The Rowley Poems - novelonlinefull.com
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The Danes have wroughte mee myckle woe ynne syghte, Inne kepeynge mee from Birtha's armes so longe.
O! whatte a dome was myne, sythe masterie Canne yeve ne pleasaunce, nor mie londes goode leme myne eie! 915
Yee G.o.ddes, howe ys a loverres temper formed!
Sometymes the samme thynge wylle bothe bane, & blesse; On tyme encalede[104], yanne bie the same thynge warmd, Estroughted foorthe, and yanne ybrogten less.
'Tys Birtha's loss whyche doe mie thoughtes possesse; 920 I wylle, I muste awaie: whie staies mie stede?
Mie huscarles, hyther haste; prepare a dresse, Whyche couracyers[105] yn hastie journies nede.
O heavens! I moste awaie to Byrtha eyne, For yn her lookes I fynde mie beynge doe entwyne. 925
CELMONDE, _att_ BRYSTOWE.
The worlde ys darke wythe nyghte; the wyndes are stylle; Fayntelie the mone her palyde lyghte makes gleme; The upryste[106] sprytes the sylente letten[107] fylle, Wythe ouphant faeryes joynyng ynne the dreme; The forreste sheenethe wythe the sylver leme; 930 Nowe maie mie love be sated ynn yttes treate; Uponne the lynche of somme swefte reynyng streme, Att the swote banquette I wylle swotelie eate.
Thys ys the howse; yee hyndes, swythyn appere.
CELMONDE, SERVYTOURE.
CELMONDE.
Go telle to Birtha strayte, a straungerr waytethe here. 935
CELMONDE, BIRTHA.
BIRTHA.
Celmonde! yee seynctes! I hope thou haste goode newes.
CELMONDE.
The hope ys loste: for heavie newes prepare.
BIRTHA.
Is aella welle?
CELMONDE.
Hee lyves; & stylle maie use The behylte[108] blessynges of a future yeare.
BIRTHA.
Whatte heavie tydynge thenne have I to feare? 940 Of whatte mischaunce dydste thou so latelie saie?
CELMONDE.
For heavie tydynges swythyn nowe prepare.
aella sore wounded ys, yn bykerous fraie; In Wedecester's wallid toune he lyes.
BIRTHA.
O mie agroted breast!
CELMONDE:
Wythoute your syghte, he dyes. 945
BIRTHA.
Wylle Birtha's presence ethe herr aella's payne?
I flie; newe wynges doe from mie schoulderrs sprynge.
CELMONDE.
Mie stede wydhoute wylle deftelie beere us twayne.
BIRTHA.
Oh! I wyll flie as wynde, & no waie lynge; Sweftlie caparisons for rydynge brynge; 950 I have a mynde wynged wythe the levyn ploome.
O aella, aella! dydste thou kenne the stynge, The whyche doeth canker ynne mie hartys roome, Thou wouldste see playne thieselfe the gare to bee; Aryse, uponne thie love, & flie to meeten mee. 955
CELMONDE.
The stede, on whyche I came, ys swefte as ayre; Mie servytoures doe wayte mee nere the wode; Swythynne wythe mee unto the place repayre; To aella I wylle gev you conducte goode.
Youre eyne, alyche a baulme, wylle staunche hys bloode, 960 Holpe oppe hys woundes, & yev hys harte alle cheere; Uponne your eyne he holdes hys lyvelyhode[109]; You doe hys spryte, & alle hys pleasaunce bere.
Comme, lette's awaie, albeytte ytte ys moke, Yette love wille bee a tore to tourne to feere nyghtes smoke. 965
BIRTHA.
Albeytte unwears dyd the welkynn rende, Reyne, alyche fallynge ryvers, dyd ferse bee, Erthe wythe the ayre enchased dyd contende, Everychone breathe of wynde wythe plagues dyd flee, Yette I to aella's eyne eftsoones woulde flee; 970 Albeytte hawethornes dyd mie fleshe enseme, Owlettes, wythe scrychynge, shakeynge everyche tree, And water-neders wrygglynge yn eche streme, Yette woulde I flie, ne under coverte staie, Botte seke mie aella owte; brave Celmonde, leade the waie. 975
A WODE.
HURRA, DANES.
