Holpe, holpe, yee
seynctes!
Thomas Chatterton - Rowley Poems
didst thou see mie breastis troblous state, 1040
Theere love doth harrie up mie joie, and ethe!
I wretched bee, beyonde the hele of fate,
Gyss Birtha stylle wylle make mie harte-veynes blethe.
Softe as the sommer flowreets, Birtha, looke,
Fulle ylle I canne thie frownes & harde dyspleasaunce brooke. 1045
BIRTHA.
Thie love ys foule; I woulde bee deafe for aie,
Radher thanne heere syche deslavatie[113] sedde.
Swythynne flie from mee, and ne further saie;
Radher thanne heare thie love, I woulde bee dead.
Yee seynctes! & shal I wronge mie AElla's bedde, 1050
And wouldst thou, Celmonde, tempte me to the thynge?
Lett mee be gone--alle curses onne thie hedde!
Was ytte for thys thou dydste a message brynge!
Lette mee be gone, thou manne of sable harte!
Or welkyn[114] & her starres wyll take a maydens parte. 1055
CELMONDE.
Sythence you wylle notte lette mie suyte avele,
Mie love wylle have yttes joie, altho wythe guylte;
Youre lymbes shall bende, albeytte strynge as stele;
The merkye seesonne wylle your bloshes hylte[115].
BIRTHA.
Holpe, holpe, yee seynctes! oh thatte mie blodde was spylte! 1060
CELMONDE.
The seynctes att distaunce stonde ynn tyme of nede.
Strev notte to goe; thou canste notte, gyff thou wylte.
Unto mie wysche bee kinde, & nete alse hede.
BIRTHA.
No, foule bestoykerre, I wylle rende the ayre,
Tylle dethe do staie mie dynne, or somme kynde roder heare. 1065
Holpe! holpe! oh godde!
CELMONDE, BIRTHA, HURRA, DANES.
HURRA.
Ah! thatts a wommanne cries.
I kenn hem; saie, who are you, yatte bee theere?
Theere love doth harrie up mie joie, and ethe!
I wretched bee, beyonde the hele of fate,
Gyss Birtha stylle wylle make mie harte-veynes blethe.
Softe as the sommer flowreets, Birtha, looke,
Fulle ylle I canne thie frownes & harde dyspleasaunce brooke. 1045
BIRTHA.
Thie love ys foule; I woulde bee deafe for aie,
Radher thanne heere syche deslavatie[113] sedde.
Swythynne flie from mee, and ne further saie;
Radher thanne heare thie love, I woulde bee dead.
Yee seynctes! & shal I wronge mie AElla's bedde, 1050
And wouldst thou, Celmonde, tempte me to the thynge?
Lett mee be gone--alle curses onne thie hedde!
Was ytte for thys thou dydste a message brynge!
Lette mee be gone, thou manne of sable harte!
Or welkyn[114] & her starres wyll take a maydens parte. 1055
CELMONDE.
Sythence you wylle notte lette mie suyte avele,
Mie love wylle have yttes joie, altho wythe guylte;
Youre lymbes shall bende, albeytte strynge as stele;
The merkye seesonne wylle your bloshes hylte[115].
BIRTHA.
Holpe, holpe, yee seynctes! oh thatte mie blodde was spylte! 1060
CELMONDE.
The seynctes att distaunce stonde ynn tyme of nede.
Strev notte to goe; thou canste notte, gyff thou wylte.
Unto mie wysche bee kinde, & nete alse hede.
BIRTHA.
No, foule bestoykerre, I wylle rende the ayre,
Tylle dethe do staie mie dynne, or somme kynde roder heare. 1065
Holpe! holpe! oh godde!
CELMONDE, BIRTHA, HURRA, DANES.
HURRA.
Ah! thatts a wommanne cries.
I kenn hem; saie, who are you, yatte bee theere?
