I muste, I wylle; tys
honnoure
cals awaie.
Thomas Chatterton - Rowley Poems
forgeve, yff I have thee dystreste;
Love, doughtie love, wylle beare no odher swaie.
Juste as I was wythe AElla to be bleste,
Shappe foullie thos hathe snatched hym awaie. 365
It was a tene too doughtie to bee borne,
Wydhoute an ounde of teares and breaste wyth syghes ytorne.
AELLA.
Thie mynde ys now thieselfe; why wylte thou bee
All blanche, al kyngelie, all soe wyse yn mynde,
Alleyne to lett pore wretched AElla see, 370
Whatte wondrous bighes[63] he nowe muste leave behynde?
O Birtha fayre, warde everyche commynge wynde,
On everych wynde I wylle a token sende;
Onn mie longe shielde ycorne thie name thoul't fynde.
Butte here commes Celmonde, wordhie knyghte and friende. 375
AELLA, BIRTHA, CELMONDE
_speaking. _
Thie Brystowe knyghtes for thie forth-comynge lynge[64];
Echone athwarte hys backe hys longe warre-shield dothe slynge.
AELLA.
Birtha, adieu; but yette I cannotte goe.
BIRTHA.
Lyfe of mie spryte, mie gentle AElla staie. 380
Engyne mee notte wyth syke a drierie woe.
AELLA.
I muste, I wylle; tys honnoure cals awaie.
BIRTHA.
O mie agroted harte, braste, braste ynn twaie.
AElla, for honnoure, flyes awaie from mee.
AELLA.
Birtha, adieu; I maie notte here obaie. 385
I'm flyynge from mieselfe yn flying thee.
BIRTHA.
O AElla, housband, friend, and loverde, staie.
He's gon, he's gone, alass! percase he's gone for aie.
CELMONDE.
Hope, hallie suster, sweepeynge thro' the skie,
In crowne of goulde, and robe of lillie whyte, 390
Whyche farre abrode ynne gentle ayre doe flie,
Meetynge from dystaunce the enjoyous fyghte,
Albeytte efte thou takest thie hie flyghte
Hecket[65] ynne a myste, and wyth thyne eyne yblente,
Nowe commest thou to mee wythe starrie lyghte; 395
Ontoe thie veste the rodde sonne ys adente[66];
The Sommer tyde, the month of Maie appere,
Depycte wythe skylledd honde upponn thie wyde aumere.
I from a nete of hopelen am adawed,
Awhaped[67] atte the fetyveness of daie; 400
AElla, bie nete moe thann hys myndbruche awed,
Is gone, and I moste followe, toe the fraie.
Celmonde canne ne'er from anie byker staie.
Dothe warre begynne?
Love, doughtie love, wylle beare no odher swaie.
Juste as I was wythe AElla to be bleste,
Shappe foullie thos hathe snatched hym awaie. 365
It was a tene too doughtie to bee borne,
Wydhoute an ounde of teares and breaste wyth syghes ytorne.
AELLA.
Thie mynde ys now thieselfe; why wylte thou bee
All blanche, al kyngelie, all soe wyse yn mynde,
Alleyne to lett pore wretched AElla see, 370
Whatte wondrous bighes[63] he nowe muste leave behynde?
O Birtha fayre, warde everyche commynge wynde,
On everych wynde I wylle a token sende;
Onn mie longe shielde ycorne thie name thoul't fynde.
Butte here commes Celmonde, wordhie knyghte and friende. 375
AELLA, BIRTHA, CELMONDE
_speaking. _
Thie Brystowe knyghtes for thie forth-comynge lynge[64];
Echone athwarte hys backe hys longe warre-shield dothe slynge.
AELLA.
Birtha, adieu; but yette I cannotte goe.
BIRTHA.
Lyfe of mie spryte, mie gentle AElla staie. 380
Engyne mee notte wyth syke a drierie woe.
AELLA.
I muste, I wylle; tys honnoure cals awaie.
BIRTHA.
O mie agroted harte, braste, braste ynn twaie.
AElla, for honnoure, flyes awaie from mee.
AELLA.
Birtha, adieu; I maie notte here obaie. 385
I'm flyynge from mieselfe yn flying thee.
BIRTHA.
O AElla, housband, friend, and loverde, staie.
He's gon, he's gone, alass! percase he's gone for aie.
CELMONDE.
Hope, hallie suster, sweepeynge thro' the skie,
In crowne of goulde, and robe of lillie whyte, 390
Whyche farre abrode ynne gentle ayre doe flie,
Meetynge from dystaunce the enjoyous fyghte,
Albeytte efte thou takest thie hie flyghte
Hecket[65] ynne a myste, and wyth thyne eyne yblente,
Nowe commest thou to mee wythe starrie lyghte; 395
Ontoe thie veste the rodde sonne ys adente[66];
The Sommer tyde, the month of Maie appere,
Depycte wythe skylledd honde upponn thie wyde aumere.
I from a nete of hopelen am adawed,
Awhaped[67] atte the fetyveness of daie; 400
AElla, bie nete moe thann hys myndbruche awed,
Is gone, and I moste followe, toe the fraie.
Celmonde canne ne'er from anie byker staie.
Dothe warre begynne?
