Mai good Seyncte Cuthberte watche Syrre Roberte wele. Moke moe thanne deathe in phantasie Ï feele; See! see! upon the ground he bleedynge lies Inhild some joice of lyffe, or else mie deare love dies. JUGA. Systers in sorrowe, on thys daise-ey'd banke, Whose gastlie mitches holde the train of fryghte, . ELINOURE. No moe the myskynette shall wake the morne, The minstrelle daunce, good cheere, and morryce plaie ; No more the amblynge palfrie and the horne Shall from the lessel rouze the foxe awaie; I'll seeke the foreste all the lyve-longe daie; All nete amonge the gravde chyrche glebe wyll goe, And to the passante Spryghtes lecture mie tale of woe. JUGA. Whan mokie cloudis do hange upon the leme Of leden moon, ynn sylver mantels dyghte; The tryppeygne faeries weve the golden dreme Of selyness, whyche flyethe wythe the nyghte; Then (botte the scynctes forbydde!) gif to a spryte Syrr Rychardes forme ys lyped, I'll hold dystraughte Hys bledeynge claie colde corse, and die eche daie ynn thoughte. ELINOURE. Ah woe bementynge wordes; what wordes can shewe! Thou limed ryver, on thie linche maie bleede Champyons, whose bloude wylle wythe thie waterres flowe, And Rudborne streeme be Rudborne streeme indeede ! Haste, gentle Juga, tryppe ytte oere the meade, To knowe, or wheder we muste waile agayne, Or wythe oure fallen knyghtes be menged onne the plain. Soe sayinge, lyke twa levyn-blasted trees, Or twayne of cloudes that holdeth stormie rayne; Theie moved gentle oere the dewie mees, There dyd theye fynde that bothe their knyghtes were slayne, Distraughte theie wandered to swollen Rudbornes syde, Yelled theyre leathalle knelle, sonke ynn the waves, and dyde. THE MYNSTRELLES SONGE, FROM ÆLLA. O! SYNGE untoe mie roundelaie, Gon to hys death-bedde, Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, O hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree : Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, In the briered delle belowe; Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, To the nyghte-mares as heie goe; Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys. deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Heere uponne mie true loves grave, Gone to hys death-bedde, Wythe mie hondes I'll dente the brieres Gon to hys death-bedde, Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Waterre wythes, crownede wythe reytes I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. ÆLLA, ATTE WATCHETTE. CURSE onne mie tardie woundes! brynge mee a stede! I wylle awaie to Birtha bie thys nyghte; Albeytte fro mie woundes mie soul doe blede, I wylle awaie, and die wythynne her syghte. Brynge mee a stede, wythe eagle wynges for flyghte, The Danes have wrought mee myckle woe ynne fyghte, O! whatte a dome was myne, sythe masterie Canne yeve ne pleasaunce, nor mie londes goode leme myne eie! Yee goddes, howe ys a loverres temper formed! Some tymes the samme thynge wyll both bane and blesse? On tyme encalede, yanne bie the same thynge warmed, Estroughted foorthe, and yanne ybroghten less. 'Tys Birtha's loss whyche doe mie thoughts possesse ; I wylle, I must awaie: whie staies mie stede ? Mie huscarles, hyther haste; prepare a dresse, Whyche couracyrs yn hastie journies nede. O heavens! I most awaie to Byrtha's eyne, For yn her looks I fynde mie beynge doe entwyne. CHORUS, FROM GODDWYNN. WHAN freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned veste, She daunced onne the heathe; She hearde the voice of deathe; Pale-eyned affryghte, hys harte of sylver hue, On hie she jeste her sheelde, And flizze alonge the feelde. Power, wythe his heafod straught ynto the skyes, She bendes before hys speere, Harde as the thonder doth she drive ytte on, IN Virgyne the sweltrie sun gan sheene, The sun was glemeing in the middle of daie, When from the sea arist in dreare arraie A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue, The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe, And the blacke tempeste swolne and gatherd up apace. Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side, Pore in his viewe, ungentle in his weede, Where from the hailstone coulde the almer flie? He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie. Look in his glommed face, his sprighte there scanne; |