Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Heere uponne mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee on hallie seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gone to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Wythe mie hondes I'll dente the brieres
Rounde his hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie bodie still schalle be.
Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe and all ytts goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie.

Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Waterre wythes, crownede wythe reytes
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.

I die; I comme; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.

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, Swefte as mie wyshe, and, as mie love ys stronge.

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? On tyme encalede, yanne bie the same thynge warmed, Estroughted foorthe, and yanne ybroghten less. "Tys Birtha's loss whyche doe mie thoughts possesse ; I wylle, I must awaie: whie staies mie stede? Mie huscarles, hyther haste; prepare a dresse, Whyche couracyrs yn hastie journies nede. O heavens! I most awaie to Byrtha's eyne, For yn her looks I fynde mie beynge doe entwyne.

CHORUS, FROM GODDWYNN.

WHAN freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned veste,
To everie knyghte her warre-songe sunge,
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,
In vayne assayled her bosomme to acale;
She hearde onflemed the shriekynge voice of woe,
And sadnesse ynne the owlette shake the dale.
She shooke the burled speere,

On hie she jeste her sheelde,
Her foemen all appere,

And flizze alonge the feelde.

Power, wythe his heafod straught ynto the skyes,
Hys speere a sonne-beame, and his sheelde a starre.
Alyche twaie brendeynge gronfyres rolls hys eyes,
Chaftes with hys yronne feete and soundes to war.
She syttes upon a rocke,

She bendes before hys speere,
She ryses from the shocke,
Wieldynge her owne yn ayre.

Harde as the thonder doth she drive ytte on,
Wytte scillye wympled gies ytte to hys crowne,
Hys longe sharpe speere, hys spreddynge sheelde ys gon,
He falles, and fallynge rolleth thousandes down.
War, goare-faced war, bie envie burld, arist,
Hys feerie heaulme noddynge to the ayre,
Tenne bloddie arrowes ynne hys streynynge fyste.

IN Virgyne the sweltrie sun gan sheene,
And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie;
The apple rodded from its palie greene,
And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie,
The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie;
'Twas nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare,
And eke the grounde was dighte in its mose defte aumeree.

The sun was glemeing in the middle of daie,
Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue,
When from the sea arist in dreare arraie

A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue,
The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe,
Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face,

And the blacke tempeste swolne and gatherd up apace.

Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side,
Which dide unto Seyncte Godwine's covente lede,
A hapless pilgrim moneynge did abide,

Pore in his viewe, ungentle in his weede,
Longe bretful of the miseries of neede,

Where from the hailstone coulde the almer flie?

He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie.

Look in his glommed face, his sprighte there scanne;
Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade!
Haste to thie church-glebe-house ashrewed manne!
Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde,
Cale, as the claie which will gre on thie hedde,
Is charitie and love aminge highe elves;

Knightis and barons live for pleasure and themselves.

The gatherd storme is rype; the bigge drops falle;
The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine;
The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall,

And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine;
Dashde from the cloudes the waters flotte againe;
The welkin opes; the yellow levynne flies;
And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies.

Liste; now the thunder's rattling clymmynge sound
Sheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs,
Shakes the high spyre, and losst, dispended, drown'd,
Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges;
The winds are up; the lofty elmen swanges;
Again the levynne and the thunder poures,

And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers.

Spurreynge his palfrie oere thae watrie plaine,
The abbatte of Seyncte Godwine's convente came;
His chapournette was drented with the reine,
And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame;
He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same;
The storme encreasen, and he drew aside,

With the mist almes craver neere to the holme to bide.

His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne,
With a gold button fasten'd neere his chynne;
His autremete was edged with golden twynne,
And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne;
Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne:
The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte,
For the horse millanare his head with roses dighte.

An almes, sir prieste! the droppynge pilgrim saide,
O let me waite within your covente dore,

Tille the sunne sheneth hie above our heade,
And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer;
Helpless and ould am I alass! and poor;
Ne house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche!
All yatte I call my owne is this my silver crouche.

Varlet, reply'd the abbatte, cease your dinne;
This is no season almes and prayers to give;
Mie porter never lets a faietour in ;

None touche mie rynge who not in honour live.

And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve,
And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie,"
The abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie.
Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde;
Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen;
Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde;
His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene;
A Limitoure he was of order seene;

And from the pathwaie side then turned hee,
Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree.
An almes, sir prieste! the droppynge pilgrim sayde,
For Sweet Seyncte Marie and your order sake.
The limitoure then loosen'd his pouche threade,
And did thereoute a groate of silver take;
The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake.
Here take this silver, it maie eathe thie care;

We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare.
But ah! unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me,
Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde,
Here take my semecope, thou art bare I see;
Tis thyne; the seynctes will give me mie rewarde.
He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde.

Virgynne and hallie seyncte, who sitte yn gloure,
Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man powre.

ON HAPPIENESSE, BY WILLIAM CANYNGE.

MAIE Selynesse on erthes boundes bee hadde?
Maie yt adyghte yn human shape bee founde?
Wote yee, ytt was wyth Edin's bower bestadde,
Or quite eraced from the scaunce-layd grounde,

Whan from the secret fontes the waterres dyd abounde?
Does yt agrosed shun the bodyed waulke,

Lyve to ytself, and to yttes ecchoe taulke?

All hayle, Contente, thou mayde of turtle-eyne,
As thie behoulders thynke thou arte iwreene,
To ope the dore to Selynesse ys thyne,

And Chrystis glorie doth upponne thee sheene.
Doer of the soule thynge ne hath thee seene;
In caves, ynn wodes, ynn woe, and dole distresse,
Whoere hath thee hath gotten Selynesse.