The featherd songster chaunticleer
Han wounde hys bugle horne,
And tolde the earlie villager
The commynge of the morne:
Kynge EDWARDE sawe the ruddie streakes 5
Of lyghte eclypse the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.
Han wounde hys bugle horne,
And tolde the earlie villager
The commynge of the morne:
Kynge EDWARDE sawe the ruddie streakes 5
Of lyghte eclypse the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.
Thomas Chatterton - Rowley Poems
]
[Footnote 130: broken spears. ]
[Footnote 131: broke, destroyed. ]
[Footnote 132: only, alone. ]
[Footnote 133: smoaking, steaming. ]
[Footnote 134: dark, gloomy. ]
[Footnote 135: ease. ]
[Footnote 136: hid, secreted. ]
[Footnote 137: sweetly. ]
[Footnote 138: moulded. ]
[Footnote 139: shooting, darting. ]
[Footnote 140: grasp, hold. ]
[Footnote 141: night-shade. ]
[Footnote 142: ignorant, unknowing. ]
[Footnote 143: consider. ]
BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE:
OR THE DETHE OF
SYR CHARLES BAWDIN.
The featherd songster chaunticleer
Han wounde hys bugle horne,
And tolde the earlie villager
The commynge of the morne:
Kynge EDWARDE sawe the ruddie streakes 5
Of lyghte eclypse the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.
"Thou'rt ryght," quod hee, "for, by the Godde
That syttes enthron'd on hyghe! 10
CHARLES BAWDIN, and hys fellowes twaine,
To-daie shall surelie die. "
Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale
Hys Knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite;
"Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie 15
Hee leaves thys mortall state. "
Syr CANTERLOUE thenne bendedd lowe,
Wythe harte brymm-fulle of woe;
Hee journey'd to the castle-gate,
And to Syr CHARLES dydd goe. 20
Butt whenne hee came, hys children twaine,
And eke hys lovynge wyfe,
Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,
For goode Syr CHARLESES lyfe.
"O goode Syr CHARLES! " sayd CANTERLOUE, 25
"Badde tydyngs I doe brynge. "
"Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr CHARLES,
"Whatte says thie traytor kynge? "
"I greeve to telle, before yonne sonne
Does fromme the welkinn flye, 30
Hee hath uponne hys honour sworne,
Thatt thou shalt surelie die. "
"Wee all must die," quod brave Syr CHARLES;
"Of thatte I'm not affearde;
Whatte bootes to lyve a little space? 35
Thanke JESU, I'm prepar'd. "
"Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not,
I'de sooner die to-daie
Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,
Tho' I shoulde lyve for aie. " 40
Thenne CANTERLOUE hee dydd goe out,
To telle the maior straite
To gett all thynges ynne reddyness
For goode Syr CHARLESES fate.
Thenne Maisterr CANYNGE saughte the kynge, 45
And felle down onne hys knee;
"I'm come," quod hee, "unto your grace
To move your clemencye. "
Thenne quod the kynge, "Youre tale speke out,
You have been much oure friende; 50
Whatever youre request may bee,
Wee wylle to ytte attende.
[Footnote 130: broken spears. ]
[Footnote 131: broke, destroyed. ]
[Footnote 132: only, alone. ]
[Footnote 133: smoaking, steaming. ]
[Footnote 134: dark, gloomy. ]
[Footnote 135: ease. ]
[Footnote 136: hid, secreted. ]
[Footnote 137: sweetly. ]
[Footnote 138: moulded. ]
[Footnote 139: shooting, darting. ]
[Footnote 140: grasp, hold. ]
[Footnote 141: night-shade. ]
[Footnote 142: ignorant, unknowing. ]
[Footnote 143: consider. ]
BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE:
OR THE DETHE OF
SYR CHARLES BAWDIN.
The featherd songster chaunticleer
Han wounde hys bugle horne,
And tolde the earlie villager
The commynge of the morne:
Kynge EDWARDE sawe the ruddie streakes 5
Of lyghte eclypse the greie;
And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.
"Thou'rt ryght," quod hee, "for, by the Godde
That syttes enthron'd on hyghe! 10
CHARLES BAWDIN, and hys fellowes twaine,
To-daie shall surelie die. "
Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale
Hys Knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite;
"Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie 15
Hee leaves thys mortall state. "
Syr CANTERLOUE thenne bendedd lowe,
Wythe harte brymm-fulle of woe;
Hee journey'd to the castle-gate,
And to Syr CHARLES dydd goe. 20
Butt whenne hee came, hys children twaine,
And eke hys lovynge wyfe,
Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore,
For goode Syr CHARLESES lyfe.
"O goode Syr CHARLES! " sayd CANTERLOUE, 25
"Badde tydyngs I doe brynge. "
"Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr CHARLES,
"Whatte says thie traytor kynge? "
"I greeve to telle, before yonne sonne
Does fromme the welkinn flye, 30
Hee hath uponne hys honour sworne,
Thatt thou shalt surelie die. "
"Wee all must die," quod brave Syr CHARLES;
"Of thatte I'm not affearde;
Whatte bootes to lyve a little space? 35
Thanke JESU, I'm prepar'd. "
"Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not,
I'de sooner die to-daie
Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,
Tho' I shoulde lyve for aie. " 40
Thenne CANTERLOUE hee dydd goe out,
To telle the maior straite
To gett all thynges ynne reddyness
For goode Syr CHARLESES fate.
Thenne Maisterr CANYNGE saughte the kynge, 45
And felle down onne hys knee;
"I'm come," quod hee, "unto your grace
To move your clemencye. "
Thenne quod the kynge, "Youre tale speke out,
You have been much oure friende; 50
Whatever youre request may bee,
Wee wylle to ytte attende.
