Ælla, Birtha
Ælla
Notte, whanne the hallie prieste dyd make me knyghte,
Blessynge the weaponne, tellynge future dede,
Howe bie mie honde the prevyd[10] Dane shoulde blede,
Howe I schulde often bee, and often wynne, ynn fyghte;
Notte, whann I fyrste behelde thie beauteous hue,
Whyche strooke mie mynde, & rouzed mie softer soule;
Nott, whann from the barbed horse yn fyghte dyd viewe
The flying Dacians oere the wyde playne roule,
Whan all the troopes of Denmarque made grete dole,
Dydd I fele joie wyth syke reddoure[11] as nowe,
Whann hallie preest, the lechemanne of the soule,
Dydd knytte us both ynn a caytysnede[12] vowe:
Now hallie Ælla’s selynesse ys grate;
Shap[13] haveth nowe ymade hys woes for to emmate[14].
Birtha
Mie lorde, & husbande, syke a joie ys myne;
Botte mayden modestie moste ne soe saie,
Albeytte thou mayest rede ytt ynn myne eyne,
Or ynn myne harte, where thou shalte be for aie;
Inne sothe, I have botte meeded oute thie faie[15];
For twelve tymes twelve the mone hathe bin yblente[16],
As manie tymes hathe vyed the Godde of daie,
And on the grasse her lemes[17] of sylverr sente,
Sythe thou dydst cheese mee for thie swote to bee,
Enactynge ynn the same moste faiefullie to mee.
Ofte have I seene thee atte the none-daie feaste,
Whanne deysde bie thieselfe, for wante of pheeres[18],
Awhylst thie merryemen dydde laughe and jeaste,
Onn mee thou semest all eyne, to mee all eares.
Thou wardest mee as gyff ynn hondred feeres,
Alest a daygnous[19] looke to thee be sente,
And offrendes[20] made mee, moe thann yie compheeres,
Offe scarpes[21] of scarlette, & fyne paramente[22];
All thie yntente to please was lyssed[23] to mee,
I saie ytt, I moste streve thatt you ameded bee.
Ælla
Mie lyttel kyndnesses whyche I dydd doe,
Thie gentleness doth corven them soe grete,
Lyche bawsyn[24] olyphauntes[25] mie gnattes doe shewe;
Thou doest mie thoughtes of paying love amate[26].
Botte hann mie actyonns straughte[27] the rolle of fate,
Pyghte thee fromm Hell, or broughte Heaven down to thee,
Layde the whol worlde a falldstole atte thie feete,
On smyle woulde be suffycyll mede for mee.
I amm Loves borro’r, & canne never paie,
Bott be hys borrower stylle, & thyne, mie swete, for aie.
Birtha
Love, doe notte rate your achevmentes[28] soe smalle;
As I to you, syke love untoe mee beare;
For nothynge paste wille Birtha ever call,
Ne on a foode from Heaven thynke to cheere.
As farr as thys frayle brutylle flesch wylle spere,
Syke, & ne fardher I expecte of you;
Be notte toe slacke yn love, ne overdeare;
A smalle fyre, yan a loude flame, proves more true.
Ælla
Thie gentle wordis doe thie volunde[29] kenne
To bee moe clergionde thann ys ynn meyncte of menne.