Anodher Parte of the Woode
Celmonde, Birtha
Birtha
Thys merkness doe affraie mie wommanns breaste.
Howe sable ys the spreddynge skie arrayde!
Hailie the bordeleire, who lyves to reste,
Ne ys att nyghtys flemynge hue dysmayde;
The starres doe scantillie[110] the sable brayde;
Wyde ys the sylver lemes of comforte wove;
Speke, Celmonde, does ytte make thee notte afrayde?
Celmonde
Merker the nyghte, the fitter tyde for love.
Birtha
Saiest thou for love? ah! love is far awaie.
Faygne would I see once moe the roddie lemes of daie.
Celmonde
Love maie bee nie, woulde Birtha calle ytte here.
Birtha
How, Celmonde, dothe thou mene?
Celmonde
Thys Celmonde menes.
No leme, no eyne, ne mortalle manne appere,
Ne lyghte, an acte of love for to bewreene;
Nete in thys forreste, botte thys tore[111], dothe sheene,
The whych, potte oute, do leave the whole yn nyghte;
See! howe the brauncynge trees doe here entwyne,
Makeynge thys bower so pleasynge to the syghte;
Thys was for love fyrste made, & heere ytt stondes,
Thatte hereynne lovers maie enlyncke yn true loves bondes.
Birtha
Celmonde, speake whatte thou menest, or alse mie thoughtes
Perchaunce maie robbe thie honestie so fayre.
Celmonde
Then here, & knowe, hereto I have you broughte,
Mie longe hydde love unto you to make clere.
Birtha
Oh heaven & earthe! whatte ys ytt I doe heare?
Am I betraste[112]? where ys mie Ælla, saie!
Celmonde
O! do nete nowe to Ælla syke love bere,
Botte geven some onne Celmondes hedde.
Birtha
Awaie!
I wylle be gone, & groape mie passage oute,
Albeytte neders stynges mie legs do twyne aboute.
Celmonde
Nowe bie the seynctes I wylle notte lette thee goe,
Ontylle thou doeste mie brendynge love amate.
Those eyne have caused Celmonde myckle woe,
Yenne lette yer smyle fyrst take hymm yn regrate.
O! didst thou see mie breastis troblous state,
Theere love doth harrie up mie joie, and ethe!
I wretched bee, beyonde the hele of fate,
Gyss Birtha stylle wylle make mie harte-veynes blethe.
Softe as the sommer flowreets, Birtha, looke,
Fulle ylle I canne thie frownes & harde dyspleasaunce brooke.
Birtha
Thie love ys foule; I woulde bee deafe for aie,
Radher thanne heere syche deslavatie[113] sedde.
Swythynne flie from mee, and ne further saie;
Radher thanne heare thie love, I woulde bee dead.
Yee seynctes! & shal I wronge mie Ælla’s bedde,
And wouldst thou, Celmonde, tempte me to the thynge?
Lett mee be gone—alle curses onne thie hedde!
Was ytte for thys thou dydste a message brynge!
Lette mee be gone, thou manne of sable harte!
Or welkyn[114] & her starres wyll take a maydens parte.
Celmonde
Sythence you wylle notte lette mie suyte avele,
Mie love wylle have yttes joie, altho wythe guylte;
Youre lymbes shall bende, albeytte strynge as stele;
The merkye seesonne wylle your bloshes hylte[115].
Birtha
Holpe, holpe, yee seynctes! oh thatte mie blodde was spylte!
Celmonde
The seynctes att distaunce stonde ynn tyme of nede.
Strev notte to goe; thou canste notte, gyff thou wylte.
Unto mie wysche bee kinde, & nete alse hede.
Birtha
No, foule bestoykerre, I wylle rende the ayre,
Tylle dethe do staie mie dynne, or somme kynde roder heare.
Holpe! holpe! oh godde!