ÆLLA.
CELMONDE, att BRYSTOWE.
Before yonne roddie sonne has droove hys wayne
Throwe halfe hys joornie, dyghte yn gites[1] of goulde,
Mee, happeless mee, hee wylle a wretche behoulde,
Mieselfe, and al that's myne, bounde ynne myschaunces chayne.
Ah! Birtha, whie dydde Nature frame thee fayre? 5
Whie art thou all thatt poyntelle[2] canne bewreene[3]?
Whie art thou nott as coarse as odhers are?—
Botte thenn thie soughle woulde throwe thy vysage sheene,
Yatt shemres onn thie comelie semlykeene[4],
Lyche nottebrowne cloudes, whann bie the sonne made redde, 10
Orr scarlette, wythe waylde lynnen clothe ywreene[5],
Syke[6] woulde thie spryte upponn thie vysage spredde.
Thys daie brave Ælla dothe thyne honde & harte
Clayme as hys owne to be, whyche nee fromm hys moste parte.
And cann I lyve to see herr wythe anere[7]! 15
Ytt cannotte, muste notte, naie, ytt shalle not bee.
Thys nyghte I'll putte stronge poysonn ynn the beere,
And hymm, herr, and myselfe, attenes[8] wyll slea.
Assyst mee, Helle! lett Devylles rounde mee tende,
To slea mieselfe, mie love, & eke mie doughtie[9] friende. 20
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, 25
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, 30
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].