"You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge,

Whenn ynne adversitye;

Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke,
And for the true cause dye.'

Then hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees,
A pray❜r to Godde dydd make,
Beseechynge hym unto hymselfe
Hys partynge soule to take.

Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde
Most seemlie onne the blocke;
Whyche fromme hys bodie fayre at once
The able heddes-manne stroke;

And oute the bloude beganne to flowe,
And rounde the scaffolde twyne;

And tears, enowe to wosh 't awaie,
Dydd flowe fromme each mann's eyne.

The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre
Ynnto foure parties cutte;

And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde,
Uponne a pole was putte.

One parte dydd rotte onne Kynwulph-hylle,

One onne the mynster-tower,

And one from off the castle-gate

The crowen dydd devoure;

The other onne Seyncte Powle's goode gate, A dreery spectacle;

Hys hedde was plac'd onne the hyghe crosse, Ynne hyghe-streete most nobile.

Thus was the ende of Bawdin's fate:

Godde prosper longe oure kynge, And grante hee maye, wyth Bawdin's soule, Ynne Heav'n Godd's mercie synge!

ELLA,

A TRAGYCAL ENTERLUDE, OR DISCOORSEYNGE

TRAGEDIE,

Wrotenn by Thomas Rowleie; plaiedd before Mastre Canynge, atte hys howse nempte the Rodde Lodge: alsoe before the Duke of Nor folck, Johan Howard.

This poem, with the Epistle, Letter, and Entroductionne, is printed from a folio MS. furnished by Mr. Catcott, in the beginning of which he has written, "Chatterton's transcript, 1769." The whole transcript is of Chatterton's hand-writing.

EPISTLE TO MASTRE CANYNGE ON ÆLLA. 'Trs songe bie mynstrelles, thatte yn auntyent tym,

Whan Reasonn hylt herselfe in cloudes of nyghte, The preest delyvered alle the lege yn rhym ; Lyche peyncted tyltynge speares to please the syght, [dere,

The whyche yn yttes felle use doe make moke Syke dyd theire auncyante lee deftlie delyghte the

eare.

Perchaunce yn vyrtues gare rhym mote bee
Butte efte nowe flyeth to the odher syde; [thenne,
In hallie preeste apperes the ribaudes penne,
Inne lithie moncke apperes the barronnes pryde:
But rhym wythe somme, as nedere widhout teethe,
Make pleasaunce to the sense, botte maie do lyttel
seathe.

And none can saye, but alle mye lyfe
I have hys wordyes kept;

And summ'd the actyonns of the daie
Eche nyght before I slept.

'I have a spouse, goe aske of her,
Yff I defyl'd her bedde?

I have a kynge, and none can laie
Blacke treason onne my hedde.

'Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,
Fromme fleshe I dydd refrayne;
Whie should I thenne appear dismay'd
To leave thys worlde of payne?

Ne hapless Henrie! I rejoyce,
I shall ne see thye dethe;
Moste willynglie ynne thye just cause
Doe I resign my brethe.

'Oh fickle people! rewyn'd londe !
Thou wylt kenne peace ne moe;
Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves,
Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.

'Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace,
And godlie Henrie's reigne,

Thatt you dydd choppe your easie daies
Forr those of bloude and peyne?

'Whatte tho' I onne a sledde bee drawne, And mangled by a hynde,

I doe defye the traytor's pow'r,
Hee can ne harm my mynde ;

Whatte tho', uphoisted onne a pole, Mye lymbes shall rotte ynn ayre, And ne ryche monument of brasse Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ;

Yett ynne the holie booke above, Whyche tyme can't eate awaie, There wythe the servants of the Lorde Mie name shall lyve for aie.

Thenne welcome dethe! for lyfe eterne
I leave thys mortall lyfe :

Farewell, vayne world, and alle that's deare,
Mie sonnes and lovynge wyfe;

Nowe dethe as welcome to mee comes,

As e'er the moneth of Maie;

Nor woulde I even wyshe to lyve,

Wyth my dere wyfe to staie.'

Quod Canynge,

Tys a goodlie thinge

To bee prepar'd to die;

And from thys world of peyne and grefe

To Godde ynne Heav'n to flie.'

And nowe the bell beganne to tolle,
And claryonnes to sounde;

Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete
A prauncyng onne the grounde.

And just before the officers,

His lovyng wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teers of woe, Withe loude and dysmalle dynne.