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Westron Wynde

Westron wynde when wyll thou blow,
The smalle rayne down can rayne -
Cryst, yf my love wer in my armys
And I yn my bed agayne!

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Song On A Sigh

O tell mee, tell, thou god of wynde,
In all thy cavernes canst thou finde
A vapor, fume, a gale or blast
Like to a sigh which love doth cast?
Can any whirlwynde in thy vault
Plough upp earth's breast with like assault?
Goe wynde and blowe thou where thou please,
Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.

If thou be wynde, O then refrayne
From wracking whiles I thus complayne:
If thou be wynde then light thou art,
Yet O! how heavy is my hart!
If thou be wynde then purge thy way,
Lett cares that clogge thy force obey.
Goe wynde and blow thou where thou please,
Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.

Those blasts of sighing raised are
By influence of my bright starre;
Their Æolus from whom they came
Is love that straynes to blow his flame,
The powerfull sway of whose behest
Makes hearth and bellowes of my breast.
Goe wynde and blowe then where thou please,
Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.

Know 'tis a wynde that longs to blowe
Upon my Saint wherere shee goe,
And stealing through her fanne it beares
Soft errands to her lippes and eares,
And then perhapps a passage makes
Downe to her heart when breath shee takes.
Goe wynde and blowe then where thou please,
Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.

Yes, gentle gale, trye that againe,
O doe not passe from mee in vayne,
Goe mingle with her soule divine
Ingendring spiritts like to mine:
Yea take my soule along with thee
To worke a stronger sympathie:
Goe wynde and blowe thou where thou please,
Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.

My soule, before my grosser part,
Thus to her heaven should departe,
And where the body cannott lye
On wings of wynde my soule shall flye:
If not one soule our bodies joyne,
One body shall our soules confine,
Goe wynde and blowe thou where thou please,
Yea breathles leave mee to my ease.

poem by William Strode
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The Lover in Winter Plaineth for the Spring

Westron wind, when wilt thou blow
That small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!

poem by Anonymous
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Westron Wind, When Wilt Thou Blow?

Westron wind, when wilt thou blow
That small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again!

poem by Anonymous
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The Lover in Winter Plaineth for the Spring

Westron wind, when wilt thou blow
That small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!

poem by Anonymous Americas
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Westron Wind, When Wilt Thou Blow?

Westron wind, when wilt thou blow
That small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again!

poem by Anonymous Americas
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Why Stop Now

Jesse Eisenberg, Melissa Leo, Tracy Morgan, Isiah Whitlock Jr., Sarah Ramos, Emma Rayne Lyle, Stephanie March, Tanya Wright

from Why Stop Now (2012)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Return

Linda Cardellini, Michael Shannon, John Slattery, Talia Balsam, Emma Rayne Lyle, Paul Sparks, Louisa Krause, James Murtaugh

by Liza Johnson from Return (2011)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Elinoure And Juga

ONNE Ruddeborne bank twa pynynge Maydens sate,
Theire teares faste dryppeynge to the waterre cleere;
Echone bementynge for her absente mate.
Who atte Seyncte Albonns shouke the morthynge speare.
The nottebrowne Elinoure to Juga fayre
Dydde speke acroole , wythe languishment of eyne,
Lyche roppes of pearlie dew, lemed the quyvryng brine.
ELINOURE.
O gentle Juga! heare mie dernie plainte,
To fyghte for Yorke mie love ys dyghte in stele;
O maie ne sanguen steine the whyte rose peyncte,
Maie good Seyncte Cuthberte watche Syrre Roberte wele.
Moke moe thanne deathe in phantasie I feele;
See! see! upon the grounde he bleedynge lies;
Inhild some joice of lyfe, or else mie deare love dies.
JUGA.
Systers in sorrowe, on thys daise-ey'd banke,
Where melancholych broods, we wyll lamente;
Be wette wythe mornynge dewe and evene danke;
Lyche levynde okes in eche the odher bente,
Or lyche forlettenn halles of merriemente,
Whose gastlie mitches holde the traine of fryghte ,
Where lethale ravens bark, and owlets wake the nyghte.

No moe the miskynette shall wake the morne,
The minstrelle daunce, good cheere, and morryce plaie;
No moe the amblynge palfrie and the horne
Shall from the lessel rouze the foxe awaie;
I'll seke the foreste alle the lyve-longe daie;
Alle nete amenge the gravde chyrche glebe wyll goe,
And to the pallante spryghtes lecture mie tale of woe.

Whan mokie cloudis do hange upon the leme
Of leden Moon, ynn sylver mantels dyghte;
The tryppeynge Faeries weve the golden dreme
Of Selyness , whyche flyethe wythe the nyghte;
Thenne (botte the Seynctes forbydde!) gif to a spryte
Syrr Rychardes forme ys lyped, I'll holde dystraughte
Hys bledeynge claie-colde corse, and die eche daie ynn thoughte.
ELINOURE.
Ah woe bementynge wordes; what wordes can shewe!
Thou limed ryver, on thie linche maie bleede
Champyons, whose bloude wylle wythe thie waterres flowe,
And Rudborne streeme be Rudborne streeme indeede!
Haste, gentle Juga, tryppe ytte oere the meade,
To knowe, or wheder we muste waile agayne,
Or wythe oure fallen knyghtes be menged onne the plain.

Soe sayinge, lyke twa levyn-blasted trees,
Or twayne of cloudes that holdeth stormie rayne;
Theie moved gentle oere the dewie mees ,
To where Seyncte Albons holie shrynes remayne.
There dyd theye fynde that bothe their knyghtes were slayne,
Distraughte theie wandered to swollen Rudbornes syde,
Yelled theyre leathalle knelle, sonke ynn the waves, and dyde.

poem by Thomas Chatterton
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Bitter Blow of Love

Love! you dealt a bitter blow –
You lay me cross the mortal plains,
Bedewed, bedimmed amongst a show
Of tearful clouds: eternal rains
To weep at my enduring foe

Of harsh reality – searing pains of
Destiny: dependable propensity
To fool myself repeatedly
That I could ever triumph over love!

Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009

Love love love love love love love love love love
Bitter blow
Love love love love love love love love love love
Bitter blow
Love love love love love love love love love love
Bitter blow
Love love love love love love love love love love
Bitter blow
Love love love love love love love love love love
Bitter blow
Love love love love love love love love love love
Bitter blow of love, oh love
Love love love love love love love love love love
Love love love love love love love love love love love love
Love love love love love love love love love love love love love love
Love love love love love love love love love love love love love love
Love love love love love love love love love love love love love love
Love love love love love love love love love love love love love love
Love love love love love love love love love love love love love love
Love love love love love love love love love love love love love love

poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Not-Browne Mayd

'Be it ryght or wrong, these men among
On women do complayne;
Affyrmynge this, how that it is
A labour spent in vayne
To love them wele; for never a dele
They love a man agayne:
For late a man do what he can
Theyr favour to attayne,
Yet yf a newe do them persue,
Theyr furst true lover than
Laboureth for nought; for from her thought
He is a banyshed man.'

'I say nat nay, but that all day
It is bothe writ and sayd,
That woman's faith is as who sayth,
All utterly decayd;
But neverthelesse, ryght good wytnesse
In this case might be layd,
That they love true, and continue:
Recorde the Not-Brown Mayde;
Which, when her love came, her to prove,
To her to make his mone,
Wolde nat depart, for in her hart
She loved but hym alone.'

'Than betwaine us late us dyscus,
What was all the manere
Betwayne them two; we wyll also
Telle all the payne and fere
That she was in. Nowe I begyn,
So that ye me answere:
Wherefore all ye that present be,
I pray you gyve an eare.
I am the knyght, I come by nyght
As secret as I can,
Sayinge, 'Alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banyshed man.''

She.

And I your wyll, for to fulfyll
In this wyll nat refuse,
Trustyng to shewe, in wordes fewe,
That men have an yll use,
(To theyr own shame) women to blame,
And causelesse them accuse:
Therfore to you I answere nowe,
All women to excuse, -
'Myn own hart dere, with you what chere?
I pray you telle anone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde,
I love but you alone.'

He.

'It standeth so: a dede is do,
Whereof grete harme shall growe.
My destiny is for to dy
A shamefull deth, I trowe,
Or elles to fle: the one must be:
None other way I knowe,
But to withdrawe, as an outlawe,
And take me to my bowe.
Wherefore, adue, my owne hart true,
None other rede I can;
For I must to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.'

She.

'O Lord, what is thys worldys blysse,
That changeth as the mone!
My somers day in lusty May
Is derked before the none.
I here you saye farewell: Nay, nay,
We depart nat so sone.
Why say ye so? wheder wyll ye go?
Alas, what have ye done?
All my welfare to sorrowe and care
Sholde chaunge, yf ye were gone:
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'

He.

'I can beleve it shall you greve,
And somewhat you dystrayne;
But aftyrwarde your paynes harde,
Within a day or twayne,
Shall sone aslake, and ye shall take
Comfort to you agayne.
Why sholde ye ought? for, to make thought
Your labur were in vayne:
And thus I do, and pray you to,
As hartely as I can:
For I must to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.'

She.

'Now syth that ye have shewed to me
The secret of your mynde,
I shall be playne to you agayne,
Lyke as ye shall me fynde:
Syth it is so that ye wyll go,
I wolle not leve behynde;
Shall never be sayd the Not-browne Mayd
Was to her love unkynde.
Make you redy, for so am I,
Although it were anone;
For in my mynd, of all mankynde,
I love but you alone.'

He.

'Yet I you rede to take good hede
What men wyll thynke, and say;
Of yonge and olde it shall be tolde,
That ye be gone away
Your wanton wyll for to fulfill,
In grene wode you to play;
And that ye myght from your delyght
No lenger make delay.
Rather than ye sholde thus for me
Be called an yll woman,
Yet wolde I to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.'

She.

'Though it be songe of olde and yonge
That I sholde be to blame,
Theyrs be the charge that speke so large
In hurtynge of my name.
For I wyll prove that faythfulle love
It is devoyd of shame,
In your dystresse and hevynesse,
To part with you the same;
And sure all tho that do not so,
True lovers are they none;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde
I love but you alone.'

He.

'I counceyle you remember howe
It is no maydens lawe,
Nothynge to dout, but to renne out
To wode with an outlawe.
For ye must there in your hand bere
A bowe, redy to drawe,
And as a thefe thus must ye lyve,
Ever in drede and awe;
Whereby to you grete harme myght growe;
Yet I had lever than
That I had to the grene wode go
Alone, a banyshed man.'

She.

'I thinke nat nay; but as ye say,
It is no maydens lore;
But love may make me for your sake,
To come on fote to hunt and shote,
To gete us mete in store;
For so that I your company
May have, I aske no more;
From which to part, it maketh my hart
As colde as ony stone:
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'

He.

'For an outlawe this is the lawe,
That men hym take and bynde,
Without pyte hanged to be,
And waver with the wynde.
If I had nede, (as God forbede!
What rescous could ye finde?
Forsoth, I trowe, ye and your bowe
For fere wolde drawe behynde:
And no merveyle; for lytel avayle
Were in your counceyle than;
Wherefore I wyll to the grene wode goe
Alone, a banyshed man.'

She.

'Ryght wele knowe ye that women be
But feble for to fyght;
No womanhede it is indede
To be bolde as a knyght.
Yet in suche fere yf that ye were,
With enemyes day and nyght,
I wolde withstande wyth bowe in hande,
To greve them as I myght;
And you to save, as women have,
From dethe 'men' many one:
For in my mynde, of al mankynde
I love but you alone.'

He.

'Yet take gude hede; for ever I drede
That ye coude nat sustayne
The thornie wayes, the depe valeies,
The snowe, the frost, the rayne,
The colde, the hete; for, dry or wete,
We must lodge on the playne;
And us above none other rofe
But a brake bush or twayne,
Which sone sholde greve you, I beleve;
And ye wolde gladly than
That I had to the grene wode goe
Alone, a banyshed man.'

She.

'Syth I have here bene partynere
With you of joy and blysse,
I must also parte of your wo
Endure, as reson is;
Yet am I sure of one pleasure,
And shortely, it is this:
That where ye be, me seemeth, parde,
I coude nat fare amysse.
Without more speche, I you beseche
That we were soon agone;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'

He.

'If ye goo thyder, ye must consyder
When ye have lust to dyne,
There shal no mete be for you gete,
Nor drinke, bere, ale, ne wyne;
Ne shetes clene to lye betwene,
Made of threde and twyne;
None other house but leves and bowes
To cover your hed and myne.
O myne harte swete, this evyll dyete
Sholde make you pale and wan:
Wherefore I wyll to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.'

She.

'Among the wylde dere, such an archere
As men say that ye be
Ne may nat fayle of good vitayle,
Where is so grete plente;
And water clere of the ryvere
Shall be full swete to me,
With which in hele I shall ryght wele
Endure, as ye shal see;
And or we go, a bedde or two
I can provyde anone;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'

He.

'Lo, yet before, ye must do more
Yf ye wyll go with me,
As cut your here up by your ere,
Your kyrtel by the kne;
With bowe in hande, for to withstande
Your enemyes, yf nede be;
And this same nyght, before daylyght,
To wode-warde wyll I fle;
Yf ye wyll all this fulfill,
Do it shortely as ye can:
Els wyll I to the grene wode goe
Alone, a banyshed man.'

She.

'I shall as nowe do more for you
Than longeth to womanhede,
To shorte my here, a bow to bere,
To shote in tyme of nede.
O my sweet mother, before all other,
For you have I most drede!
But now, adue! I must ensue
Where Fortune doth me lede.
All this make ye; and let us fle;
The day cometh fast upon;
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'

He.

'Nay, nay, nat so: ye shall nat go;
And I shall tell ye why; --
Your appetyght is to be lyght
Of love, I wele espie:
For lyke as ye have sayed to me,
In lyke wyse, hardely,
Ye wolde answere, whosoever it were,
In way of company.
It is sayd of olde, Sone hote, sone colde,
And so is a woman;
Wherefore I to the wode wyll goe,
Alone, a banyshed man.'

She.

'Yf ye take hede, it is no nede
Such wordes to say be me;
For oft ye prayed, and longe assayed,
Or I you loved, parde;
And though that I of auncestry
A barons daughter be,
Yet have you proved howe I you loved,
A squyer of lowe degre;
And ever shall, whatso befall,
To dy therfore anone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde
I love but you alone.'

He.

'A baron's chylde to be begyled,
It were a cursed dede!
To be felawe with an outlawe,
Almighty God forbede!
Yet beter were the pore squyere
Alone to forest yede,
Than ye sholde saye another day,
That by my cursed dede
Ye were betrayed; wherefore, good mayd,
The best rede that I can
Is that I to the grene wode go,
Alone, a banyshed man.'

She.

'Whatever befall, I never shall
Of this thyng you upbrayd;
But yf ye go, and leve me so,
Then have ye me betrayd.
Remember ye wele, howe that ye dele,
For yf ye, as ye sayd,
Be so unkynde to leve behynde
Your love, the Not-Browne Mayd,
Trust me truly, that I shall dy,
Some after ye be gone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde
I love but you alone.'

He.

'Yf that ye went, ye sholde repent,
For in the forest nowe
I have purvayed me of a mayd,
Whom I love more than you:
Another fayrere than e'er ye were,
I dare it wele avowe;
And of you bothe eche sholde be worthe
With other, as I trowe.
It were myne ese to lyve in pese;
So wyll I, yf I can;
Wherefore I to the wode wyll go
Alone, a banyshed man.'

She.

'Though in the wode I undyrstode
Ye had a paramour,
All this may nought remove my thought,
But that I wyll be your;
And she shall fynde me soft and kynde,
And courteys every hour,
Glad to fulfyll all that she wylle
Commaunde me, to my power;
For had ye, lo, an hundred mo,
'Of them I wolde be one.'
For in my mynde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.'

He.

'Myne own dere love, I see the prove
That ye be kynde and true;
Of mayde and wyfe, in all my lyfe
The best that ever I knewe.
Be mery and glad, be no more sad,
The case is chaunged newe;
For it were ruthe, that for your truthe
Ye sholde have cause to rewe.
Be nat dismayed: whatsoever I sayd
To you, whan I began,
I wyll nat to the grene wode goe;
I am no banishyd man.'

She.

'These tydings be more gladd to me
Than to be made a quene,
Yf I were sure they sholde endure;
But is often sene,
Whan men wyll breke promyse, they speke
The wordes on the splene.
Ye shape some wyle me to begyle,
And stele from me, I wene;
Than were the case worse than it was,
And I more wo-begone;
For in my mynde, of al mankynde
I love but you alone.'

He.

'Ye shal nat nede further to drede:
I wyll nat dysparage
You, (God defend!) syth ye descend
Of so grete a lynage.
Now undyrstande, to Westmarlande,
Which is myne herytage,
I wyll you brynge, and with a rynge,
By way of maryage,
I wyll you take, and lady make,
As shortely as I can:
Thus have you won an erlys son,
And not a banyshed man.'

Author.

Here may ye se, that women be
In love meke, kynde, and stable:
Late never man reprove them than,
Or call them variable;
But rather pray God that we may
To them be comfortable,
Which sometyme proveth such as he loveth,
Yf they be charytable.
For syth men wolde that women sholde
Be meke to them each one,
Moche more ought they to God obey,
And serve but hym alone.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Robyn, Jolly Robyn

A Robyn,
Jolly Robyn,
Tell me how thy leman doeth,
And thou shalt knowe of myn.

'My lady is unkynde, perde.'
Alack! why is she so?
'She loveth an other better than me;
And yet she will say no.'

I fynde no such doublenes;
I fynde women true;
My lady loveth me dowtles,
And will change for no newe.

'Thou art happy while that deeth last:
But I say, as I fynde,
That women's love is but a blast,
And torneth with the wynde.'

Suche folkes can take no harme by love,
That can abide their torn.
'But I alas can no way prove
In love, but lake and morne.'

But if thou wilt avoyde thy harme,
Lerne this lessen of me:
At others fieres thy selfe to warme,
And let them warme with the.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Whoso That Wyll All Feattes Optayne

Whoso that wyll all feattes optayne,
In love he must be withowt dysdayne,

For love enforyth all nobyle kynd
And dysdayne dyscorages all gentyl mynd.

Wherefor to love and be not loved
Is wors then deth? Let it be proved!

Love encoragith and makyth on bold;
Dysdayne abattyth and makith hym colde.

Love ys gevyn to God and man;
To woman also, I thynk, the same.

But dysdayne ys vice and shuld be refused;
Yet never the lesse it ys to moch used.

Whoso that wyll all feattes optayne,
In love he must be withowt dysdayne,

Grett pyte it ware, love for to compell
With dysdayne both falce and subtell.

poem by Henry VIII King of England
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Ælla, A Tragical Interlude - Act IV

SCENE I.
AT BRYSTOWE.
ÆLLA AND SERVITOURES.
AELLA.
TYS nowe fulle morne; I thoughten, bie laste nyghte
To have been heere; mie stede han notte mie love;
Thys ys mie pallace; lette mie hyndes alyghte,
Whylste I goe oppe, & wake mie slepeynge dove.
Staie here, mie hyndlettes; I shal goe above.
Nowe, Birtha, wyll thie loke enhele mie spryte,
Thie smyles unto mie woundes a baulme wylle prove;
Mie ledanne boddie wylle bee sette aryghte.
Egwina, haste, & ope the portalle door;
Yatte I on Birtha's breste maie thynke of ware nemore.

EGWINA.
Oh Ælla!
ÆLLA.
Ah! that semmlykeene to mee
Speeketh a legendary tale of woe.
EGWINA.
Birtha is --
ÆLLA.
Whatt? where? how? saie, whatte of shee?
EGWINA
Gone --
ÆLLA.
Gone! ye goddes!
EGWINA.
Alas! ytte ys toe true.
Yee seynctes, hee dies awaie wythe myckle woe!
Ælla! what? Ælla! oh! hee lyves agen.
ÆLLA.
Cal mee notte Ælla; I am hymme ne moe.
Where ys shee gon awaie? ah! speake! how? when?
EGWINA.
I will.
ÆLLA.
Caparyson a score of stedes; flie, flie.
Where ys shee? swythynne speeke, or instante thou shalte die.
EGWINA.
Stylle thie loud rage, & here thou whatte I knowe.
ÆLLA.
Oh! speek.
EGWINA.
Lyche prymrose, droopynge wythe the heavie rayne,
Laste nyghte I lefte her, droopynge wythe her wiere,
Her love the gare, thatte gave her harte syke peyne --
ÆLLA.
Her love! to whomme?
EGWINA.
To thee, her spouse alleyne .
As ys mie hentylle everyche morne to goe,
I wente, and oped her chamber doore ynn twayne,
Botte found her notte, as I was wont to doe;
Thanne alle arounde the pallace I dyd seere
Botte culde (to mie hartes woe) ne fynde her aniewheere.
ÆLLA.
Thou lyest, foul hagge! thou lyest; thou art her ayde
To chere her louste; -- botte noe; ytte cannotte bee.
EGWINA.
Gyff trouthe appear notte inne whatte I have sayde,
Drawe forthe thie anlace swythyn, thanne mee slea.
ÆLLA.
Botte yette ytte muste, ytte muste bee soe; I see,
Shee wythe somme loustie paramoure ys gone;
Itte moste bee soe -- oh! how ytte wracketh mee!
Mie race of love, mie race of lyfe ys ronne;
Nowe rage, & brondeous storm, & tempeste comme;
Nete lyvynge upon erthe can now enswote mie domme.

SERVYTOURE.
Loverde! I am aboute the trouthe to saie.
Laste nyghte, fulle late I dydde retourne to reste.
As to mie chamber I dydde betide mie waie,
To Birtha onne hys name and place addreste;
Downe to hym camme shee; butte thereof the reste
I ken ne matter; so, mie hommage made--
ÆLLA.
O! speake ne moe; mie harte flames yn yttes heste;
I once was Ælla; nowe bee notte yttes shade.
Hanne alle the fuirie of mysfortunes wylle
Fallen mine mie benned headde I hanne been Ælla stylle.
Thys alleyn was unburled of alle mie spryte;
Mie honnoure, honnoure, frownd on the dolce wynde,
Thatte steeked on ytte; nowe wyth rage Im pyghte;
A brondeous unweere ys mie engyned mynde.
Mie hommeur yette somme drybblet joie maie fynde,
To the Danes woundes I wylle another yeve;
Whanne thos mie rennome and mie peace ys rynde,
Itte were a recrandize to thyncke toe live;
Mie huscarles, untoe everie asker telle,
Gyffe noblie Ælla lyved, as noblie Ælla felle.

SERVYTOURE.
Ælla ys sleene; the flower of Englond's marrde!
ÆLLA.
Be stylle; stythe lette the chyrches rynge mie knelle.
Call hyther brave Coernyke; he, as warde
Of thys mie Brystowe castle, wyll doe welle.

ÆLLA.
Thee I ordeyne the warde; so alle maie telle.
I have botte lyttel tym to dragge thys lyfe;
Mie lethal tale, alyche a lethalle belle,
Dynne yn the eares of her I wyschd mie wyfe!
Botte ah! shee maie be fayre.
EGWINA.
Yatte shee moste bee.
ÆLLA.
Ah! saie notte soe; yatte worde woulde Ælla dobblie slee.

ÆLLA.
Ah! Birtha here!
BIRTHA.
Whatte dynne ys thys? Whatte merits yis leathalle knelle?
Where ys mie Ælla? speeke; where? howe ys hee?
Oh Ælla! art thou yanne alyve and well!
ÆLLA.
I lyve yndeed; botte doe notte lyve for thee.
BIRTHA.
Whatte menes mie Ælla?
ÆLLA.
Here mie meneynge see.
Thie foulness urged mie honde to gyve thys wounde,
Ytte mee unsprytes.
BIRTHA.
Ytte hathe unspryted mee.
ÆLLA.
Ah heavens! mie Birtha fallethe to the grounde!
Botte yette I am a manne, and so wylle bee.
HURRA.
Ælla! I amme a Dane; botte yette a friende to thee.
Thys damoyselle I founde wythynne a woode,
Strevynge fulle harde anenste a burled swayne;
I sente hym myrynge ynne mie compheeres blodde,
Celmonde hys name, chief of thie warrynge trayne.
Yis damoiselle soughte to be here agayne;
The whyche, albeytte foemen, wee dydd wylle;
So here wee broughte her wythe you to remayne.
COERNYKE.
Yee nobyile Danes! wythe goulde I wyll you fylle.
ÆLLA.
Birtha, mie lyfe! mie love! oh! she ys fayre.
Whatte faultes could Birtha have, whatte faultes could Ælla feare?
BIRTHA.
Amm I yenne thyne? I cannotte blame thie feere.
Botte doe reste mee uponne mie Ælla's breaste;
I wylle to thee bewryen the woefulle gare.
Celmonde dyd comme to mee at tyme of reste,
Wordeynge for mee to flie, att your requeste,
To Watchette towne, where you deceasynge laie;
I wyth hym fledde; thro' a murke wode we preste,
Where hee foule love unto mie eares dyd saie;
The Danes --
ÆLLA.
Oh! I die content. --

BIRTHA.
Oh! ys mie Ælla dedde?
O! I will make hys grave mie vyrgyn spousal bedde.

COERNYKE.
Whatt? Ælla deadde! and Birtha dyynge toe!
Soe falles the fayrest flourettes of the playne.
Who canne unplyte the wurchys heaven can doe?
Or who untweste the role of shappe yn twayne?
Ælla, the rennome was thie onlie gayne;
For yatte, thie pleasaunce, & thie joie was loste.
Thie countrymen shall rere thee, on the playne,
A pyle of carnes, as anie grave can boaste;
Further, a just amede to thee to bee,
Inne heaven thou synge of Godde, on erthe we'lle synge of thee.
The Ende.

poem by Thomas Chatterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Blow, blow, thou winter wind thou art not so unkind, as man's ingratitude.

quote by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Wherto Shuld I Expresse

Wherto shuld I expresse
My inward hevynes?
No myrth can make me fayn
Tyl that we mete agayne.

Do way, dere hart, not so.
Let no thought yow dysmaye!
Thow ye now parte me fro,
We shall mete when we may.

When I remembyr me
Of your most gentyll mynde,
It may in no wyse agre
That I shuld be unkynde.

The daise delectable,
The violett wan and blo;
Ye ar not varyable;
I love you and no mo.

I make you fast and sure;
It ys to me gret payne
Thus longe to endure,
Tyll that we mete agayne.

poem by Henry VIII King of England
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I gave my soul to you

I gave my soul to you
And a man from a boy thou made
A cold heart into a warm heart
And thou gave it back, and with it thou stayed
Real artists create real life
Thou painted my soul's flesh with such a delicate stroke
And sowed the beauty thy hand doth pick
And love in us both thou awoke
A million miles away, thou art still in me
Thy echoes I hear, thy silhouette I see
In every wind blow in front of every sunset
Loving thee I'll never regret
My sweet love, my lady coquette

poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Poem 20

BVt let stil Silence trew night watches keepe,
That sacred peace may in assurance rayne,
And tymely sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe,
May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne,
The whiles an hundred little winged loues,
Like diuers fethered doues,
Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,
And in the secret darke, that none reproues,
Their prety stealthes shal worke, & snares shal spread
To filch away sweet snatches of delight,
Conceald through couert night.
Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will,
For greedy pleasure, carelesse of your toyes,
Thinks more vpon her paradise of ioyes,
Then what ye do, albe it good or ill.
All night therefore attend your merry play,
For it will soone be day:
Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing,
Ne will the woods now answer, nor your Eccho ring.

poem by Edmund Spenser
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Yellow Butterfly.

Gently flapping it's thin wings,
A butterfly lands upon my fingers,
And upon a soft breeze it leaves,
Yet it's delicate presence lingers.

Sunny yellow rimmed it's wings.
With dark daffodil yellow rings,
Pure coal black traced it's veins,
It's image - in my mind - remains.

Such a soft and delicate brush,
Of a butterflies wings, so plush,
The softest touch of it's tiny legs,
Lifted my spirits - well, the dregs.

That butterfly, that passed me by,
The messenger between land and sky,
Has stayed lodged in my mind,
I'll never meet another of it's kind,

A single butterfly, while I was alone,
Came to me and my world was thrown,
But I'll never forget that yellow butterfly,
That left me when I let out a soft sigh,

A soft sigh that came from me,
Swept my butterfly, set it free,
This is my butterfly that I'll remember,
My butterfly from last September.

poem by Rayne Goddard
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Blow Me A Kiss

Take one in the leg [Think about your baby]
Take one in the side [Think about your girl]
Take one in the head [Think about your mother]
Take one in the heart [It's the end of the world]

So blow me a kiss cuz I'm black
Blow me a kiss cuz I'm gay
Blow me a kiss cuz I'm shakin'
Say goodnight then blow me away
Blow me away
Blow me away
Tell me what you're thinkin' tell me why
Blow me a kiss then blow me away

Take one in the face [Think about your life]
Take one in the eye [Think about your soul]
Take one in the mouth [Think about your savior]
Take one in the thigh [Are you ready to go]

So blow me a kiss cuz I'm lonely
Blow me a kiss cuz I'm afraid
Blow me a kiss cuz you don't know me
Say goodnight then blow me away
Blow me away
Blow me away
Tell me what you're thinkin' tell me why

I'm in my room I'm Dr. Doom
Cuz I'm not me I'm someone else
Why should you die don't ask me why
You know it you know it you know it
Blow me away

I turn the page I am the rage
I'm coming from a darker place
A much darker place
So blow me away
Blow me away

Yeah blow me away
Tell me what you're thinkin' tell me why
Blow me a kiss then blow me away
Yeah blow me away
C'mon and blow me away
Tell me what you're thinkin' tell me why
Blow me a kiss then blow me away

song performed by by Alice Cooper from Brutal Planet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jai Ho, Jai Ho, Jai Ho, Jai Ho - Be Victorious

Jai Ho, Jai Ho, Jai Ho, Jai Ho
Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Come on in and join us under this big
Well decorated and tastefully coloured shelter
Come on in and join us under the
Glittering blue sky and celebrate thy victory

Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Despite the fact that thou know
As each day passes thou art nearing thy death
Be thou victorious
Be thou victorious and dance on
The ever burning earthly turmoil
As the flames of black coal
Dance with the waving wind

Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Blow away thy sleep
From thy ever bright eyes
And in thy demonstration
Show to the world
That thou art victorious

Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Extend thy tender fingers to reach out
The shining stars on the sky
Brushing aside the dogma around them
Be thou victorious

Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Overcoming all the obstacles
Bottlenecks between thou and the victory
Let thou be crowned with victory always
Be thou victorious

Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Despite thy knowing thy weaknesses
But thou know how to harness thy strengths
And emerge victorious
In all challenging situations
Be thou victorious

Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Be thou victorious, be thou victorious
Come on in and join us under this big
Well decorated and tastefully coloured shelter
Come on in and join us under the
Glittering blue sky and celebrate thy victory
Jai Ho, Jai Ho, Jai Ho, Jai Ho

poem by Bashyam Narayanan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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