"You leave youre goode and lawfulle kynge, Whenn ynne adversitye; Lyke mee, untoe the true cause stycke, Then hee, wyth preestes, uponne hys knees, Thenne, kneelynge downe, hee layd hys hedde And oute the bloude beganne to flowe, And tears, enowe to wosh 't awaie, The bloudie axe hys bodie fayre And ev'rye parte, and eke hys hedde, 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 And none can saye, but alle mye lyfe And summ'd the actyonns of the daie 'I have a spouse, goe aske of her, I have a kynge, and none can laie 'Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve, Ne hapless Henrie! I rejoyce, 'Oh fickle people! rewyn'd londe ! 'Saie, were ye tyr'd of godlie peace, Thatt you dydd choppe your easie daies 'Whatte tho' I onne a sledde bee drawne, And mangled by a hynde, I doe defye the traytor's pow'r, 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 Farewell, vayne world, and alle that's deare, 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, Syr Charles hee herde the horses feete And just before the officers, His lovyng wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeigned teers of woe, Withe loude and dysmalle dynne. |