Oure goddes of
Denmarke
know mie harte ys goode.
Thomas Chatterton - Rowley Poems
Blynne your contekions[81], chiefs; for, as I stode
Uponne mie watche, I spiede an armie commynge,
Notte lyche ann handfulle of a fremded[82] foe, 555
Botte blacke wythe armoure, movynge ugsomlie,
Lyche a blacke fulle cloude, thatte dothe goe alonge
To droppe yn hayle, & hele the thonder storme.
MAGNUS.
Ar there meynte of them?
MESSENGERR.
Thycke as the ante-flyes ynne a sommer's none, 560
Seemynge as tho' theie stynge as persante too.
HURRA.
Whatte matters thatte? lettes sette oure warr-arraie.
Goe, sounde the beme, lette champyons prepare;
Ne doubtynge, we wylle stynghe as faste as heie.
Whatte? doest forgard[83] thie blodde? ys ytte for feare? 565
Wouldest thou gayne the towne, & castle-stere,
And yette ne byker wythe the soldyer guarde?
Go, hyde thee ynn mie tente annethe the lere;
I of thie boddie wylle keepe watche & warde.
MAGNUS.
Oure goddes of Denmarke know mie harte ys goode. 570
HURRA.
For nete uppon the erthe, botte to be choughens foode.
MAGNUS, HURRA, ARMIE, SECONDE MESSENGERRE.
SECONDE MESSENGERRE.
As from mie towre I kende the commynge foe,
I spied the crossed shielde, & bloddie swerde,
The furyous AElla's banner; wythynne kenne
The armie ys. Dysorder throughe oure hoaste 575
Is fleynge, borne onne wynges of AElla's name;
Styr, styr, mie lordes!
MAGNUS.
What? AElla? & soe neare?
Thenne Denmarques roiend; oh mie rysynge feare!
HURRA.
What doeste thou mene? thys AElla's botte a manne.
Nowe bie mie sworde, thou arte a verie berne[84].
