ONNE Rudborne bank twa pynynge maydens sate, Who at Seyncte Albonns shouke the morthynge speare. Dydde speke acroole, wythe languishment of eyne. Lyche droppes of pearlie dew, lemed the quyvryng brine. ELINOURE. O gentle Juga! heare mie dernie plainte, To fyghte for Yorke mie love ys dyghte in stele; Mai good Seyncte Cuthberte watche Syrre Roberte wele. Moke moe thanne deathe in phantasie Ï feele; See! see! upon the ground he bleedynge lies Inhild some joice of lyffe, or else mie deare love dies. JUGA. Systers in sorrowe, on thys daise-ey'd banke, Whose gastlie mitches holde the train of fryghte, ELINOURE. No moe the myskynette shall wake the morne, The minstrelle daunce, good cheere, and morryce plaie; All nete amonge the gravde chyrche glebe wyll goe, JUGA. Whan mokie cloudis do hange upon the leme Of leden moon, ynn sylver mantels dyghte; The tryppeygne faeries weve the golden dreme Of selyness, whyche flyethe wythe the nyghte; Then (botte the scynctes forbydde!) gif to a spryte Syrr Rychardes forme ys lyped, I'll hold dystraughte Hys bledeynge claie colde corse, and die eche daie ynn thoughte. ELINOURE. Ah woe bementynge wordes; what wordes can shewe! Champyons, whose bloude wylle wythe thie waterres flowe, Or wythe oure fallen knyghtes be menged onne the plain. Soe sayinge, lyke twa levyn-blasted trees, Or twayne of cloudes that holdeth stormie rayne; There dyd theye fynde that bothe their knyghtes were slayne, Distraughte theie wandered to swollen Rudbornes syde, Yelled theyre leathalle knelle, sonke ynn the waves, and dyde. THE MYNSTRELLES SONGE, FROM ELLA. O! SYNGE untoe mie roundelaie, Gon to hys death-bedde, Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, O hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, In the briered delle belowe; Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, To the nyghte-mares as heie goe; Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hy's deathe-bedde, Heere uponne mie true loves grave, Gone to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Wythe mie hondes I'll dente the brieres Gon to hys death-bedde, Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Waterre wythes, crownede wythe reytes I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. ELLA, ATTE WATCHETTE. CURSE Onne mie tardie woundes! brynge mee a stede! I wylle awaie to Birtha bie thys nyghte; Albeytte fro mie woundes mie soul doe blede, I wylle awaie, and die wythynne her syghte. Brynge mee a stede, wythe eagle wynges for flyghte, The Danes have wrought mee myckle woe ynne fyghte, Inne kepeynge mee from Birtha's armes so longe. O! whatte a dome was myne, sythe masterie Canne yeve ne pleasaunce, nor mie londes goode leme myne eie ! Yee goddes, howe ys a loverres temper formed! Some tymes the samme thynge wyll both bane and blesse? her looks I fynde mie beynge doe entwyne. CHORUS, FROM GODDWYNN. WHAN freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned veste, She daunced onne the heathe; She hearde the voice of deathe; Pale-eyned affryghte, hys harte of sylver hue, On hie she jeste her sheelde, And flizze alonge the feelde. Power, wythe his heafod straught ynto the skyes, She bendes before hys speere, ryses from the shocke, |