Thys
Celmonde
menes.
Thomas Chatterton - Rowley Poems
Thys merkness doe affraie mie wommanns breaste.
Howe sable ys the spreddynge skie arrayde!
Hailie the bordeleire, who lyves to reste,
Ne ys att nyghtys flemynge hue dysmayde;
The starres doe scantillie[110] the sable brayde; 1010
Wyde ys the sylver lemes of comforte wove;
Speke, Celmonde, does ytte make thee notte afrayde?
CELMONDE.
Merker the nyghte, the fitter tyde for love.
BIRTHA.
Saiest thou for love? ah! love is far awaie.
Faygne would I see once moe the roddie lemes of daie. 1015
CELMONDE.
Love maie bee nie, woulde Birtha calle ytte here.
BIRTHA.
How, Celmonde, dothe thou mene?
CELMONDE.
Thys Celmonde menes.
No leme, no eyne, ne mortalle manne appere,
Ne lyghte, an acte of love for to bewreene;
Nete in thys forreste, botte thys tore[111], dothe sheene, 1020
The whych, potte oute, do leave the whole yn nyghte;
See! howe the brauncynge trees doe here entwyne,
Makeynge thys bower so pleasynge to the syghte;
Thys was for love fyrste made, & heere ytt stondes,
Thatte hereynne lovers maie enlyncke yn true loves bondes. 1025
BIRTHA.
Celmonde, speake whatte thou menest, or alse mie thoughtes
Perchaunce maie robbe thie honestie so fayre.
CELMONDE.
Then here, & knowe, hereto I have you broughte,
Mie longe hydde love unto you to make clere.
BIRTHA.
Oh heaven & earthe! whatte ys ytt I doe heare? 1030
Am I betraste[112]? where ys mie AElla, saie!
CELMONDE.
O! do nete nowe to AElla syke love bere,
Botte geven some onne Celmondes hedde.
BIRTHA.
