Stylle
mormorynge
atte yer shap[40], stylle toe the kynge
Theie rolle theire trobbles, lyche a sorgie sea.
Theie rolle theire trobbles, lyche a sorgie sea.
Thomas Chatterton - Rowley Poems
I weepe to thyncke,
What foemen[19] riseth to ifrete[20] the londe.
Theie batten[21] onne her fleshe, her hartes bloude dryncke,
And all ys graunted from the roieal honde.
HAROLDE.
Lette notte thie agreme[22] blyn[23], ne aledge[24] stonde; 5
Bee I toe wepe, I wepe in teres of gore:
Am I betrassed[25], syke[26] shulde mie burlie[27] bronde
Depeyncte[28] the wronges on hym from whom I bore.
GODDWYN.
I ken thie spryte[29] ful welle; gentle thou art,
Stringe[30], ugsomme[31], rou[32], as smethynge[33] armyes seeme; 10
Yett efte[34], I feare, thie chefes[35] toe grete a parte,
And that thie rede[36] bee efte borne downe bie breme[37].
What tydynges from the kynge?
HAROLDE.
His Normans know.
I make noe compheeres of the shemrynge[38] trayne.
GODDWYN.
Ah Harolde! tis a syghte of myckle woe, 15
To kenne these Normannes everich rennome gayne.
What tydynge withe the foulke[39]?
HAROLDE.
Stylle mormorynge atte yer shap[40], stylle toe the kynge
Theie rolle theire trobbles, lyche a sorgie sea.
Hane Englonde thenne a tongue, butte notte a stynge? 20
Dothe alle compleyne, yette none wylle ryghted bee?
GODDWYN.
Awayte the tyme, whanne Godde wylle sende us ayde.
HAROLDE.
No, we muste streve to ayde oureselves wyth powre.
Whan Godde wylle sende us ayde! tis fetelie[41] prayde.
Moste we those calke[42] awaie the lyve-longe howre? 25
Thos croche[43] oure armes, and ne toe lyve dareygne[44].
Unburled[45] undelievre[46], unespryte[47]?
Far fro mie harte be fled thyk[48] thoughte of peyne,
Ile free mie countrie, or Ille die yn fyghte.
GODDWYN.
Botte lette us wayte untylle somme season fytte. 30
Mie Kentyshmen, thie Summertons shall ryse;
Adented[49] prowess[50] to the gite[51] of witte,
Agayne the argent[52] horse shall daunce yn skies.
What foemen[19] riseth to ifrete[20] the londe.
Theie batten[21] onne her fleshe, her hartes bloude dryncke,
And all ys graunted from the roieal honde.
HAROLDE.
Lette notte thie agreme[22] blyn[23], ne aledge[24] stonde; 5
Bee I toe wepe, I wepe in teres of gore:
Am I betrassed[25], syke[26] shulde mie burlie[27] bronde
Depeyncte[28] the wronges on hym from whom I bore.
GODDWYN.
I ken thie spryte[29] ful welle; gentle thou art,
Stringe[30], ugsomme[31], rou[32], as smethynge[33] armyes seeme; 10
Yett efte[34], I feare, thie chefes[35] toe grete a parte,
And that thie rede[36] bee efte borne downe bie breme[37].
What tydynges from the kynge?
HAROLDE.
His Normans know.
I make noe compheeres of the shemrynge[38] trayne.
GODDWYN.
Ah Harolde! tis a syghte of myckle woe, 15
To kenne these Normannes everich rennome gayne.
What tydynge withe the foulke[39]?
HAROLDE.
Stylle mormorynge atte yer shap[40], stylle toe the kynge
Theie rolle theire trobbles, lyche a sorgie sea.
Hane Englonde thenne a tongue, butte notte a stynge? 20
Dothe alle compleyne, yette none wylle ryghted bee?
GODDWYN.
Awayte the tyme, whanne Godde wylle sende us ayde.
HAROLDE.
No, we muste streve to ayde oureselves wyth powre.
Whan Godde wylle sende us ayde! tis fetelie[41] prayde.
Moste we those calke[42] awaie the lyve-longe howre? 25
Thos croche[43] oure armes, and ne toe lyve dareygne[44].
Unburled[45] undelievre[46], unespryte[47]?
Far fro mie harte be fled thyk[48] thoughte of peyne,
Ile free mie countrie, or Ille die yn fyghte.
GODDWYN.
Botte lette us wayte untylle somme season fytte. 30
Mie Kentyshmen, thie Summertons shall ryse;
Adented[49] prowess[50] to the gite[51] of witte,
Agayne the argent[52] horse shall daunce yn skies.
