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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529304" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ælla, A Tragical Interlude - Act II</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">SCENE I<br>MAGNUS, HURRA, and HIE PREESTE, wyth the ARMIE, neare Watchette.<br>MAGNUS.<br>Swythe lette the offrendes to the Goddes begynne,<br>To knowe of hem the issue of the fyghte.<br>Potte the blodde-steyned sword and pavyes ynne;<br>Spreade swythyn all arounde the hallie lyghte.<br>HIE PREESTE syngeth.<br>Yee, who hie yn mokie ayre<br>Delethe seasonnes foule or fayre,<br>Yee, who, whanne yee weere agguylte,<br>The mone yn bloddie gytelles hylte,<br>Mooved the starres, and dyd unbynde<br>Everyche barriere to the wynde; <br>Whanne the oundynge waves dystreste,<br>Storven to be overest,<br>Sockeynge yn the spyre-gyrte towne,<br>Swolterynge wole natyons down;<br>Sendynge dethe, on plagues astrodde,<br>Moovynge lyke the erthys Godde;<br>To mee send your heste dyvyne,<br>Lyghte eletten all myne eyne,<br>Thatt I maie now undevyse<br>All the actyonnes of th'emprize. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus sayethe the Goddes; goe, yssue to the playne;<br>Forr there shall meynte of mytte menn be slayne.<br>MAGNUS.<br>Whie, soe there evere was, whanne Magnus foughte.<br>Efte have I treynted noyance throughe the hoaste,<br>Athorowe swerdes, alyche the Queed dystraughte,<br>Have Magnus pressynge wroghte hys foemen loaste.<br>As whanne a tempeste vexethe soare the coaste,<br>The dyngeynge ounde the sandeie stronde doe tare,<br>So dyd I inne the warre the javlynne toste,<br>Full meynte a champyonnes breaste received mie spear.<br>Mie sheelde, lyche sommere morie gronfer droke,<br>Mie lethalle speere, alych a levyn-mylted oke.<br>Thus sayethe the Goddes; goe, yssue to the playne;<br>Forr there shall meynte of mytte menn be slayne.<br>MAGNUS.<br>Whie, soe there evere was, whanne Magnus foughte.<br>Efte have I treynted noyance throughe the hoaste,<br>Athorowe swerdes, alyche the Queed dystraughte,<br>Have Magnus pressynge wroghte hys foemen loaste.<br>As whanne a tempeste vexethe soare the coaste,<br>The dyngeynge ounde the sandeie stronde doe tare,<br>So dyd I inne the warre the javlynne toste,<br>Full meynte a champyonnes breaste received mie spear. <br>Mie sheelde, lyche sommere morie gronfer droke,<br>Mie lethalle speere, alych a levyn-mylted oke.<br>HURRA.<br>Thie wordes are greate, full of hyghe sound, and eeke<br>Lyche thonderre, to the whych dothe comme no rayne.<br>Itte lacketh notte a doughtie honde to speke;<br>The cocke saiethe drefte , yett armed ys he alleyne.<br>Certis thie wordes maie, thou motest have sayne<br>Of mee, and meynte of woe, who eke canne fyghte,<br>Who haveth trodden downe the adventayle,<br>And tore the heaulmes from heades of myckle myghte. <br>Sythence syke myghte ys placed yn thie honde,<br>Lette blowes thie actyons speeke, and bie thie corrage stonde.<br>MAGNUS.<br>Thou are a warrioure, Hurra, thatte I kenne,<br>And myckle famed for thie handie dede.<br>Thou fyghtest anente maydens and ne menne,<br>Nor aie thou makest armed hartes to blede.<br>Efte I, caparyson'd on bloddie stede,<br>Havethe thee seene binethe mee ynn the fyghte,<br>Wythe corses I investynge everich mede,<br>And thou aston, and wondrynge at mie myghte. <br>Thanne wouldest thou comme yn for mie renome,<br>Albeytte thou wouldst reyne awaie from bloddie dome?<br>HURRA.<br>How! butte bee bourne mie rage. I kenne aryghte<br>Bothe thee and thyne maie ne bee wordhye peene.<br>Eftsoones I hope wee scalle engage yn fyghte;<br>Thanne to the souldyers all thou wylte bewreene.<br>I'll prove mie courage onne the burled greene;<br>Tys there alleyne I'll telle thee whatte I bee.<br>Gyf I weelde notte the deadlie sphere adeene,<br>Thanne lett mie name be fulle as lowe as thee. <br>Thys mie adented shielde, thys mie warre-speare,<br>Schalle telle the falleynge foe gyf Hurra's harte can feare.<br>MAGNUS.<br>Magnus woulde speke, butte thatte hys noble spryte<br>Dothe soe enrage, he knowes notte whatte to saie.<br>He'dde speke yn blowes, yn gottes of blodde he'd wryte,<br>And on thie heafod peyncte hys myghte for aie<br>Gyf thou anent an wolfynnes rage wouldest staie,<br>'Tys here to meet ytt; botte gyff nott, bee goe;<br>Lest I in furrie shulde mie armes dysplaie,<br>Whyche to thie boddie wylle wurche myckle woe. <br>Oh! I bee madde, dystraughte wyth brendyng rage;<br>Ne seas of smethynge gore wylle mie chafed harte asswage.<br>HURRA.<br>I kenne thee, Magnus, welle; a wyghte thou art<br>That doest aslee alonge ynn doled dystresse,<br>Strynge bulle yn boddie, lyoncelle yn harte,<br>I almost wysche thie prowes were made lesse.<br>Whan Ælla (name drest uppe yn ugsomness <br>To thee and recreandes ) thondered on the playne,<br>Howe dydste thou thorowe fyrste of fleers presse!<br>Swefter thanne federed takelle dydste thou reyne. <br>A ronnynge pryze onn seyncte daie to ordayne,<br>Magnus, and none botte hee, the ronnynge pryze wylle gayne.<br>MAGNUS.<br>Eternalie plagues devour thie baned tyngue!<br>Myriades of neders pre upponne thie spryte!<br>Maiest thou fele all the peynes of age whylst yynge,<br>Unmanned, uneyned, exclooded aie the lyghte,<br>Thie senses, lyche thieselfe, enwrapped yn nyghte,<br>A scoff to foemen & to beastes a pheere;<br>Maie furched levynne onne thie head alyghte,<br>Maie on thee falle the fhuyr of the unweere; <br>Fen vaipoures blaste thie everiche manlie powere,<br>Maie thie bante boddie quycke the wolsome peenes devoure.<br>Faygne woulde I curse thee further, botte mie tyngue<br>Denies mie harte the favoure soe toe doe.<br>HURRA.<br>Nowe bie the Dacyanne goddes, & Welkyns kynge,<br>Wythe fhurie, as thou dydste begynne, persue;<br>Calle on mie heade all tortures that bee rou,<br>Bane onne, tylle thie owne tongue thie curses fele.<br>Sende onne mie heade the blyghteynge levynne blewe,<br>The thonder loude, the swellynge azure rele . <br>Thie wordes be hie of dynne, botte nete besyde;<br>Bane on, good chieftayn, fyghte wythe wordes of myckle pryde.<br>Botte doe notte waste thie breath, lest Ælla come.<br>MAGNUS.<br>Ælla & thee togyder synke toe helle!<br>Bee youre names blasted from the rolle of dome!<br>I feere noe Ælla, thatte thou kennest welle.<br>Unlydgefulle traytoure, wylt thou nowe rebelle?<br>'Tys knowen, thatte yie menn bee lyncked to myne,<br>Bothe sente, as troopes of wolves, to sletre felle;<br>Botte nowe thou lackest hem to be all yyne. <br>Now; bie the goddes yatte reule the Dccyanne state,<br>Speacke thou yn rage once moe, I wyll thee dysregate.<br>HURRA.<br>I pryze thie threattes joste as I doe thie banes,<br>The sede of malyce and recendize al.<br>Thou arte a steyne unto the name of Danes;<br>Thou alleyne to thie tyngue for proose canst calle.<br>Thou beest a worme so groffile and so smal,<br>I wythe thie bloude woulde scorne to foul mie sworde,<br>Botte wythe thie weaponnes woulde upon thee fall;<br>Alyche thie owne feare, slea thee wythe a worde <br>I Hurra amme miesel, & aie wylle bee,<br>As greate yn valourous actes, & yn commande as thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">MESSENGERE.<br>Blynne your contekions chiefs; for, as I stode<br>Uponne mie watche, I spiede an armie commynge,<br>Notte lyche ann handfulle of a fremded foe,<br>Botte blacke wythe armoure, movynge ugsomlie,<br>Lyche a blacke fulle cloude, thatte dothe goe alonge<br>To droppe yn hayle, & hele the thonder storme.<br>MAGNUS.<br>Ar there meynte of them?<br>MESSENGERR.<br>Thycke as the ante-flyes ynne a sommer's none, <br>Seemynge as tho' theie stynge as persante too.<br>HURRA.<br>Whatte matters thatte? lettes sette oure warr-arraie.<br>Goe, sounde the beme, lette champyons prepare<br>Ne doubtynge, we wylle stynghe as faste as heie.<br>Whatte? doest forgard thie blodde? ys ytte for feare?<br>Wouldest thou gayne the towne, & castle-stere,<br>And yette ne byker wythe the soldyer guarde?<br>Go, hyde thee ynn mie tente annethe the lere;<br>I of thie boddie wylle keepe watche & warde.<br>MAGNUS.<br>Oure goddes of Denmarke know mie harte ys goode. <br>HURRA.<br>For nete uppon the erthe, botte to be choughens foode.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SECONDE MESSENGERRE.<br>As from mie towre I kende the commynge foe,<br>I spied the crossed shielde, & bloddie swerde,<br>The furyous Ælla's banner; wythynne kenne<br>The armie ys. Dysorder throughe oure hoaste<br>Is fleynge, borne onne wynges of Ælla's name;<br>Styr, styr, mie lordes!<br>MAGNUS.<br>What? Ælla? & soe neare?<br>Thenne Denmarques roiend; oh mie rysynge feare!<br>HURRA.<br>What doeste thou mene? thys Ælla's botte a manne.<br>Nowe bie mie sworde, thou arte a verie berne . <br>Of late I dyd thie creand valoure scanne,<br>Whanne thou dydst boaste soe moche of actyon derne.<br>Botte I toe warr mie doeynges moste atturne,<br>To cheere the Sabbataneres to deere dede.<br>MAGNUS.<br>I to the knyghtes onne everyche syde wylle burne,<br>Telleynge 'hem alle to make her foemen blede;<br>Sythe shame or deathe onne eidher syde wylle bee,<br>Mie harte I wylle upryse, & inne the battelle slea.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SCENE II.<br>ÆLLA, CELMONDE, & ARMIE near WATCHETTE.<br>ÆLLA.<br>NOW havynge done oure mattynes & oure vowes,<br>Lette us for the intended fyghte be boune, <br>And everyche champyone potte the joyous crowne<br>Of certane masterschyppe upon hys glestreynge browes.<br>As for mie harte, I owne ytt ys, as ere<br>Itte has beene ynne the sommer-sheene of fate,<br>Unknowen to the ugsomme gratche of fere;<br>Mie blodde emboilen, wythe masterie elate,<br>Boyles ynne mie veynes, & rolles ynn rapyd state,<br>Impatyente forr to mete the persante stele,<br>And telle the worlde, thatte Ælla dyed as greate<br>As anie knyghte who foughte for Englondes weale. <br>Friends, kynne, & soldyerres, ynne blacke armore drere,<br>Mie actyons ymytate, mie presente redynge here.<br>There ys ne house, athrow thys shap-scurged isle,<br>Thatte has ne loste a kynne yn these fell fyghtes,<br>Fatte blodde has sorfeeted the hongerde soyle,<br>And townes enlowed lemed oppe the nyghtes.<br>Inne gyte of fyre oure hallie churche dheie dyghtes;<br>Oure sonnes lie storven ynne theyre smethynge gore;<br>Oppe bie the rootes oure tree of lyfe dheie pyghtes,<br>Vexynge oure coaste, as byllowes doe the shore. <br>Yet menne, gyf ye are menne, displaie yor name,<br>Ybrende yer tropes, alyche the roarynge tempest flame.<br>Ye Chrystyans, doe as wordhie of the name;<br>These roynerres of oure hallie houses slea;<br>Braste, lyke a cloude, from whence doth come the flame.<br>Lyche torrentes, gushynge downe the mountaines, bee.<br>And whanne alonge the grene yer champyons flee,<br>Swefte as the rodde for-weltrynge levyn-bronde,<br>Yatte hauntes the flyinge mortherer oere the lea,<br>Soe flie oponne these royners of the londe. <br>Lette those yatte are unto yer battayles fledde,<br>Take slepe eterne uponne a feerie lowynge bedde.<br>Let cowarde Londonne see herre towne onn fyre,<br>And strev wythe goulde to staie the royners honde,<br>Ælla & Brystowe havethe thoughtes thattes hygher,<br>Wee fyghte notte forr ourselves, botte all the londe.<br>As Severnes hyger lyghethe banckes of sonde,<br>Pressynge ytte downe binethe the reynynge streme,<br>Wythe dreerie dynn enswolters the hyghe stronde,<br>Beerynge the rockes alonge ynn fhurye breme, <br>Soe wylle wee beere the Dacyanne armie downe,<br>And throughe a storme of blodde wyll reache the champyon crowne.<br>Gyff ynn thys battelle locke ne wayte oure gare,<br>To Brystowe dheie wylle tourne yeyre fhuyrie dyre;<br>Brystowe, & alle her joies, wylle synke toe ayre,<br>Brendeynge perforce wythe unenhantende fyre:<br>Thenne lette oure safetie doublie moove oure ire,<br>Lyche wolfyns, rovynge for the evnynge pre,<br>the lambe & shepsterr nere the brire,<br>Doth th'one forr safetie, th'one for hongre slea; <br>Thanne, whanne the ravenne crokes uponne the playne,<br>Oh! lette ytte bee the knelle to myghtie Dacyanns slayne.<br>Lyche a rodde gronfer, shalle mie anlace sheene,<br>Lyche a strynge lyoncelle I'lle bee ynne fyghte,<br>Lyche fallynge leaves the Dacyannes shalle bee sleene,<br>loud dynnynge streeme scalle be mie myghte.<br>Ye menne, who woulde deserve the name of knyghte,<br>Lette bloddie teares bie all your paves be wepte;<br>To commynge tymes no poyntelle shalle ywrite,<br>Whanne Englonde han her foemenn, Brystow slepte. <br>Yourselfses, youre chyldren, & youre fellowes crie,<br>Go, fyghte ynne rennomes gare, be brave, & wynne or die.<br>I saie ne moe; youre spryte the reste wylle saie;<br>Youre spryte wylle wrynne, thatte Brystow ys yer place;<br>To honoures house I nede notte marcke the waie;<br>Inne youre owne hartes you maie the foote-pathe trace.<br>'Twexte shappe & us there ys botte lyttelle space;<br>The tyme ys nowe to proove yourselves bee menne; <br>Drawe forthe the bornyshed bylle wythe fetyve grace,<br>Rouze, lyche a wolfynne rouzing from hys denne. <br>Thus I enrone mie anlace; goe thou shethe;<br>I'lle potte ytt ne ynn place, tyll ytte ys sycke wythe deathe.<br>SOLDYERS.<br>Onn, Ælla, onn; we longe for bloddie fraie;<br>Wee longe to here the raven synge yn vayne;<br>Onn, Ælla, onn; we certys gayne the daie,<br>Whanne thou doste leade us to the leathal playne.<br>CELMONDE.<br>Thie speche, O Loverde, fyrethe the whole trayne;<br>Theie pancte for war, as honted wolves for breathe;<br>Go, & sytte crowned on corses of the slayne;<br>Go, & ywielde the massie swerde of deathe. <br>SOLDYERRES.<br>From thee, O Ælla, alle oure courage reygnes;<br>Echone yn phantasie do lede the Danes ynne chaynes.<br>ÆLLA.<br>Mie countrymenne, mie friendes, your noble sprytes<br>Speke yn youre eyne, & doe yer master telle.<br>Swefte as the rayne-storme toe the erthe alyghtes,<br>Soe wylle we fall upon these royners felle.<br>Oure mowynge swerdes shalle plonge hem downe to helle;<br>Theyre throngynge corses shall onlyghte the starres;<br>The barrowes brastynge wythe the sleene schall swelle, <br>Brynnynge to commynge tymes our famous warres; <br>Inne everie eyne I kenne the lowe of myghte,<br>Sheenynge abrode, alyche a hylle-fyre ynne the nyghte.<br>Whanne poyntelles of oure famous fyghte shall saie,<br>Echone wylle marvelle atte the dernie dede,<br>Echone wylle wyssen hee hanne seene the daie,<br>And bravelie holped to make the foemenn blede;<br>Botte for yer holpe oure battelle wylle notte nede;<br>Oure force ys force enowe to staie theyre honde;<br>Wee wylle retourne unto thys grened mede,<br>Oer corses of the foemen of the londe. <br>Nowe to the warre lette all the slughornes sounde,<br>The Dacyanne troopes appere on yinder rysynge grounde.<br>Chiefes, heade youre bandes, and leade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SCENE III.<br>DANES flyinge, neare WATCHETTE.<br>FYRSTE DANE.<br>FLY, fly, ye Danes; Magnus, the chiefe, ys sleene;<br>The Saxonnes comme wythe Ælla atte theyre heade;<br>Lette's strev to gette awaie to yinder greene;<br>Flie, flie; thys ys the kyngdomme of the deadde.<br>SECONDE DANE.<br>O goddes! have thousandes bie mie anlace bledde,<br>And muste I nowe for safetie flie awaie?<br>See! farre besprenged alle oure troopes are spreade, <br>Yette I wylle synglie dare the bloddie fraie.<br>Botte ne; I'lle flie, & morther yn retrete;<br>Deathe, blodde, & fyre, scalle marke the goeynge of my feete.<br>THYRDE DANE.<br>Enthoghteynge forr to scape the brondeynge foe,<br>As nere unto the byllowd beche I came,<br>Farr offe I spied a syghte of myckle woe,<br>Oure spyrynge battayles wrapte ynn sayles of flame.<br>The burled Dacyannes, who were ynne the same,<br>Fro syde to syde fledde the pursuyte of deathe;<br>The swelleynge fyre yer corrage doe enflame, <br>Theie lepe ynto the sea, & bobbiynge yield yer breathe;<br>Whylest those thatt bee uponne the bloddie playne,<br>Bee deathe-doomed captyves taene, or yn the battle slayne.<br>HURRA.<br>Nowe bie the goddes, Magnus, dyscourteous knyghte,<br>Bie cravente havyoure havethe don oure woe,<br>Dyspendynge all the talle menne yn the fyghte,<br>And placeyng valourous menne where draffs mote goe.<br>Sythence oure fourtunie havethe tourned soe,<br>Gader the souldyers lefte to future shappe,<br>To somme newe place for safetie wee wylle goe, <br>Inne future daie wee wylle have better happe.<br>Sounde the loude slughorne for a quicke forloyne ;<br>Lette alle the Dacyannes swythe untoe oure banner joyne.<br>Throw hamlettes wee wylle sprenge sadde dethe & dole,<br>Bathe yn hotte gore, & wasch oureselves thereynne;<br>Goddes! here the Saxonnes lyche a byllowe rolle.<br>I heere the anlacis detested dynne.<br>Awaie, awaie, ye Danes, to yonder penne;<br>Wee now wylle make forloyne yn tyme to fyghte agenne.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SCENE IV.<br>CELMONDE, near WATCHETTE.<br>O forr a spryte al feere! to telle the daie, <br>The daie whyche scal astounde the herers rede,<br>Makeynge oure foemennes envyynge hartes to blede,<br>Ybereynge thro the worlde oure rennomde name for aie.<br>Bryghte sonne han ynne hys roddie robes byn dyghte,<br>From the rodde Easte he flytted wythe hys trayne,<br>The howers drewe awaie the geete of nyghte,<br>Her sable tapistrie was rente yn twayne.<br>The dauncynge streakes bedecked heavennes playne,<br>And on the dewe dyd smyle wythe shemrynge eie,<br>Lyche gottes of blodde whyche doe blacke armoure steyne, <br>Sheenynge upon the borne whyche stondeth bie;<br>The souldyers stoode uponne the hillis syde,<br>Lyche yonge enlefed trees whyche yn a forreste byde.<br>Ælla rose lyche the tree besette wyth brieres;<br>Hys talle speere sheenynge as the starres at nyghte,<br>Hys eyne ensemeynge as a lowe of fyre;<br>Whanne he encheered everie manne to fyghte,<br>Hys gentle wordes dyd moove eche valourous knyghte;<br>Itte moovethe 'hem, as honterres lyoncelle;<br>In trebled armoure ys theyre courage dyghte; <br>Eche warrynge harte forr prayse & rennome swelles;<br>Lyche slowelie dynnynge of the croucheynge streme,<br>Syche dyd the mormrynge sounde of the whol armie seme.<br>Hee ledes 'hem onne to fyghte; oh! thenne to saie<br>How Ælla loked, and lokyng dyd encheere,<br>Moovynge alyche a mountayne yn affraie,<br>Whanne a lowde whyrlevynde doe yttes boesomme tare,<br>To telle howe everie loke wulde banyshe feere,<br>Woulde aske an angelles poyntelle or hys tyngue.<br>Lyche a talle rocke yatte ryseth heaven-were, <br>Lyche a yonge wolfynne brondeous & strynge,<br>Soe dydde he goe, & myghtie warriours hedde;<br>Wythe gore-depycted wynges masterie arounde hym fledde.<br>The battelle jyned; swerdes uponne swerdes dyd rynge;<br>Ælla was chafed, as lyonns madded bee;<br>Lyche fallynge starres, he dydde the javlynn flynge;<br>Hys mightie anlace mightie menne dyd slea;<br>Where he dydde comme, the flemed foe dydde flee,<br>Or felle benethe hys honde, as fallynge rayne,<br>Wythe sythe a fhuyrie he dydde onn 'hemm dree, <br>Hylles of yer bowkes dyd ryse opponne the playne;<br>Ælla, thou arte -- botte staie, mie tynge; saie nee;<br>Howe greate I hymme maye make, stylle greater hee wylle bee.<br>Nor dydde hys souldyerres see hys actes yn vayne.<br>Heere a stoute Dane uponne hys compheere felle;<br>Heere lorde & hyndlette sonke uponne the playne;<br>Heere sonne & fadre trembled ynto helle.<br>Chief Magnus sought hys waie, &, shame to telle!<br>Hee soughte hys waie for flyghte; botte Ælla's speere <br>Uponne the flyynge Dacyannes schoulder felle, <br>Quyte throwe hys boddie, & hys harte ytte tare,<br>He groned, & sonke uponne the gorie greene,<br>And wythe hys corse encreased the pyles of Dacyannes sleene.<br>Spente wythe the fyghte, the Danyshe champyons stonde,<br>Lyche bulles, whose strengthe & wondrous myghte ys fledde;<br>Ælla, a javelynne grypped yn eyther honde,<br>Flyes to the thronge, & doomes two Dacyannes deadde.<br>After hys acte, the armie all yspedde;<br>Fromm everich on unmyssynge javlynnes flewe;<br>Theie straughte yer doughtie swerdes; the foemenn bledde; <br>Fulle three of foure of myghtie Danes dheie slewe;<br>The Danes, wythe terroure rulynge att their head,<br>Threwe downe theyr bannere talle, & lyche a ravenne fledde.<br>The soldyerres followed wythe a myghtie crie,<br>Cryes, yatte welle myghte the stouteste hartes affraie.<br>Swefte, as yer shyppes, the vanquyshed Dacyannes flie;<br>Swefte, as the rayne uponne an Aprylie daie,<br>Pressynge behynde, the Englysche soldyerres slaie.<br>Botte halfe the tythes of Danyshe menne remayne;<br>Ælla commaundes 'heie thoulde the sleetre staie, <br>Botte bynde 'hem prysonners on the bloddie playne.<br>The fyghtynge beynge done, I came awaie,<br>In odher fieldes to fyghte a moe unequalle fraie.<br>Mie servant squyre!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">CELMONDE.<br>Prepare a fleing horse,<br>Whose feete are wynges, whose pace ys lycke the wynde,<br>Whoe wylle outestreppe the morneynge lyghte yn course,<br>Leaveynge the gyttelles of the merke behynde.<br>Somme hyltren matters doe mie presence fynde.<br>Gyv oute to alle yatte I was sleene ynne fyghte.<br>Gyff ynne thys gare thou doest mie order mynde, <br>Whanne I returne, thou shalte be made a knyghte;<br>Flie, flie, be gon; an howerre ys a daie;<br>Quycke dyghte mie best of stedes, and brynge hymm heere -- awaie!<br>CELMONDE.<br>Ælla ys woundedd sore, and ynne the toune<br>He waytethe, tylle hys woundes be broghte to ethe.<br>And shalle I from hys browes plocke off the croune,<br>Makynge the victore yn hys vyctorie blethe?<br>O no! fulle sooner schulde mie hartes blodde smethe,<br>Fulle soonere woulde I tortured bee to deathe;<br>Botte -- Birtha ys the pryze; ahe! ytte were ethe <br>To gayne so gayne a pryze wythe losse of breathe;<br>Botte thanne rennome æterne - ytte ys botte ayre;<br>Bredde ynne the phantasie, and alleyn lyvynge there.<br>Albeytte everyche thynge yn lyfe conspyre<br>To telle me of the faulte I nowe schulde doe,<br>Yette woulde I battentlie assuage mie fyre,<br>And the same menes, as I scall nowe, pursue.<br>The qualytyes I fro mie parentes drewe,<br>Were blodde, & morther, masterie, and warre;<br>Thie I wylie holde to now, & hede ne moe <br>A wounde yn rennome, yanne a boddie scarre.<br>Nowe, Ælla, nowe Ime plantynge of a thorne,<br>Bie whyche thie peace, thie love, & glorie shall be torne.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Chatterton">Thomas Chatterton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529304" data-title="Ælla, A Tragical Interlude - Act II de Thomas Chatterton" data-description="SCENE I
MAGNUS, HURRA, and HIE PREESTE, wyth the ARMIE, neare Watchette.
MAGNUS.
Swythe lette the offrendes to the Goddes begynne,
To knowe of hem the issue of the fyghte.
Potte the blodde-steyned sword and pavyes ynne;
Spreade swythyn all arounde..."></div>
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