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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529305" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ælla, A Tragical Interlude - Act III</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">SCENE I.<br>BRISTOWE.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Gentle Egwina, do notte preche me joie;<br>I cannotte joie ynne anie thynge botte weere .<br>Oh! yatte aughte schulde oure selynesse destroie,<br>Floddynge the face wythe woe, and brynie teare!<br>EGWINA.<br>You muste, you muste endeavour for to cheere<br>Youre harte unto somme cherisaunied reste.<br>Youre loverde from the battelle wylle appere, <br>Ynne honnoure, and a greater love, be dreste:<br>Botte I wylle call the mynstrelles roundelaie;<br>Perchaunce the swotie sounde maie chase your wiere awaie.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">MYNSTRELLES SONGE.<br>O! synge untoe mie roundelaie,<br>O! droppe the blynie teare wythe mee,<br>Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,<br>Lycke a reyneynge ryver bee;<br>Mie love ys dedde,<br>Gon to hys death-bedde,<br>Al under the wyllowe tree. <br>Blacke hys cryne as the wynter nyghte,<br>Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,<br>Rodde hys face as the morning lyghte,<br>Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe;<br>Mie love ys dedde,<br>Gon to hys death-bedde,<br>Al under the wyllowe tree.<br>Swote hys tynge as the throstles note,<br>Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee,<br>Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, <br>O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree:<br>Mie love ys dedde,<br>Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,<br>Alle underre the wyllowe tree.<br>Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,<br>In the briered delle belowe;<br>Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,<br>To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;<br>Mie love ys dedde,<br>Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, <br>Al under the wyllowe tree.<br>See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;<br>Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;<br>Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,<br>Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;<br>Mie love ys dedde,<br>Gon to hys deathe-bedde,<br>Al under the wyllowe tree.<br>Here, uponne mie true loves grave,<br>Schalle the baren fleurs be layde, <br>Nee one hallie Seyncte to save<br>Al the celness of a mayde.<br>Mie love ys dedde,<br>Gonne to hys death-bedde,<br>Alle under the wyllowe tree.<br>Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres<br>Rounde his hallie corse to gre,<br>Ouphante fairie, lyghte youre fyres,<br>Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee.<br>Mie love ys dedde, <br>Gon to hys death-bedde,<br>Al under the wyllowe tree.<br>Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,<br>Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;<br>Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne,<br>Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.<br>My love ys dedde,<br>Gon to hys death-bedde,<br>Al under the wyllowe tree.<br>Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, <br>Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.<br>I die; I comme; mie true love waytes.<br>Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Thys syngeyng haveth whatte coulde make ytte please;<br>Butte mie uncourtlie shappe benymmes mee of all ease.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SCENE II.<br>ÆLLA, atte WATCHETTE.<br>CURSE onne mie tardie woundes! brynge mee a stede!<br>I wylle awaie to Birtha bie thys nyghte;<br>Albeytte fro mie woundes mie soul doe blede,<br>I wylle awaie, & die wythynne her syghte.<br>Brynge mee a stede, wythe eagle-wynges for flyghte; <br>Swefte as mie wyshe, &, as mie love ys, stronge.<br>The Danes have wroughte mee myckle woe ynne fyghte,<br>Inne kepeynge mee from Birtha's armes so longe.<br>O! whatte a dome was myne, sythe masterie<br>Canne yeve ne pleasaunce, nor mie londes goode leme myne eie!<br>Yee goddes, howe ys a loverres temper formed!<br>Sometymes the samme thynge wylle bothe bane, & blesse;<br>On tyme encalede yanne bie the same thynge warmd,<br>Estroughted foorthe, and yanne ybrogten less.<br>'Tys Birtha's loss whyche doe mie thoughtes possesse; <br>I wylle, I muste awaie: whie staies mie stede?<br>Mie huscarles, hyther haste; prepare a dresse,<br>Whyche couracyers yn hastie journies nede.<br>O heavens! I I moste awaie to Byrtha eyne,<br>For yn her lookes I fynde mie beynge doe entwyne.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SCENE III.<br>CELMONDE, atte BRYSTOWE.<br>The worlde ys darke wythe nyghte; the wyndes are stylle;<br>Fayntelie the mone her palyde lyght makes gleme;<br>The upryste sprytes the sylente letten fylle,<br>Wythe ouphant faeryes joynyng ynne the dreme; <br>The forreste sheenethe wythe the sylver leme;<br>Now maie mie love be sated ynn yttes treate;<br>Uponne the lynche of somme swefte reynyng streme,<br>Att the swote banquette I wylle swotelie eate.<br>Thys ys the howse; yee hyndes, swythyn appere.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">CELMONDE.<br>Go telle to Birtha strayte, a straungerr waytethe here.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>BIRTHA.<br>Celmonde! yee seynctes! I hope thou haste goode newes.<br>CELMONDE.<br>The hope ys loste; for heavie newes prepare.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Is Ælla welle?<br>CELMONDE.<br>Hee lyves; and stylle maie use<br>The behylte blessynges of a future yeare.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Whatte heavie tydynge thenne have I to feare? <br>Of whatte mischaunce dydste thou so latelie saie?<br>CELMONDE.<br>For heavie tydynges swythyn nowe prepare.<br>Ælla sore wounded ys, yn bykerous fraie;<br>In Wedecester's wallid toune he lyes.<br>BIRTHA.<br>O mie agroted breast!<br>CELMONDE.<br>Wythoute your syghte, he dyes.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Wylle Birtha's presence ethe herr Ælla's payne?<br>I flie; newe wynges doe from mie schoulders sprynge.<br>CELMONDE.<br>Mit stede wydhoute wylle deftlie beere us twayne.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Oh! I wyll flie as wynde, and no waie lynge;<br>Sweftlie caparisons for rydynge brynge; <br>I have a mynde wynged wythe the levyne ploome.<br>O Ælla, Ælla! dydste thou kenne the stynge,<br>The whyche doeth canker ynne mie hartys roome,<br>Thou wouldste see playne thieself the gare to bee;<br>Aryse, uponne thie love, and flie to meeten mee.<br>CELMONDE.<br>The stede, on whyche I came, ys swefte as ayre;<br>Mie servytoures doe wayte mee nere the wode;<br>Swythynne wythe mee unto the place repayre;<br>To Ælla I wylle gev you conducte goode.<br>Youre eyne, alyche a baulme, wylle staunche hys bloode, <br>Holpe oppe hys woundes, and yev hys harte alle cheere;<br>Uponne your eyne he holdes hys lyvelyhode ;<br>You doe hys spryte, and alle hys pleasaunce bere.<br>Comme, lette's awaie, albeytte ytte ys moke,<br>Yette love wille bee a tore to tourne to feere nyghtes smoke.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Albeytte unwears dyd the welkynn rende,<br>Reyne, alyche fallynge ryvers, dyd ferse bee,<br>Erthe wythe the ayre enchased dyd contende,<br>Everychone breathe of wynde wythe plagues dyd slee,<br>Yette I to Ælla's eyne eftsoones woulde slee; <br>Albeytte hawethornes dyd mie fleshe enseme,<br>Owlettes, wythe scrychynge, shakeynge everyche tree,<br>And water-neders wrygglynge yn eche streme,<br>Yette woulde I flie, ne under coverte staie,<br>Botte seke mie Ælla owte; brave Celmonde, leade the waie. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">SCENE III.<br>A WODE.<br>HURRA, DANES.<br>HURRA.<br>HEERE ynn yis forreste lette us watche for pree,<br>Bewreckeynge on oure foemenne oure ylle warre;<br>Whatteverre schalle be Englysch wee wylle slea,<br>Spreddynge our ugsomme rennome to afarre.<br>Ye Dacyanne menne, gyff Dacyanne menne yee are, <br>Lette nete botte blodde suffycyle for yee bee;<br>On everich breaste yn gorie letteres scarre,<br>Whatt sprytes you have, & howe those sprytes maie dree.<br>And gyf yee gette awaie to Denmarkes shore,<br>Eftesoones we will retourne, & vanquished bee ne moere.<br>The battelle loste, a battelle was yndede;<br>Note queedes hemselfes culde stonde so harde a fraie;<br>Oure verie armoure, & oure heaulmes dyd blede,<br>The Dacyannes, sprytes, lyche dewe drops, fledde awaie,<br>Ytte was an Ælla dyd commaunde the daie; <br>Ynn spyte of foemanne, I moste saie hys myghte;<br>Botte wee ynn hynd-lettes blodde the loss wylle paie,<br>Brynnynge, thatte we knowe howe to wynne yn fyghte;<br>Wee wylle, lyke wylfes enloosed from chaynes, destroie;--<br>Oure armoures -- wynter nyghte shotte oute the daie of joie.<br>Whene swefte-sote tyme doe rolle the daie alonge,<br>Somme hamlette scalle onto oure fhuyrie brende;<br>Brastynge alyche a rocke, or mountayne stronge,<br>The talle chyrche-spyre upon the grene shalle bende;<br>Wee wylle the walles, & auntyante tourrettes rende, <br>Pete everych tree whych goldyn fruyte doe beere,<br>Downe to the goddes the ownerrs dhereof sende,<br>Besprengynge alle abrode sadde warre & bloddie weere.<br>Botte fyrste to yynder oke-tree wee wylle flie;<br>And thence wylle yssue owte onne all yatte commeth bie.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">SCENE IV.<br>ANODHER PARTE OF THE WOODE.<br>CELMONDE, BIRTHA.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Thys merkness doe affraie mie wommanns breaste.<br>Howe sable ys the spreddynge skie arrayde!<br>Hallie the bordeleire, who lyves to reste,<br>Ne ys att nyghtys flemynge hue dysmayde;<br>The starres doe scantillie the sable brayde; <br>Wyde ys the sylver lemes of comforte wove;<br>Speke, Celmonde, does ytte make thee notte afrayde?<br>CELMONDE.<br>Merker the nyghte, the fitter tyde for love.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Saiest thou for love? ah! love is far awaie.<br>Faygne would I see once moe the roddie lemes of daie.<br>CELMONDE.<br>Love maie bee nie, woulde Birtha calle ytte here.<br>BERTHA.<br>How, Celmonde, dothe thou mene?<br>CELMONDE.<br>Thys Celmonde menes.<br>No leme, no eyne, ne mortalle manne appere,<br>Ne lyghte, an acte of love for to bewreene;<br>Nete in thys forreste, botte thys tore , dothe sheene, <br>Wych, potte oute, do leave the whole yn nyghte;<br>See! howe the brauncynge trees doe here entwyne,<br>Makeynge thys bower so pleasynge to the syghte;<br>Thys was for love fyrste made, and heere ytt stondes,<br>Thatte hereynne lovers maie enlyncke yn true loves bondes.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Celmonde, speake whatte thou menest, or alse mie thoughtes<br>Perchance maie robbe thie honestie so fayre.<br>CELMONDE.<br>Then here, and knowe, hereto I have you broughte,<br>Mie longe hydde love unto you to make clere.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Oh heaven and earthe! whatte ys ytt I doe heare? <br>Am I betraste ? where ys mie Ælla, saie!<br>CELMONDE.<br>O! do nete nowe to Ælla syke love bere,<br>Botte geven some onn Celmondes hedde.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Awaie!<br>I wylle be gone, and groape mie passage out;<br>Albeytte neders stynges mie legs do twyne aboute.<br>CELMONDE.<br>Nowe bie the seynctes I wylle notte lette thee goe,<br>Ontylle thou doeste mie brendynge love amate.<br>Those eyne have caused Celmonde myckle woe,<br>Yenne lette yer smyle fyrst take hymm yn regrate.<br>O! didst thou see mie breastis troblous state, <br>There love doth harrie up mie joie, and ethe!<br>I wretched bee, beyond the hele of fate,<br>Gyff Birtha stylle wylle make mie harte-veynes blethe.<br>Softe as the sommer flowreets, Birtha, looke,<br>Fulle ylle I canne thie frownes and harde dyspleasaunce brooke.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Thie love ys foule; I woulde bee deafe for aie,<br>Radher thanne heere syche deslavatie sedde.<br>Swythynne flie from mee, and ne further saie;<br>Radher thanne heare thie love, I woulde bee dead.<br>Yee seynctes! and shal I wronge mie Ælla's bedde, <br>And wouldst thou, Celmonde, tempte me to the thynge?<br>Lett mee be gone -- alle curses onne thie hedde!<br>Was ytte for thys thou dydste a message brynge!<br>Lette mee be gone, thou manne of sable harte!<br>Or welkyn and her starres will take a maydens parte.<br>CELMONDE.<br>Sythence you wylle notte lette mie suyte avele,<br>Mie love wylle have yttes joie, altho wythe guylte;<br>Youre lymbes shall bende, albeytte strynge as stele;<br>The merkye seesonne wylle your bloshes hylte .<br>BIRTHA.<br>Holpe, holpe, yee seynctes! oh thatte mie blodde was spylte! <br>CELMONDE.<br>The seynctes att distaunce stonde ynn tyme of nede.<br>Strev notte to goe; thou canste notte, gyff thou wylle.<br>Untoe mie wysche bee kinde, and nete alse hede.<br>BIRTHA.<br>No, foule bestoykerre, I wylle rende the ayre,<br>Tylle dethe do staie mie dynne, or somme kynde roder heare.<br>Holpe! holpe! oh Godde!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HURRA.<br>Ah! thatt's a wommanne cries.<br>I kenn hem; saie, who are you, yatte bee theere?<br>CELMONDE.<br>Yee hyndes, awaie! orre bie thys swerde yee dies.<br>HURRA.<br>Thie wordes wylle ne mie hartis sete affere.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Save mee, oh! save mee from thys royner heere! <br>HURRA.<br>Stonde thou bie mee; nowe saie thie name and londe;<br>Or swythyne schall mie swerde thie boddie tare.<br>CELMONDE.<br>Bothe I wylle shewe thee bie mie brondeous honde.<br>HURRA.<br>Besette hym rounde, yee Danes.<br>CELMONDE.<br>Comme onne, and see<br>Gyff mie strynge anlace maie bewryen whatte I bee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! I forslagen be! ye Danes, now kenne,<br>I amme yatte Celmonde, seconde yn the fyghte,<br>Who dydd, atte Watchette, so forslege youre menne;<br>I fele myne eyne to swymme yn eterne nyghte;-- <br>To her be kynde.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">HURRA.<br>Thenne felle a wordhie knyghte. <br>Saie, who bee you?<br>BIRTHA.<br>I am greate Ælla's wyfe.<br>HURRA.<br>Ah!<br>BIRTHA.<br>Gyff anenste hym you harboure soule despyte,<br>Nowe wythe the lethal anlace take mie lyfe,<br>Mie thankes I ever onne you wylle bestowe,<br>From ewbryce you mee pyghte, the worste of mortal woe.<br>HURRA.<br>I wylle; ytte scalle bee soe: yee Dacyans, heere.<br>Thys Ælla havethe been oure foe for aie.<br>Thorrowe the battelle he dyd brondeous teare,<br>Beyng the lyfe and head of everych fraie;<br>From everych Dacyanne power he won the daie, <br>Forslagen Magnus, all oure schippes ybrente;<br>Bie hys felle arme wee now are made to straie;<br>The speere of Dacya he ynne pieces shente;<br>Whanne hantoned barckes unto our londe dyd comme,<br>Ælla the gare dheie sed, & wysched hym bytter dome.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Mercie!<br>HURRA.<br>Bee stylle.<br>Botte yette he ys a foemanne goode and fayre;<br>Whanne wee are spente, he soundethe the forloyne;<br>The captyves chayne he tosseth ynne the ayre,<br>Cheered the wounded bothe wythe bredde & wyne;<br>Has hee notte untoe somme of you bynn dygne? <br>You would have smethd onne Wedecestrian fielde,<br>Botte hee behylte the slughorne for to cleyne,<br>Throwynge onne hys wyde backe, hys wyder spreddynge shielde.<br>Whanne you, as caytysned, yn fielde dyd bee,<br>Hee oathed you to bee stylle, & strayte dydd sette you free.<br>Scalle wee forslege hys wyfe, because he's brave?<br>Bicaus hee syghteth for hys countryes gare?<br>Wylle hee, who havith bynne yis Ælla's slave,<br>Robbe hym of whatte percase he holdith deere?<br>Or scalle we menne of mennys sprytes appere, <br>Doeynge hym favoure for hys favoure donne,<br>Swefte to hys pallace thys damoiselle bere,<br>Bewrynne oure case, and to oure waie be gonne?<br>The last you do approve; so lette ytte bee;<br>Damoyselle, comme awaie; you safe scalle bee wythe mee.<br>BIRTHA.<br>Al blessynges maie the seynctes unto yee gyve!<br>Al pleasaunce maie youre longe-straughte livynges bee!<br>Ælla, whanne knowynge thatte bie you I lyve,<br>Wylle thyncke too smalle a guyfte the londe & lea.<br>O Celmonde! I maie deftlie rede bie the; <br>Whatte ille betydethe the enfouled kynde;<br>Maie ne thie cross-stone of thie cryme bewree!<br>Maie alle menne ken thie valoure, fewe thie mynde!<br>Soldyer! for syke thou arte ynn noble fraie,<br>I wylle thie goinges 'tende, & doe thou lede the waie.<br>HURRA.<br>The mornynge 'gyns alonge the Easte to sheene;<br>Darklinge the lyghte doe onne the waters plaie;<br>The seynte rodde leme slowe creepeth oere the green;<br>Toe chase the merkyness of nyghte awaie;<br>Swifte flies the howers thatte wylle brynge oute the daie; <br>The softe dewe falleth onne the greeynge grasse;<br>The shepster mayden, dyghtynge her arraie,<br>Scante sees her vysage yn the wavie glasse;<br>Bie the fulle daylieghte wee scalle Ælla see,<br>Or Brystowes wallyd towne; damoyselle, followe mee.</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=529305" data-title="Ælla, A Tragical Interlude - Act III de Thomas Chatterton" data-description="SCENE I.
BRISTOWE.
BIRTHA.
Gentle Egwina, do notte preche me joie;
I cannotte joie ynne anie thynge botte weere .
Oh! yatte aughte schulde oure selynesse destroie,
Floddynge the face wythe woe, and brynie teare!
EGWINA.
You muste, you muste endeav..."></div>
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