No More Learning

The soldyerres followed wythe a myghtie crie,
Cryes, yatte welle myghte the stouteste hartes affraie. 795
Swefte, as yer shyppes, the vanquyshed Dacyannes flie;
Swefte, as the rayne uponne an Aprylle daie,
Pressynge behynde, the Englysche soldyerres slaie.
Botte halfe the tythes of Danyshe menne remayne;
AElla commaundes 'heie shoulde the sleetre staie, 800
Botte bynde 'hem prysonners on the bloddie playne.
The fyghtynge beynge done, I came awaie,
In odher fieldes to fyghte a moe unequalle fraie.
Mie servant squyre!




CELMONDE, SERVITOURE.


CELMONDE.

Prepare a fleing horse,
Whose feete are wynges, whose pace ys lycke the wynde, 805
Whoe wylle outestreppe the morneynge lyghte yn course,
Leaveynge the gyttelles of the merke behynde.
Somme hyltren matters doe mie presence fynde.
Gyv oute to alle yatte I was sleene ynne fyghte.
Gyff ynne thys gare thou doest mie order mynde, 810
Whanne I returne, thou shalte be made a knyghte;
Flie, flie, be gon; an howerre ys a daie;
Quycke dyghte mie beste of stedes, & brynge hymm heere--awaie!

CELMONDE.

AElla ys woundedd sore, & ynne the toune
He waytethe, tylle hys woundes bee broghte to ethe. 815
And shalle I from hys browes plocke off the croune,
Makynge the vyctore yn hys vyctorie blethe?
O no!
fulle sooner schulde mie hartes blodde smethe,
Fulle soonere woulde I tortured bee toe deathe;
Botte--Birtha ys the pryze; ahe! ytte were ethe 820
To gayne so gayne a pryze wythe losse of breathe;
Botte thanne rennome aeterne[98]--ytte ys botte ayre;
Bredde ynne the phantasie, & alleyn lyvynge there.

Albeytte everyche thynge yn lyfe conspyre
To telle me of the faulte I nowe schulde doe, 825
Yette woulde I battentlie assuage mie fyre,
And the same menes, as I scall nowe, pursue.
The qualytyes I fro mie parentes drewe,
Were blodde, & morther, masterie, and warre;
Thie I wylle holde to now, & hede ne moe 830
A wounde yn rennome, yanne a boddie scarre.
Nowe, AElla, nowe Ime plantynge of a thorne,
Bie whyche thie peace, thie love, & glorie shalle be torne.




BRYSTOWE.


BIRTHA, EGWINA.

BIRTHA.

Gentle Egwina, do notte preche me joie;
I cannotte joie ynne anie thynge botte weere[99]. 835
Oh! yatte aughte schulde oure sellynesse destroie,
Floddynge the face wythe woe, & brynie teare!

EGWINA.

You muste, you muste endeavour for to cheere
Youre harte unto somme cherisaunced reste.
Youre loverde from the battelle wylle appere. 840
Ynne honnoure, & a greater love, be dreste;
Botte I wylle call the mynstrelles roundelaie;
Perchaunce the swotie sounde maie chafe your wiere[99] awaie.




BIRTHA, EGWINA, MYNSTRELLES.