No More Learning

Maiest thou fele al the peynes of age whylst yynge, 515
Unmanned, uneyned, exclooded aie the lyghte,
Thie senses, lyche thieselfe, enwrapped yn nyghte,
A scoff to foemen & to beastes a pheere;
Maie furched levynne onne thie head alyghte,
Maie on thee falle the fhuyr of the unweere; 520
Fen vaipoures blaste thie everiche manlie powere,
Maie thie bante boddie quycke the wolfome peenes devoure.

Faygne woulde I curse thee further, botte mie tyngue
Denies mie harte the favoure soe toe doe.

HURRA.

Nowe bie the Dacyanne goddes, & Welkyns kynge, 525
Wythe fhurie, as thou dydste begynne, persue;
Calle on mie heade all tortures that bee rou,
Bane onne, tylle thie owne tongue thie curses fele.
Sende onne mie heade the blyghteynge levynne blewe,
The thonder loude, the swellynge azure rele[80]. 530
Thie wordes be hie of dynne, botte nete besyde;
Bane on, good chieftayn, fyghte wythe wordes of myckle pryde.

Botte doe notte waste thie breath, lest AElla come.

MAGNUS.

AElla & thee togyder synke toe helle!
Bee youre names blasted from the rolle of dome! 535
I feere noe AElla, thatte thou kennest welle.
Unlydgefulle traytoure, wylt thou nowe rebelle?
'Tys knowen, thatte yie menn bee lyncked to myne,
Bothe sente, as troopes of wolves, to sletre felle;
Botte nowe thou lackest hem to be all yyne. 540
Nowe, bie the goddes yatte reule the Dacyanne state,
Speacke thou yn rage once moe, I wyll thee dysregate.

HURRA.
I pryze thie threattes joste as I doe thie banes,
The sede of malyce and recendize al.
Thou arte a steyne unto the name of Danes; 545
Thou alleyne to thie tyngue for proofe canst calle.
Thou beest a worme so groffile and so smal,
I wythe thie bloude woulde scorne to foul mie sworde,
Botte wythe thie weaponnes woulde upon thee falle,
Alyche thie owne feare, slea thee wythe a worde. 550
I Hurra amme miesel, & aie wylle bee,
As greate yn valourous actes, & yn commande as thee.




MAGNUS, HURRA, ARMYE & MESSENGER.


MESSENGERE.

Blynne your contekions[81], chiefs; for, as I stode
Uponne mie watche, I spiede an armie commynge,
Notte lyche ann handfulle of a fremded[82] foe, 555
Botte blacke wythe armoure, movynge ugsomlie,
Lyche a blacke fulle cloude, thatte dothe goe alonge
To droppe yn hayle, & hele the thonder storme.

MAGNUS.

Ar there meynte of them?

MESSENGERR.

Thycke as the ante-flyes ynne a sommer's none, 560
Seemynge as tho' theie stynge as persante too.

HURRA.

Whatte matters thatte? lettes sette oure warr-arraie.
Goe, sounde the beme, lette champyons prepare;
Ne doubtynge, we wylle stynghe as faste as heie.
Whatte?