Whatte? Alla deadde! and Birtha dyynge toe!
Soe falles the fayrest flourettes of the playne.
Who canne unplyte the wurchys Heaven can
doe,

Or who untweste the role of shappe yn twayne?
Ella, thie rennome was thie onlie gayne;
For yette, thie pleasaunce, and thie joie was
loste,

Thie countrymen shall rere thee on the playne,
A pyle of carnes, as anie grave can boaste:
Further, a just amede to thee to bee,

Inne Heaven thou synge of Godde, on Erthe we'lle synge of thee.

Goddeyn,

Elwarde,

Alstan,

Kynge Edwarde,

Persons represented.

bie T. Rowleie, the Aucthoure.

Johan de Iscamme.

Syrr Thybbot Gorges.

Syrr Alan de Vere.

Mastre Willyam Canynge.

Odhers bie Knyghtes Mynstrelles.

GODDWYN and HAROLDE.

HAROLDE!

GODDWYN.

HAROLDE.

Mie loverde!

GODDWYN.

O! I weepe to thyncke,

What foemen ryseth to ifrete the londe. Theie batten onne her fleshe, her hartes bloude dryncke,

And all ys graunted from the roieal honde.

HAROLDE.

Lette notte thie agreme blyn, ne aledge stonde;
Bee I toe wepe, I wepe in teres of gore:
Am I betrassed, syke shulde mie burlie bronde
Depeynote the wronges on hym from whom I
bore.

GODDWYN.

I ken thie spryte ful welle; gentle thou art, Stringe, ugsomme, rou, as smethynge armyes

seeme;

Yett efte, I feare, thie chefes toe grete a parte, And that thie rede bee efte borne downe bie What tydynges from the kynge? [breme.

No instance of this verb has yet been adduced from a writer earlier than Shakspeare,

2 Unintelligible. Mr. Bryant supposed it to nave been written adelege, which he says is analogous to the Saxon adverb ydelech, and corresponds to Chatterton's interpretation.

HAROLDE.

I will to the West, and gemote alle mie knyghtes, Wythe byles that pancte for blodde, and [dyghtes sheeldes as brede

As the ybroched Moon, when blaunch she The wodeland grounde or water-mantled mede; Wythe hondes whose myghte canne make the doughtiest blede,

Who efte have knelte upon forslagen foes, Whoe wythe yer fote oirests a castle-stede, Who dare on kynges for to bewrecke yiere woes; Nowe wylle the menne of Englonde haile the daic, [fraie. Whan Goddwyn leades them to the ryghtfulle

QUEENE.

I leeve youe to doe hommage heaven-were; To serve yor leege-folcke toe is doeynge hommage there.

KYNGE and Syr HUGHE.
KYNGE.

Miefriende, syr Hughe, whatte tydynges brynges thee here?

HUGHE.

Onwordie syke a marvelle of a kynge!
O Edwarde, thou deservest purer leege;
To thee beie shulden al theire mancas brynge;
Thie nodde should save menne, and thie glomb
forslege.

I amme no curriedowe, I lacke no wite, I speke whatte bee the trouthe, and whatte all see is ryghte.

KYNGE.

Thou arte a nallie manne, I doe thee pryze. Comme, comme, and here and hele mee ynn mie Fulle twentie mancas I wyile thee alise, [praires. And twayne of hamlettes to thee and thie heyres.

Soe shalle all Normannes from mie londe be fed, Theie alleyn have syke love as to acquyre yer bredde.

CHORUS,

TO GODDWYN, A TRAGEDIE.

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 shrickynge voice of woe,
And sadnesse ynne the owlette shake the dale.

She shooke the buried speere,

On hie she jeste her sheeide, Her foemen all appere, And flizze alonge the feelde. Power, wythe his heafod straught ynto the skyes, Hys speere a sonne-beame, and hys 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 dothe she drive ytte on,
Wytte scillye wympled gies ytte to hys crowne,
Hys longe sharpe speere, hys spreddynge sheelde

Heckled yn beastskyns, slepte uponne the waste, And wyth the morneynge rouzed the wolfe to fyghte,

Swefte as descendeynge lemes of roddie lyghte Plonged to the hulstred bedde of laveynge seas, Gerd the blacke mountayn okes yn drybblets twighte,

And ranne yn thoughte alonge the azure mees, Whose eyne dyd feerie sheene, like blue-hayred defs,

That drecrie hange upon Dover's emblaunched clefs.
Soft boundeynge over swelleynge azure reles
The salvage natyves sawe a shyppe appere;
An uncouthe denwere to theire bosomme steles,
Theyre myghte ys knopped ynne the froste of
fere.

The headed javlyn lisseth here and there; Theie stonde, theie roune, theie loke wyth eger eyne;

[ayre, The shyppes sayle, boleynge wythe the kyndelie Ronneth to harbour from the beatynge bryne; Theie dryve awaie aghaste, whanne to the stronde A burled Trojan lepes, wythe morglaien sweerde yn honde.

Hymme followede eftsoones hys compheeres, whose swerdes

Glestred lyke gledeynge starres yn frostie nete, Hayleynge theyre captayne in chirckyngewordes Kynge of the lande, whereon theie set theyre fete. The greete kynge Brutus thanne theie dyd hym greete,

Prepared for battle, mareschalled the fyghte; Theie urged the warre, the natyves fledde, as [syghte;

flete

As fleaynge cloudes that swymme before the Tyll tyred wythe battles, for to ceese the fraie, Theie uncted Brutus kynge, and gave the Trojanns

swaie.