Mie lyttel kyndnesses whyche I dydd doe, 55
Thie gentleness doth corven them soe grete,
Lyche bawsyn[24] olyphauntes[25] mie gnattes doe shewe;
Thou doest mie thoughtes of paying love amate[26].
Thie gentleness doth corven them soe grete,
Lyche bawsyn[24] olyphauntes[25] mie gnattes doe shewe;
Thou doest mie thoughtes of paying love amate[26].
Thomas Chatterton - Rowley Poems
--
Botte thenn thie soughle woulde throwe thy vysage sheene,
Yatt shemres onn thie comelie semlykeene[4],
Lyche nottebrowne cloudes, whann bie the sonne made redde, 10
Orr scarlette, wythe waylde lynnen clothe ywreene[5],
Syke[6] woulde thie spryte upponn thie vysage spredde.
Thys daie brave AElla dothe thyne honde & harte
Clayme as hys owne to be, whyche nee fromm hys moste parte.
And cann I lyve to see herr wythe anere[7]! 15
Ytt cannotte, muste notte, naie, ytt shalle not bee.
Thys nyghte I'll putte stronge poysonn ynn the beere,
And hymm, herr, and myselfe, attenes[8] wyll slea.
Assyst mee, Helle! lett Devylles rounde mee tende,
To slea mieselfe, mie love, & eke mie doughtie[9] friende. 20
AELLA, BIRTHA.
AELLA.
Notte, whanne the hallie prieste dyd make me knyghte,
Blessynge the weaponne, tellynge future dede,
Howe bie mie honde the prevyd[10] Dane shoulde blede,
Howe I schulde often bee, and often wynne, ynn fyghte;
Notte, whann I fyrste behelde thie beauteous hue, 25
Whyche strooke mie mynde, & rouzed mie softer soule;
Nott, whann from the barbed horse yn fyghte dyd viewe
The flying Dacians oere the wyde playne roule,
Whan all the troopes of Denmarque made grete dole,
Dydd I fele joie wyth syke reddoure[11] as nowe, 30
Whann hallie preest, the lechemanne of the soule,
Dydd knytte us both ynn a caytysnede[12] vowe:
Now hallie AElla's selynesse ys grate;
Shap[13] haveth nowe ymade hys woes for to emmate[14].
BIRTHA.
Mie lorde, & husbande, syke a joie ys myne; 35
Botte mayden modestie moste ne soe saie,
Albeytte thou mayest rede ytt ynn myne eyne,
Or ynn myne harte, where thou shalte be for aie;
Inne sothe, I have botte meeded oute thie faie[15];
For twelve tymes twelve the mone hathe bin yblente[16], 40
As manie tymes hathe vyed the Godde of daie,
And on the grasse her lemes[17] of sylverr sente,
Sythe thou dydst cheese mee for thie swote to bee,
Enactynge ynn the same moste faiefullie to mee.
Ofte have I seene thee atte the none-daie feaste, 45
Whanne deysde bie thieselfe, for wante of pheeres[18],
Awhylst thie merryemen dydde laughe and jeaste,
Onn mee thou semest all eyne, to mee all eares.
Thou wardest mee as gyff ynn hondred feeres,
Alest a daygnous[19] looke to thee be sente, 50
And offrendes[20] made mee, moe thann yie compheeres,
Offe scarpes[21] of scarlette, & fyne paramente[22];
All thie yntente to please was lyssed[23] to mee,
I saie ytt, I moste streve thatt you ameded bee.
AELLA.
Mie lyttel kyndnesses whyche I dydd doe, 55
Thie gentleness doth corven them soe grete,
Lyche bawsyn[24] olyphauntes[25] mie gnattes doe shewe;
Thou doest mie thoughtes of paying love amate[26].
Botte hann mie actyonns straughte[27] the rolle of fate,
Pyghte thee fromm Hell, or broughte Heaven down to thee, 60
Layde the whol worlde a falldstole atte thie feete,
On smyle woulde be suffycyll mede for mee.
I amm Loves borro'r, & canne never paie,
Bott be hys borrower stylle, & thyne, mie swete, for aie.
BIRTHA.
Love, doe notte rate your achevmentes[28] soe smalle; 65
As I to you, syke love untoe mee beare;
For nothynge paste wille Birtha ever call,
Ne on a foode from Heaven thynke to cheere.
As farr as thys frayle brutylle flesch wylle spere,
Syke, & ne fardher I expecte of you; 70
Be notte toe slacke yn love, ne overdeare;
A smalle fyre, yan a loude flame, proves more true.
AELLA.
Thie gentle wordis doe thie volunde[29] kenne
To bee moe clergionde thann ys ynn meyncte of menne.
AELLA, BIRTHA, CELMONDE, MYNSTRELLES.
CELMONDE.
Alle blessynges showre on gentle AElla's hedde! 75
Oft maie the moone, yn sylverr sheenynge lyghte,
Inne varied chaunges varyed blessynges shedde,
Besprengeynge far abrode mischaunces nyghte;
And thou, fayre Birtha! thou, fayre Dame, so bryghte,
Long mayest thou wyth AElla fynde muche peace, 80
Wythe selynesse, as wyth a roabe, be dyghte,
Wyth everych chaungynge mone new joies encrease!
I, as a token of mie love to speake,
Have brought you jubbes of ale, at nyghte youre brayne to breake.
AELLA.
Whan sopperes paste we'lle drenche youre ale soe stronge, 85
Tyde lyfe, tyde death.
Botte thenn thie soughle woulde throwe thy vysage sheene,
Yatt shemres onn thie comelie semlykeene[4],
Lyche nottebrowne cloudes, whann bie the sonne made redde, 10
Orr scarlette, wythe waylde lynnen clothe ywreene[5],
Syke[6] woulde thie spryte upponn thie vysage spredde.
Thys daie brave AElla dothe thyne honde & harte
Clayme as hys owne to be, whyche nee fromm hys moste parte.
And cann I lyve to see herr wythe anere[7]! 15
Ytt cannotte, muste notte, naie, ytt shalle not bee.
Thys nyghte I'll putte stronge poysonn ynn the beere,
And hymm, herr, and myselfe, attenes[8] wyll slea.
Assyst mee, Helle! lett Devylles rounde mee tende,
To slea mieselfe, mie love, & eke mie doughtie[9] friende. 20
AELLA, BIRTHA.
AELLA.
Notte, whanne the hallie prieste dyd make me knyghte,
Blessynge the weaponne, tellynge future dede,
Howe bie mie honde the prevyd[10] Dane shoulde blede,
Howe I schulde often bee, and often wynne, ynn fyghte;
Notte, whann I fyrste behelde thie beauteous hue, 25
Whyche strooke mie mynde, & rouzed mie softer soule;
Nott, whann from the barbed horse yn fyghte dyd viewe
The flying Dacians oere the wyde playne roule,
Whan all the troopes of Denmarque made grete dole,
Dydd I fele joie wyth syke reddoure[11] as nowe, 30
Whann hallie preest, the lechemanne of the soule,
Dydd knytte us both ynn a caytysnede[12] vowe:
Now hallie AElla's selynesse ys grate;
Shap[13] haveth nowe ymade hys woes for to emmate[14].
BIRTHA.
Mie lorde, & husbande, syke a joie ys myne; 35
Botte mayden modestie moste ne soe saie,
Albeytte thou mayest rede ytt ynn myne eyne,
Or ynn myne harte, where thou shalte be for aie;
Inne sothe, I have botte meeded oute thie faie[15];
For twelve tymes twelve the mone hathe bin yblente[16], 40
As manie tymes hathe vyed the Godde of daie,
And on the grasse her lemes[17] of sylverr sente,
Sythe thou dydst cheese mee for thie swote to bee,
Enactynge ynn the same moste faiefullie to mee.
Ofte have I seene thee atte the none-daie feaste, 45
Whanne deysde bie thieselfe, for wante of pheeres[18],
Awhylst thie merryemen dydde laughe and jeaste,
Onn mee thou semest all eyne, to mee all eares.
Thou wardest mee as gyff ynn hondred feeres,
Alest a daygnous[19] looke to thee be sente, 50
And offrendes[20] made mee, moe thann yie compheeres,
Offe scarpes[21] of scarlette, & fyne paramente[22];
All thie yntente to please was lyssed[23] to mee,
I saie ytt, I moste streve thatt you ameded bee.
AELLA.
Mie lyttel kyndnesses whyche I dydd doe, 55
Thie gentleness doth corven them soe grete,
Lyche bawsyn[24] olyphauntes[25] mie gnattes doe shewe;
Thou doest mie thoughtes of paying love amate[26].
Botte hann mie actyonns straughte[27] the rolle of fate,
Pyghte thee fromm Hell, or broughte Heaven down to thee, 60
Layde the whol worlde a falldstole atte thie feete,
On smyle woulde be suffycyll mede for mee.
I amm Loves borro'r, & canne never paie,
Bott be hys borrower stylle, & thyne, mie swete, for aie.
BIRTHA.
Love, doe notte rate your achevmentes[28] soe smalle; 65
As I to you, syke love untoe mee beare;
For nothynge paste wille Birtha ever call,
Ne on a foode from Heaven thynke to cheere.
As farr as thys frayle brutylle flesch wylle spere,
Syke, & ne fardher I expecte of you; 70
Be notte toe slacke yn love, ne overdeare;
A smalle fyre, yan a loude flame, proves more true.
AELLA.
Thie gentle wordis doe thie volunde[29] kenne
To bee moe clergionde thann ys ynn meyncte of menne.
AELLA, BIRTHA, CELMONDE, MYNSTRELLES.
CELMONDE.
Alle blessynges showre on gentle AElla's hedde! 75
Oft maie the moone, yn sylverr sheenynge lyghte,
Inne varied chaunges varyed blessynges shedde,
Besprengeynge far abrode mischaunces nyghte;
And thou, fayre Birtha! thou, fayre Dame, so bryghte,
Long mayest thou wyth AElla fynde muche peace, 80
Wythe selynesse, as wyth a roabe, be dyghte,
Wyth everych chaungynge mone new joies encrease!
I, as a token of mie love to speake,
Have brought you jubbes of ale, at nyghte youre brayne to breake.
AELLA.
Whan sopperes paste we'lle drenche youre ale soe stronge, 85
Tyde lyfe, tyde death.
