Celmonde, Birtha, Hurra, Danes
Hurra
Ah! thatts a wommanne cries.
I kenn hem; saie, who are you, yatte bee theere?
Celmonde
Yee hyndes, awaie! orre bie thys swerde yee dies.
Hurra
Thie wordes wylle ne mie hartis sete affere.
Birtha
Save mee, oh! save mee from thys royner heere!
Hurra
Stonde thou bie mee; nowe saie thie name & londe;
Or swythyne schall mie swerde thie boddie tare.
Celmonde
Bothe I wylle shewe thee bie mie brondeous[116] honde.
Hurra
Besette hym rounde, yee Danes.
Celmonde
Comme onne, and see
Gyff mie strynge anlace maie bewryen whatte I bee.
[Fyghte al anenste Celmonde, meynte Danes he fleath,
and faleth to Hurra.
Celmonde
Oh! I forslagen[117] be! ye Danes, now kenne,
I amme yatte Celmonde, seconde yn the fyghte,
Who dydd, atte Watchette, so forslege youre menne;
I fele myne eyne to swymme yn æterne nyghte;—
To her be kynde. [Dieth.
Hurra
Thenne felle a wordhie knyghte.
Saie, who bee you?
Birtha
I am greate Ælla’s wyfe.
Hurra
Ah
Birtha
Gyff anenste hym you harboure soule despyte,
Nowe wythe the lethal anlace take mie lyfe,
Mie thankes I ever onne you wylle bestowe,
From ewbryce[118] you mee pyghte, the worste of mortal woe.
Hurra
I wylle; ytte scalle bee foe: yee Dacyans, heere.
Thys Ælla havethe been oure foe for aie.
Thorrowe the battelle he dyd brondeous teare,
Beyng the lyfe and head of everych fraie;
From everych Dacyanne power he won the daie,
Forslagen Magnus, all oure schippes ybrente;
Bie hys felle arme wee now are made to straie;
The speere of Dacya he ynne pieces shente;
Whanne hantoned barckes unto our londe dyd comme,
Ælla the gare dheie sed, & wysched hym bytter dome.
Birtha
Mercie!
Hurra
Bee stylle.
Botte yette he ys a foemanne goode and fayre;
Whanne wee are spente, he foundethe the forloyne;
The captyves chayne he tosseth ynne the ayre,
Cheered the wounded bothe wythe bredde & wyne;
Has hee notte untoe somme of you bynn dygne?
You would have smethd onne Wedecestrian fielde,
Botte hee behylte the flughorne for to cleyne,
Throwynge onne hys wyde backe, hys wyder spreddynge shielde.
Whanne you, as caytysned, yn fielde dyd bee,
Hee oathed you to bee stylle, & strayte dydd sette you free.
Scalle wee forslege[119] hys wyfe, because he’s brave?
Bicaus hee fyghteth for hys countryes gare?
Wylle hee, who havith bynne yis Ælla’s slave,
Robbe hym of whatte percase he holdith deere?
Or scalle we menne of mennys sprytes appere,
Doeynge hym favoure for hys favoure donne,
Swefte to hys pallace thys damoiselle bere,
Bewrynne oure case, and to oure waie be gonne?
The last you do approve; so lette ytte bee;
Damoyselle, comme awaie; you safe scalle bee wythe mee.
Birtha
Al blessynges maie the seynctes unto yee gyve!
Al pleasaunce maie youre longe-straughte livynges bee!
Ælla, whanne knowynge thatte bie you I lyve,
Wylle thyncke too smalle a guyfte the londe & sea.
O Celmonde! I maie deftlie rede bie thee,
Whatte ille betydethe the enfouled kynde;
Maie ne thie cross-stone[120] of thie cryme bewree!
Maie alle menne ken thie valoure, fewe thie mynde!
Soldyer! for syke thou arte ynn noble fraie,
I wylle thie goinges ‘tende, & doe thou lede the waie.
Hurra
The mornynge ‘gyns alonge the Easte to sheene;
Darklinge the lyghte doe onne the waters plaie;
The feynte rodde leme slowe creepeth oere the greene,
Toe chase the merkyness of nyghte awaie;
Swifte flies the howers thatte wylle brynge oute the daie;
The softe dewe falleth onne the greeynge grasse;
The shepster mayden, dyghtynge her arraie,
Scante[121] sees her vysage yn the wavie glasse;
Bie the fulle daylieghte wee scalle Ælla see.
Or Brystowes wallyd towne; damoyselle, followe mee.