round,
And this I faithfully will stand to all,
If yonder stranger falleth to the ground.
Stranger, be boune; I champion you to war;
Sound, sound the slogans, to be heard from far.

[Bourtonne and the Stranger fight. Stranger falls.

XX.

King.
The morning-tilts now cease.

Her.
Bourtonne is king.
Display the English banner on the tent.
Round him, ye minstrels, songs of achments sing.
Ye heralds, gather up the spears besprent;
To king of tourney-tilt be all knees bent.
Dames fair and gentle, for your loves he fought;
For you the long tilt-lance, the sword he shent;
He jousted, having only you in thought.
Come, minstrels, sound the string, go on each side,
Whilst he unto the king in state doth ride.

XXI.

Minst.
When Battle, smoking with new quickened gore,
Bending with spoils and bloody dropping head,
Did the dark wood of ease and rest explore,
Seeking to lie on Pleasure's downy bed,
Pleasure, dancing from her wood,
Wreath'd with flowers of eglantine,
From his visage washed the blood,
Hid his sword and gaberdine.

XXII.

[Minst.]
With such an eye she sweetly him did view,
Did so y-corven every shape to joy,
His sprite did change unto another hue,
His arms, nor spoils, might any thoughts employ.
All delightsome and content,
Fire enshooting from his eyne,
In his arms he did her hent,
As the night-shade doth entwine.

XXIII.

[Minst.]
So, if thou lovest Pleasure and her train,
Unknowledging in what place her to find,
This rule y-spende, and in thy mind retain;
Seek Honour first, and Pleasure lies behind.

BATTLE OF HASTINGS. (No. I.)

[OMITTED]

BATTLE OF HASTINGS. (No. II.)

[OMITTED]

THE ROMAUNTE OF THE CNYGHTE.

The Sunne ento Vyrgyne was gotten,
The floureys al arounde onspryngede,
The woddie Grasse blaunched the Fenne,
The Quenis Ermyne arised fro Bedde;
Syr Knyghte dyd ymounte oponn a Stede
Ne Rouncie ne Drybblette of make,
Thanne asterte for dur'sie dede
Wythe Morglaie hys Fooemenne to make blede;
Eke swythyn as wynde Trees, theyre Hartys to shake.
Al downe in a Delle, a merke dernie Delle,
Wheere Coppys eke Thighe Trees there bee,
There dyd hee perchaunce Isee
A Damoselle askedde for ayde on her kne,
An Cnyghte uncourteous dydde bie her stonde,
Hee hollyd herr faeste bie her honde.
“Discorteous Cnyghte, I doe praie nowe thou telle
Why doeste thou bee so [harsh] to thee Damselle?”
The Knyghte hym assoled eftsoones,
“Itte beethe ne mattere of thyne.
Begon, for I wayte notte thye boones.”
The Knyghte sed, “I proove on thie Gaberdyne.”
Alyche Boars enchafed to fyghte heie flies.
The Discoorteous Knyghte bee strynge, botte strynger the righte,
The dynne bee herde a myle for fuire in the fyghte.
Tyl thee false Knyghte yfallethe and dyes.
“Damoysel,” quod the Knyghte, “now comme thou wi me,”
“Y wotte welle,” quod shee, “I nede thee ne fere.
The Knyghte yfallen badd wolde Ischulde bee,
Butte loe he ys dedde, maie itte spede Heaven-were.”

ECLOGUES.

ECLOGUE THE FIRST.

[When England, smoking from her deadly wound]

Robert.
Ah, Raufe! if thus the hours do come along,
If thus we fly in chase of further wo,
Our feet will fail, albeit we be strong,
Nor will our pace swift as our danger go.
To our great wrongs we have enheapèd mo.
The Barons war! Oh, woe and well-a-day!
I have my life, but have escapèd so,
That life itself my senses doth affray.
Oh Raufe, come list, and hear my dernie tale,
Come hear the baleful doom of Robin of the dale.

Raufe.
Say to me naught; I know thy woe in mine.
Oh! I've a tale that Sabalus might tell.
Sweetflowerets, mantled meadows, forests digne;
Gravots, far-kenned, around the hermit's cell,
The sweet ribible dinning in the dell,
The joyous dancing in the hostel-court;
Eke the high song and every joy, farewell!
Farewel, the very shade of fair disport;
Impestering troubles on my head do come,
Nor one kind Saint to ward the aye-increasing doom.

Rob.
Oh! I could wail my kingcup-deckèd mees,
My spreading flocks of sheep of lily white,
My tender apples, and embodied trees,
My parker's grange, far-spreading to the sight,
My cuyen kine, my bullocks strong in fight,
My gorne emblanchèd with the comfreie plant,
My flower-Saint-Mary shooting with the light,
My store of all the blessings Heaven can grant;
I am duressèd unto sorrow's blow,
I, hanten'd to the pain, will let no salt tear flow.

Raufe.
Here I will obaie until Death do 'pear,
Here, like a foul empoisoned lethal tree,
Which slayeth every one that cometh near,
So will I, fixèd unto this place, gre.
I to bemoan have far more cause than thee;
Slain in the war my boolie father lies;
Oh! joyous I his murderer would sle,
And by his side for aye enclose mine eyes.
Calkèd from every joy, here will I bleed,
Fall'n is the cullis-gate of my heart's castlestead.

Rob.
Our woes alike, alike our doom shall be,
My son, my only son, ystorven is;
Here will I stay, and end my life with thee,
A life like mine a burden is, ywis.
Now e'en from lodges fled is happiness,
Minsters alone can boast the holy saint.
Now doth fair England wear a bloody dress,
And with her champions' gore her face depeint;
Peace fled, disorder sheweth her dark rode,
And thórough air doth fly, in garments stained with blood.

ECLOGUE THE SECOND.

[Sprites of the blest, the pious Nigel said]

Nygelle.
Sprites of the blest, the pious Nigel said,
Pour out your pleasure on my father's head.

ECLOGUE THE THIRD.

[Would'st thou ken Nature in her better part?]

A Man, a Woman, Sir Roger.

I.

Would'st thou ken Nature in her better part?
Go, search the cots and lodges of the hind;
If they have any, it is rough-made art,
In them you see the naked form of kind;
Haveth your mind a liking of a mind?
Would it ken everything, as it might be?
Would it hear phrase of vulgar from the hind,
Without wiseacre words and knowledge free?
If so, read this, which I disporting penned,
If naught beside, its rhyme may it commend.

II.

Man.
But whither, fair maid, do ye go?
O where do ye bend your way?
I will know whither you go,
I will not be answered nay.

Woman.
To Robin and Nell, all down in the dell,
To help them at making of hay.

Man.
Sir Roger, the parson, hath hired me there,
Come, come, let us trip it away,
We'll work and we'll sing, and we'll drink of strong beer,
As long as the merry summer's day.

III.

Woman.
How hard is my doom to wurch!
Great is my woe:
Dame Agnes, who lies in the church
With birlet gold,
With gilded aumeres, strong, untold,
What was she more than me, to be so?

Man.
I ken Sir Roger from afar,
Tripping over the lea;
I will ask why the lordès son
Is more than me.

IV.

Sir Roger.
The sultry sun doth hie apace his wain,
From every beam a seed of life doth fall;
Quickly heap up the hay upon the plain,
Methinks the cocks beginneth to grow tall.
This is aye like our doom; the great, the small,
Must wither and be forwyned by deathès dart.
See! the sweet floweret hath no sweet at all;
It with the rank weed beareth equal part.
The craven, warrior, and the wise are blent,
Alike to dry away with those they did lament.

V.

Man.
All-a-boon, Sir Priest, all-a-boon!
By your priestship, now say unto me;
Sir Gaufrid the knight, who liveth hard by,
Why should he than me be more great,
In honour, knighthood, and estate?

VI.

Sir Roger.
Revolve thine eye around this hayèd mee;
Attentively look round the thirsty dell;
An answer to thy barganette here see,
This withered floweret will a lesson tell;
It rose, it blew, it flourished, and did well,
Looking askance upon the neighbour green;
Yet with the 'dainèd green its glory fell,
Eftsoons it shrank upon the day-burnt plain,
Did not its look, whilest it there did stand,
To crop it in the bud move some dread hand.

VII.

[Sir Roger]
Such is the way of life; the loverd's ente
Moveth the robber him therefor to sle;
If thou hast ease, the shadow of content,
Believe the truth, there's none more haile than thee.
Thou workest; well, can that a trouble be?
Sloth more would jade thee than the roughest day.
Could'st thou the kivercled of soulès see,
Thou wouldst eftsoons see truth in what I say.
But let me hear thy way of life, and then
Hear thou from me the lives of other men.

VIII.

Man.
I rise with the sun,
Like him to drive the wain,
And ere my work is done,
I sing a song or twain.
I follow the plough-tail,
With a long jub of ale.
But of the maidens, oh!
It needeth not to tell;
Sir Priest might not cry woe,
Could his bull do as well.
I dance the best heiedeygnes,
And foil the wisest feygnes.
On every saint's high-day
With the minstrel I am seen,
All a-footing it away
With maidens on the green.
But oh! I wish to be more great
In glory, tenure, and estate.

IX.

Sir Roger.
Hast thou not seen a tree upon a hill,
Whose unlist branches reachen far to sight?
When furious tempests do the heaven fill,
It shaketh dire, in dole and much affright,
Whilst the poor lowly floweret, humbly dight,
Standeth unhurt, unquashèd by the storm.
Such is a picte of life; the man of might
Is tempest-chafed, his woe great as his form;
Thyself, a floweret of a small account,
Wouldst harder feel the wind, as thou didst higher mount.

ELINOURE AND JUGA.

Elin.
O gentle Juga! hear my sad complaint,
To fight for York, my love is dight in steel;
O may no sanguine stain the white rose paint,
May good Saint Cuthbert watch Sir Robert wele;
Much more than death in phantasy I feel;
See, see! upon the ground he bleeding lies;
Infuse some juice of life, or else my dear love dies.

Juga.
Sisters in sorrow, on this daisied bank,
Where melancholy broods, we will lament,
Be wet with morning dew and even dank;
Like levin'd oaks in each the other bent,
Or like forsaken halls of merriment,
Whose ghastly mitches hold the train of fright,
Where lethal ravens bark, and owlets wake the night.

Elin.
No more the miskynette shall wake the morn,
The minstrel-dance, good cheer, and morris-play;
No more the ambling palfrey and the horn
Shall from the lessel rouse the fox away.
I'll seek the forest all the livelong day;
All night among the grav'd churchyard will go,
And to the passing sprites relate my tale of woe.

Juga.
When murky clouds do hang upon the gleam
Of waning moon, in silver mantles dight;
The tripping fairies weave the golden dream
Of happiness, which flieth with the night.
Then (but the Saints forbid!) if to a sprite
Sir Richard's form is lyped, I'll hold, distraught,
His bleeding clay-cold corse, and die each day in thought.

Elin.
Ah! wo-bemoaning words! what words can shew?
Thou polished river, on thy bank may bleed
Champions, whose blood will with thy waters flow,
And Rudborne stream be Rudborne stream indeed!
Haste, gentle Juga, trip it o'er the mead,
To know, or whether we must wail again,
Or with our fallen knights be mingled on the plain.

THE STORIE OF WILLIAM CANYNGE.

ON OUR LADY'S CHURCH.

As on a hill one eve sitting,
At our Lady's church much wondering,
The cunning handiwork so fine
Had well nigh dazzelèd mine eyne.
Quoth I—some cunning fairy hand
Y-reared this chapel in this land;
Full well I wot so fine a sight
Was not y-reared of mortal wight.
Quoth Truth—Thou lackest knowledging;
Thou, forsooth, not wottest of the thing.
A Reverend Father, William Canynge hight,
Y-rearèd up this chapel bright,
And eke another in the town
Where glassy bubbling Trym doth run.
Quoth I—no doubt, for all he's given,
His soul will certès go to heaven.
Yea—quoth Truth—then go thou home,
And see thou do as he hath done.
Quoth I—I doubt, that cannot be,
I have not gotten markès three.
Quoth Truth—As thou hast got, give almsdeeds so;
Canynges and Gaunts could do no mo.

ON THE SAME.

[Stay, curious traveller, and pass not by]

ON THE DEDICATION OF OUR LADY'S CHURCH.

Soon as bright sun along the skies
Had sent his ruddy light,
And fairies hid in oxlip cups
Till wished approach of night,
The matin-bell with shrilly sound
Re-echoed through the air,
A troop of holy friars did
For Jesus' mass prepare;
Around the high unsainted church
With holy relics went,
And every door and post about
With godly things besprent.
Then Carpenter, in scarlet dressed,
And mitred holily,
From Master Canynge his great house
With rosary did hie.
Before him went a throng of friars
Who did the mass-song sing,
Behind him Master Canynge came,
Tricked like a barbèd king;
And then a row of holy friars
Who did the mass-song sound;
The procurators and church-reeves
Next pressed upon the ground.
And when unto the church they came,
A holy mass was sang,
So loudly was their swotie voice,
The heaven so high it rang.
Then Carpenter did purify
The church to God for aye
With holy masses and good psalms,
Which he did therein say.
Then was a sermon preachèd soon
By Carpenter holỳ,
And after that another one
Y-preached was by me.
Then all did go to Canynge's house,
An interlude to play,
And drink his wine and ale so good,
And pray for him for aye.

FRAGMENT

[Heart of lion ! shake thy sword]

Heart of lion ! shake thy sword,
Bare thy murdering stainèd hand,
Quash whole armies to the queed,
Work thy will in burly brand.
Barons here on cushions 'broidered,
Fight in furs against the cale;
Whilèst thou in thundering armès
Workest e'en whole cities' bale.
Heart of lion! sound the beme!
Sound it into inner lands;
Fear flies sporting in the cleme,
In thy banner terror stands.

THE PARLIAMENT OF SPRITES.

[_]

AN INTERLUDE,

Played by the Carmelite Friars at Master Canynge's great house, before Master Canynge and Bishop Carpenter, on dedicating the church of Our Lady of Redclefte, hight

Introduction by Queen Mab.

QUEEN MAB

To John Carpenter, Bishop of Worcester.

Spirit of Nimrod
speaketh.

Sprites of Assyrians
sing.

Sprites of Elle, Bythrycke, Fitz-hardynge, Frampton, Gaunte, Segowen, Lamyngeton, a Knight Templar, and Byrtonne. (By Rowlie.)

XVIII.

Sprite of Bythrycke
speaks.
Ellè, thy Bristol is thy only care,
Thou art like dragon vig'lant of its good;
No loving dames (too kind) more love can bear,
Nor Lombards over gold more vig'lant brood.

XIX.

Sprite of Elle
speaks.
At once, ye sprites, forsake the swollen flood,
Enjoy a sight with me, a sight full fine;
Well have I vended mine for Danish blood,
Since this great structure greets my wondering eyne.
Ye that have built upon the Redcliff side,
Turn there your eyne, and see your works outvied!

XX.

Sprite of Bythrycke
speaks.
What wondrous monument, what pile is this,
That binds in wonder's chain entendèment?
That doth aloft the airy skyën kiss,
And seemeth mountains, joined by cement,
From Goddès great and wondrous storehouse sent.
Full well mine eyes advise it cannot be,
That man could rear of such a great extent
A church so huge yet handsome as we see.
The scattered clouds, disparted, from it fly,
'Twill be, Iwis, to all eternity.

XXI.

Elle's sprite
speaks.
Were I once more cast in a mortal frame,
To hear the chantry-song sound in mine ear,
To hear the masses to our holy dame,
To view the cross-aisles and the arches fair!
Through the half-hidden silver-twinkling glare
Of yon bright moon in foggy mantles dress'd,
I must content the building to aspere,
Whilst broken clouds the holy sight arrest;
Till, as the nights grow old, I fly the light.
Oh! were I man again, to see the sight!

[Sprite of Elle]

XXIII.

Byrton's sprite
speaks.
In tilts and tournies was my dear delight,
For man and Goddès warfare had renome,
At every tilting-yard my name was hight,
I bear the bell away where'er I come.
Of Redcliff church the building new I done,
And did full many holy place endow,
Of Mary's house made the foundatïon,
And gave a threescore marks to Saint John's too.
Then closed mine eyes, on earth to ope no mo,
Whilst six-month's mind upon my grave was do.

[Sprite of Byrton]

XXV.

Sprite of Segowen
speaks.
Deceiving gold was once my only toy,
With it my soul within the coffer lay,
It did the mastery of my life employ,
By night my mistress, and my jub by day.
Once, as I dozing in the witch-hour lay,
Thinking how best to filch the orphan's bread,
And from the helpless take their goods away,
I from the skyën heard a voice, which said:
“Thou sleepest; but lo! Satan is awake,
Some deed that's holy do, or he thy soul will take.”

[Sprite of Segowen]

[Sprite of Segowen]

XXVIII.

Sprite of Fitz-hardynge
speaks.
From royal parents did I have retaining,
The red-haired Dane confessed to be my sire;
The Dane who, often through this kingdom draining,
Would mark his way therethrough with blood and fire.
As stoppèd rivers always rise more higher,
And ramm'd stones by opposures stronger be,
So they, when vanquishèd, did prove more dire,
And for one countryman did threescore sle.
From them, of Denmark's royal blood, came I,
Well might I boast of my gentility.

[Sprite of Fitz-Hardynge]

[Sprite of Fitz-Hardynge]

XXXI.

Sprite of Framptone
speaks.
Bristol shall speak my name, and Redcliff too,
For here my deeds were godly every one,
As Auden's minster by the gate will shew,
And John's at Bristol what my works have done,
Besides another house I had begun.
But mine, compared to this one, is a groffe,
Not to be mentioned or be looked upon,
A very laughing-stock or very scoff.
Canynge, thy name shall living be for aye,
Thy name not with the church shall waste away.

XXXII.

Sprite of Gaunte
speaks.
I did full many reparations give,
And the Bonne-Hommès did full rich endow,
As journeying to my God on earth did live,
So all the Bristol chronicles will shew.
But all my deeds will be as nothing now
Since Canynge has this building finishèd,
Which seemeth to be the pride of Bristow,
And by no building to be o'ermatchèd:
Which aye shall last and be the praise of all,
And only in the wreck of nature fall.

XXXIII.

A Knight Templar's sprite
speaks.
In holy ground, where Saracens defile
The ground whereon our Savïour did go,
And Christès temple make to mosquès vile,
[And] words of déspite 'gainst our Saviour throw;
There 'twas that we did our warfarage do,
Guarding the pilgrims of the Christian fay;
And did our holy arms in blood embrue,
Moving like thunder-bolts in drear array,
Our strokes, like levin tearing the tall tree,
Our God our arm with lethal force did dree.

[Sprite of Knight Templar]

XXXV.

Lamyngeton's sprite
speaks.
Let all my faults be buried in the grave;
All obloquies be rotted with my dust;
Let him first carpen that no faults can have;
'Tis past man's nature for to be aye just.
But yet, in soothen, to rejoice I must,
That I did not immeddle for to build;
Since this quaintissed place so glorious,
Seeming all churches joinèd in one guild,
Has now supplièd for what I had done,
Which, to my candle, is a glorious sun.

XXXVI.

Elle's sprite
speaks.
Then let us all do jointly reverence here,
The best of men and bishops here do stand,
Who are God's shepherds and do take good care
Of the good sheep He putteth in their hand;
Not one is lost, but all in well-likande
Await to hear the General Bishop's call,
When Michael's trump shall sound to inmost land,
Affright the wicked, and awaken all;
Then Canynge rises to eternal rest,
And finds he chose on earth a life the best.

ON THE MYNSTER.

THE WORLD.

Father, Son, and Minstrels.
Father.

1 Min.

2 Min.

3 Min.

4 Min.

5 Min.

6 Min.

Fa.

ONE CANTO OF AN ANCIENT POEM, CALLED THE UKNOWN KNIGHT OR THE TOURNAMENT.

[OMITTED]

THE FREERE OF ORDERYS WHYTE.

DIALOGUE,

Between Maister Philpot and Walworth, Cockneies.

Philpot.
God ye God den, my good neighbour, how d'ye ail?
How does your wife, man! what never assole?
Cum rectate vivas, verborum mala ne cures.

Walworth.
Ah, Master Philpot, evil tongues do say,
That my wife will lyën down to-day:
'Tis not twain months since she was mine for aye.

Philpot.
Animum submittere noli rebus in adversis,
Nolito quædam referenti semper credere.
But I pity you, neighbour, if it [be] so.

Walworth.
Quæ requirit misericordiam mala causa est.
Alack, alack, a sad doom mine, in fay,
But oft with citizens it is the case;
Honesta turpitudo pro bonâ
Causâ mori, as ancient pensmen says.

Philpot.
Home news well let alone and Latin too,
For me a memory doth 'gin to fail;
Say, Master Walworth, what good news have you,
Pray have you hearden of the stones of hail?

Walworth.
I have, and that it with reddour did 'sail;
Some hailstones were like cherries rege and great,
And to the ground there did the trees prevail.
But goodman Philpot, what do you ahete
'Bout goods of Laymingtone, now held by you,
For certain monies' store to you for chattels due?

Philpot.
Ah, I have nymd him special; for his wine
Have ta'en at once twelve pounds; for dainty cheer,
Though the same time my wife with him did dine,
Been paid a mark—non-extra of the beer;
But when his sinking purse did 'gin to wear,
I lent him full six marks upon his faie;
And he, poor Custrel, having naught to spare,
Favour'd a clear and now doth run away.
His goods I down at Bristow town will sell,
For which I will get forty shining marks full well.

Walworth.
Tide life, tide death, I will with thee go down,
And sell some goods too in brave Bristow town.

THE MERRIE TRICKES OF LAMYNGETOWNE.

I.

A rigorous doom is mine, upon my fay,
Before the parent-star, the lightsome sun,
Hath three times lighted up the cheerful day,
To other realms must Lamyngetowne be gone,
Or else my flimsy thread of life is spun.
And shall I hearken to a coward's rede,
And from so vain a shade as life is, run?
No! fly all thoughts of running to the Queed;
No! here I'll stay, and let the cockneys see
That Lamyngetowne the brave will Lamyngetowne still be.

II.

To fight, and not to flee, my sabatans
I'll don, and gird my sword unto my side;
I'll go to ship, but not to foreign lands,
But act the pirate, rob in every tide;
With cockneys' blood shall Thamesis be dyed.
Their goods in Bristol market shall be sold,
My bark the laverd of the waters ride,
Her sails of scarlet and her stere of gold;
My men the Saxons, I the Hengist, be,
And in my ship combine the force of all their three.

III.

Ralph.
I go my boon-companions for to find.

[Exit Ralph.

IV.

Lam.
Unfaithful cockney dogs! your God is gain.
When in your town I spent my great estate,
What crowds of cits came flocking to my train,
What shoals of tradesmen ate then from my plate!
My name was always Laymyngetowne the great.
But when my wealth was gone, ye kenn'd me not,
I stood in ward, ye laughèd at my fate,
Nor cared if Laymyngetowne the great did rot.
But know, ye curriedowes, ye soon shall feel,
I've got experience now, although I bought it weel.

V.

You let me know that all the world are knaves,
That lords and cits are robbers in disguise;
I and my men, the cockneys of the waves,
Will profit by your lessons and be wise;
Make you give back the harvest of your lies;
From deep-fraught barks I'll take the miser's soul,
Make all the wealth of every [man] my prize,
And, cheating London's pride, to digner Bristol roll.[OMITTED]

VI.

Lamingtowne, Philpott, and Robyne.
Lam.
Thou sayest, man, that thou would'st go with me,
And bear a part in all my men's emprise;
Think well upon the dangers of the sea,
And guess if that will not thee recradize,
When through the skies the levin-brandè flies,
And levins sparkle in the whited oundes,
Seeming to rise at lepestones to the skies,
And not contented be with its set bounds.
Then rolls the bark and tosses to and fro;
Such dreary scenes as this will cast thy blood, I trow.

VII.

[Lam.]
Think, when with bloody axes in our hands,
We are to fight for gold and silver too,
On neighbour's myndbruch life no one then stands,
But all his aim and end is—death to do.

Rob.
I've thought on all and am resolved to go;
Fortune! no more I'll be thy taunted slave,
Once was I great, now plunged in want and woe,
I'll go and be a pick-hatch of the wave.
Goods I have none, and life I do disdain,
I'll be a victor, or I'll break my galling chain.
I'll wash my hands in blood and deal in death,
Our ship shall blow along with winds of dying breath.

VIII.

Lam.
I like thy courage, and I'll tell thy doom,
Thou wilt hereafter a brave captain be;
Go thou to Bristol, stay until we come,
For there we shall, haply, have need of thee;
And for a tight and shapely warehouse see
Wherein to put the chattels we shall bring,
And know if there two cockney knaves may be,
Philpott and Walworth; so report doth sing;
If so, I'll trounce the usurer, by my fay!
There's monies, man, for thee—Ralph! take the things away
Which we from Watchet town have taken now;
In the bark's bottom see the same thou stow.

Ral.
Master of mine, I go as you do say.

Rob.
And I to Bristol town will haste away.

SONGE OF SEYNCTE BALDYWYNNE.

Whann Norrurs & hys menne of myghte,
Uponne thys brydge darde all to fyghte,
Forslagenn manie warriours laie,
And Dacyanns well nie wonne the daie.
Whanne doughty Baldwinus arose,
And scatterd deathe amonge hys foes,
Fromme out the brydge the purlinge bloode
Embollèd hie the runnynge floude.
Dethe dydd uponne hys anlace hange,
And all hys arms were gutte de sangue.
His doughtinesse wrought thilk dismaye,
The foreign warriors ranne awaie;
Erle Baldwynus regardedd well
How manie menn forslaggen fell;
To Heaven lyft oppe hys holie eye,
And thankèd Godd for victorye;
Thenne threw his anlace ynn the tyde,
Lyvdd ynn a cell, and hermytte died.

SONGE OF SEYNCTE WARBURGHE.

SANCTE WARBUR.

[OMITTED]

WARRE.

A CHRONYCALLE OF BRYSTOWE.

Ynne whilomme daies, as Storie saies,
Ynne famous Brystowe towne
Dhere lyvèd Knyghtes, doughtie yn fyghtes,
Of marvellous renowne.
A Saxonne boulde, renowned of oulde
For Dethe and dernie dede,
Maint Tanmen slone the Brugge uponne,
Icausynge hem to blede.
Baldwynne hys Name, Rolles saie the same
And yev hymme rennome grate,
Hee lyvèd nere the Ellynteire,
Al bie Seyncte Lenardes Yate.
A mansion hie, Made bosmorelie,
Was reered bie hys honde,
Whanne he ysterve, hys Name unkerve
Inne Baldwynne streete doe stonde.
On Ellie then, of Mercyann Menne,
As meynte of Pentells blase,
Inne Castle-stede made dofull dede
And dydde the Dans arrase.
One Leëfwyne of kyngelie Lyne
Inne Brystowe towne dyd leve,
And toe the samme for hys gode name
The Ackmanne Yate dyd gev.
Hammon, a Lorde of hie Accorde,
Was ynne the strete nempte brede;
Soe greate hys Myghte, so strynge yn fyghte,
Onne Byker hee dyd fede.
Fitz Lupous digne of gentle Lyne
Onne Radclief made hys Baie,
Inn moddie Gronne, the whyche uponne
Botte Reittes and roshes laie.
Theere Radclyve Strete of Mansyonnes meete
In semelie gare doe stonde,
And Canynge grete of fayre Estate
Bryngeth to Tradynge Londe.
Hardynge dydde comme from longe Kyngddomme
Inne Knyvesmythe strete to lyne,
Roberte, hys Sonne, moche gode thynges donne,
As Abbattes doe blasynne.
Roberte the Erle, ne conkered curlle,
Inne Castle-stede dyd fraie;
Yynge Henrie too ynne Brystowe true
As Hydelle dyd obaie.
A Maioure dheere bee, ande I am ne hee,
Botte anne ungentle Wyghte;—
Seyncte Marie tende eche ammie frende
Bie hallie Taper lyghte.

ON HAPPIENESSE.

THE GOULER'S REQUIEM.

ONN JOHN A DALBENIE.

Johne makes a jarre boute Lancaster and Yorke;
Bee stille, gode manne, and learne to mynde thie worke.

HEREAUDYN.

A Fragmente.

Yynge Hereaudyn al bie the grene Wode sate,
Hereynge the swote Chelandrie ande the Oue,
Seeinge the kenspecked amaylde flourettes nete,
Ensyngynge to the birds hys Love songe true.
Syrre Preeste camme bie and forthe hys bede-rolle drewe,
Fyve Aves and a Pater moste be sedde;
Twayne songe: the on hys Songe of Willowe Rue,
The odher one— [OMITTED]

EPITAPH ON ROBERT CANYNGE.

Thys Morneynge Starre of Radcleves rysynge Raie,
A True Man, Good of Mynde, and Canynge hyghte,
Benethe thys Stone lies moltrynge ynto Claie,
Untylle the darke Tombe sheene an aeterne Lyghte.
Thyrde from hys Loyns the presente Canynge came;
Houton are wordes for to telle his doe;
For aie shall lyve hys Heaven-recorded Name,
Ne shalle ytte die whanne Tyme shall be ne moe;
Whan Mychael's Trompe shall sounde to rize the Soulle,
He'lle wynge toe heaven with kynne, and happie be yer dolle.

THE ACCOUNTE OF W. CANYNGES FEAST.

Thorowe the halle the Belle han sounde;
Byelecoyle doe the Grave beseeme;
The Ealdermenne doe sytte arounde,
Ande snoffelle oppe the cheorte steeme,
Lyke asses wylde ynne desarte waste
Swotelye the Morneynge ayre doe taste.
Syche coyne thie ate, the Minstrels plaie,
The dynne of angelles doe theie kepe;
Heie stylle, the Guestes ha ne to saie,
Butte nodde yer thankes ande falle aslape.
Thos echone daie bee I to deene,
Gyf Rowley, Iscamm, or Tyb. Gorges be ne seene.

FRAGMENT OF A POEM BY ROWLEY.

TRANSLATED FROM THE WORKS OF ECCA, BISHOP OF HEREFORD, A. D. 557.

[OMITTED]

FRAGMENT OF A POEM BY ROWLEY:

TRANSLATED FROM THE WORKS OF ELMAR, BISHOP OF SELSEIE.

Now may all hell open to gulp thee down,
Whilst azure darkness, mingled with the day,
Shews light on darkened pains to be more roune;
Oh! mayëst thou die living deaths for aye!
May floods of sulphur bear thy sprite anon
Sinking to depths of woe! May lightning-brands
Tremble upon thy pain-devoted crown,
And singe thine all-in-vain-imploring hands!
May all the woes that Goddès wrath can send
Upon thy head alight, and there their fury spend!

APPENDIX.

[Quæ requirit misericordiam mala causa est.]

Walworth—
Quæ requirit misericordiam mala causa est.
Alack! alack! a sad dome mine in fay.
But oft with cityzens it is the case.
Honesta turpitudo pro bonâ
Causâ mori, as auntient pensmen sayse.

[OMITTED] [OMITTED] Phill.—
Home news welle let alone and latyn too,
For mee a memorie doth 'gin to fayle;
Saie, Master Walworth, what gode newes have you,
Praie have you herdeen of the stouns of hayle?

Walw.—
I have, and that ytte with reddour did sayle,
Some heutstones were lyke cheryes rege and grete,
And to the grownde there did the trees preveyle;
But goodmanne Philpotte, what dye you ahete
Bowte goods of Laymingtone, nowe holde by you
For certaine monies store to you for chattels due?

Phille.—
Ah, I have nymd him specyal, for his wine
Have ta'en attons twelve pounds, for dayntye cheer,
Though the same time mie wyfe wyth hym dyd dyne,
Been payd a mark—non-extra of the beer;
But when hys synkynge purse did 'gin to wear
I lent hym full syx markes upon hys faie,
And hee, poore Custrole, havynge note to spere
Favor'd a cleere and now doth runne awaie,
Hys goodes I downe at Brystowe towne wyll selle,
For which I will get forty shenynge marks full well.

Wal.—
Tyde lyfe, tyde death, I wyll withe thee go downe,
And selle some goods too yn brave Brystowe towne.