Ælla, Birtha, Celmonde, Mynstrelles
Celmonde
Alle blessynges showre on gentle Ælla’s hedde!
Oft maie the moone, yn sylverr sheenynge lyghte,
Inne varied chaunges varyed blessynges shedde,
Besprengeynge far abrode mischaunces nyghte;
And thou, fayre Birtha! thou, fayre Dame, so bryghte,
Long mayest thou wyth Ælla fynde muche peace,
Wythe selynesse, as wyth a roabe, be dyghte,
Wyth everych chaungynge mone new joies encrease!
I, as a token of mie love to speake,
Have brought you jubbes of ale, at nyghte youre brayne to breake.
Ælla
Whan sopperes paste we’lle drenche youre ale soe stronge,
Tyde lyfe, tyde death.
Celmonde
Ye Mynstrelles, chaunt your songe.
Mynstrelles Songe, bie a Manne and Womanne.
Manne
Tourne thee to thie Shepsterr[30] swayne;
Bryghte sonne has ne droncke the dewe
From the floures of yellowe hue;
Tourne thee, Alyce, backe agayne.
Womanne
No, bestoikerre[31], I wylle goe,
Softlie tryppynge o’ere the mees[32],
Lyche the sylver-footed doe,
Seekeynge shelterr yn grene trees.
Manne
See the moss-growne daisey’d banke,
Pereynge ynne the streme belowe;
Here we’lle sytte, yn dewie danke;
Tourne thee, Alyce, do notte goe.
Womanne
I’ve hearde erste mie grandame saie,
Yonge damoyselles schulde ne bee,
Inne the swotie moonthe of Maie,
Wythe yonge menne bie the grene wode tree.
Manne
Sytte thee, Alyce, sytte, and harke,
Howe the ouzle[33] chauntes hys noate,
The chelandree[34], greie morn larke,
Chauntynge from theyre lyttel throate;
Womanne
I heare them from eche grene wode tree,
Chauntynge owte so blatauntlie[35],
Tellynge lecturnyes[36] to mee,
Myscheefe ys whanne you are nygh.
Manne
See alonge the mees so grene
Pied daisies, kynge-coppes swote;
Alle wee see, bie non bee scene,
Nete botte shepe settes here a fote.
Womanne
Shepster swayne, you tare mie gratche[37].
Oute uponne ye! lette me goe.
Leave mee swythe, or I’lle alatche.
Robynne, thys youre dame shall knowe.
Manne
See! the crokynge brionie
Rounde the popler twyste hys spraie;
Rounde the oake the greene ivie
Florryschethe and lyveth aie.
Lette us seate us bie thys tree,
Laughe, and synge to lovynge ayres;
Comme, and doe notte coyen bee;
Nature made all thynges bie payres.
Drooried cattes wylle after kynde;
Gentle doves wylle kyss and coe.
Womanne
Botte manne, hee moste bee ywrynde,
Tylle syr preeste make on of two.
Tempte mee ne to the foule thynge;
I wylle no mannes lemanne be;
Tyll syr preeste hys songe doethe synge,
Thou shalt neere fynde aught of mee.
Manne
Bie oure ladie her yborne,
To-morrowe, soone as ytte ys daie,
I’lle make thee wyfe, ne bee forsworne,
So tyde me lyfe or dethe for aie.
Womanne
Whatt dothe lette, botte thatte nowe
Wee attenes[38], thos honde yn honde,
Unto divinistre[39] goe,
And bee lyncked yn wedlocke bonde?
Manne
I agree, and thus I plyghte
Honde, and harte, and all that’s myne;
Goode syr Rogerr, do us ryghte,
Make us one, at Cothbertes shryne.
Bothe
We wylle ynn a bordelle[40] lyve,
Hailie, thoughe of no estate;
Everyche clocke moe love shall gyve;
Wee ynne godenesse wylle bee greate.
Ælla
I lyche thys songe, I lyche ytt myckle well;
And there ys monie for yer syngeynge nowe;
Butte have you noone thatt marriage-blessynges telle?
Celmonde
In marriage, blessynges are botte fewe, I trowe.
Mynstrelles
Laverde[41], wee have; and, gyff you please, wille synge,
As well as owre choughe-voyces wylle permytte.
Ælla
Comme then, and see you swotelie tune the strynge,
And stret[42], and engyne all the human wytte,
Toe please mie dame.
Mynstrelles
We’lle strayne owre wytte and synge.
Mynstrelles Songe.
Fyrste Mynstrylle
The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte;
The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue;
Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte;
The nesh[43] yonge coweslepe bendethe wyth the dewe;
The trees enlefed, yntoe Heavenne straughte.
Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe, to whestlyng dynne ys broughte.
The evenynge commes, and brynges the dewe alonge;
The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne;
Arounde the alestake Mynstrells synge the songe;
Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne;
I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle,
Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe somethynge stylle.
Seconde Mynstrelle
So Adam thoughtenne, whann, ynn Paradyse,
All Heavenn and Erthe dyd hommage to hys mynde;
Ynn Womman alleyne mannes pleasaunce lyes;
As Instrumentes of joie were made the kynde.
Go, take a wyfe untoe thie armes, and see
Wynter, and brownie hylles, wyll have a charme for thee.
Thyrde Mynstrelle
Whanne Autumpne blake[44] and sonne-brente doe appere,
With hys goulde honde guylteynge the falleynge lefe,
Bryngeynge oppe Wynterr to folfylle the yere,
Beerynge uponne hys backe the riped shefe;
Whan al the hyls wythe woddie sede ys whyte;
Whanne levynne-fyres and lemes do mete from far the syghte;
Whann the fayre apple, rudde as even skie,
Do bende the tree unto the fructyle grounde;
When joicie peres, and berries of blacke die,
Doe daunce yn ayre, and call the eyne arounde;
Thann, bee the even foule, or even fayre,
Meethynckes mie hartys joie ys steynced wyth somme care.
Seconde Mynstrelle
Angelles bee wrogte to bee of neidher kynde;
Angelles alleyne fromme chafe[45] desyre bee free;
Dheere ys a somwhatte evere yn the mynde,
Yatte, wythout wommanne, cannot stylled bee;
Ne seyncte yn celles, botte, havynge blodde and tere[46],
Do fynde the spryte to joie on syghte of womanne fayre:
Wommen bee made, notte for hemselves, botte manne,
Bone of hys bone, and chyld of hys desire;
Fromme an ynutyle membere fyrste beganne,
Ywroghte with moche of water, lyttele fyre;
Therefore theie seke the fyre of love, to hete
The milkyness of kynde, and make hemselfes complete.
Albeytte, wythout wommen, menne were pheeres
To salvage kynde, and wulde botte lyve to flea,
Botte wommenne efte the spryghte of peace so cheres,
Tochelod yn Angel joie heie Angeles bee;
Go, take thee swythyn[47] to thie bedde a wyfe,
Bee bante or blessed hie, yn proovynge marryage lyfe.
Anodher Mynstrelles Songe, bie Syr Thybbot Gorges.
As Elynour bie the green lesselle was syttynge,
As from the sones hete she harried,
She sayde, as herr whytte hondes whyte hosen was knyttynge,
Whatte pleasure ytt ys to be married!
Mie husbande, Lorde Thomas, a forrester boulde,
As ever clove pynne, or the baskette,
Does no cherysauncys from Elynour houlde,
I have ytte as soone as I aske ytte.
Whann I lyved wyth mie fadre yn merrie Clowd-dell.
Tho’ twas at my liefe to mynde spynnynge,
I stylle wanted somethynge, botte whatte ne coulde telle,
Mie lorde fadres barbde haulle han ne wynnynge.
Eche mornynge I ryse, doe I sette mie maydennes,
Somme to spynn, somme to curdell, somme bleachynge,
Gyff any new entered doe aske for mie aidens,
Thann swythynne you fynde mee a teachynge.
Lorde Walterre, mie fadre, he loved me welle,
And nothynge unto mee was nedeynge,
Botte schulde I agen goe to merrie Cloud-dell,
In sothen twoulde bee wythoute redeynge.
Shee sayde, and lorde Thomas came over the lea,
As hee the fatte derkynnes was chacynge,
Shee putte uppe her knyttynge, and to hym wente shee;
So wee leave hem bothe kyndelie embracynge.
Ælla
I lyche eke thys; goe ynn untoe the feaste;
Wee wylle permytte you antecedente bee;
There swotelie synge eche carolle, and yaped[48] jeaste;
And there ys monnie, that you merrie bee;
Comme, gentle love, wee wylle toe spouse-feaste goe,
And there ynn ale and wyne bee dreyncted[49] everych woe.