Ah
traytoure!
Thomas Chatterton - Rowley Poems
There is no mancas yn mie loverdes ente[163];
The hus dyspense[164] unpaied doe appere; 150
The laste receivure[165] ys eftesoones[166] dispente[167].
KYNGE.
Thenne guylde the Weste.
HUGHE.
Mie loverde, I dyd speke
Untoe the mitte[168] Erle Harolde of the thynge;
He raysed hys honde, and smoke me onne the cheke,
Saieynge, go beare thatte message to the kynge. 155
KYNGE.
Arace[169] hym of hys powere; bie Goddis worde,
Ne moe thatte Harolde shall ywield the erlies swerde.
HUGHE.
Atte seeson fytte, mie loverde, lette itt bee;
Botte nowe the folcke doe soe enalse[170] hys name,
Inne strevvynge to slea hymme, ourselves wee slea; 160
Syke ys the doughtyness[171] of hys grete fame.
KYNGE.
Hughe, I beethyncke, thie rede[172] ys notte to blame.
Botte thou maiest fynde fulle store of marckes yn Kente.
HUGHE.
Mie noble loverde, Godwynn ys the same
He sweeres he wylle notte swelle the Normans ent. 165
KYNGE.
Ah traytoure! botte mie rage I wylle commaunde.
Thou arte a Normanne, Hughe, a straunger to the launde.
Thou kenneste howe these Englysche erle doe bere
Such stedness[173] in the yll and evylle thynge,
Botte atte the goode theie hover yn denwere[174], 170
Onknowlachynge[175] gif thereunto to clynge.
HUGHE.
Onwordie syke a marvelle[176] of a kynge!
O Edwarde, thou deservest purer leege[177];
To thee heie[178] shulden al theire mancas brynge;
Thie nodde should save menne, and thie glomb[179] forslege[180]. 175
I amme no curriedowe[181], I lacke no wite [182],
I speke whatte bee the trouthe, and whatte all see is ryghte.
KYNGE.
Thou arte a hallie[183] manne, I doe thee pryze.
Comme, comme, and here and hele[184] mee ynn mie praires.
Fulle twentie mancas I wylle thee alise [185], 180
And twayne of hamlettes[186] to thee and thie heyres.
So shalle all Normannes from mie londe be fed,
Theie alleyn[187] have syke love as to acquyre yer bredde.
CHORUS.
Whan Freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned veste,
To everie knyghte her warre-songe sunge, 185
Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spredde;
A gorie anlace bye her honge.
She daunced onne the heathe;
She hearde the voice of deathe;
Pale-eyned affryghte, hys harte of sylver hue, 190
In vayne assayled[188] her bosomme to acale[189];
She hearde onflemed[190] the shriekynge voice of woe,
And sadnesse ynne the owlette shake the dale.
