And a' that's good watch o'er him! And dainties a great store o' em! That's fond o' Tullochgorum! But for the dirty, yawning fool And discontent devour him! And nane say 'wae's me' for him! THOMAS CHATTERTON [SONGS FROM "ELLA, A TRAGYCAL ENTERLUDE, WROTENN BIE THOMAS ROWLEIE"] [THE BODDYNGE FLOURETTES BLOSHES ATTE THE LYGHTE] FYRSTE MYNSTRELLE The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte; Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys brought. The evenynge commes, and brynges the dewe alonge; The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne; Arounde the alestake Mynstrells synge the songe; Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne; I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle, Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe somethynge stylle. SECONDE MYNSTRELLE So Adam thoughtenne, whann, ynn Paradyse, All Heavenn and Erthe dyd hommage to hys mynde; Ynn Womman alleyne mannès pleasaunce lyes; As Instrumentes of joie were made the kynde. Go, take a wyfe untoe thie armes, and see Wynter and brownie hylles wyll have a charm for thee. THYRDE MYNSTRELLE Whanne Autumpne blake and sonne-brente doe appere, With hys goulde honde guylteynge the falleynge lefe, Bryngeynge oppe Wynterr to folfylle the yere, Beerynge uponne hys backe the ripèd shefe; Whan al the hyls wythe woddie sede ys whyte; Whanne levynne-fyres and lemes do mete from far the syghte; Whann the fayre apple, rudde as even skie, Meethynckes mie hartys joie ys steynced wyth somme care. SECONDE MYNSTRELLE Angelles bee wrogte to bee of neidher kynde; Angelles alleyne fromme chafe desyre bee free: Dheere ys a somwhatte evere yn the mynde, Yatte, wythout wommanne, cannot styllèd bee; Ne seyncte yn celles, botte, havynge blodde and tere, Do fynde the spryte to joie on syghte of womanne fayre; Wommen bee made, notte for hemselves, botte manne, Bone of hys bone, and chyld of hys desire; Fromme an ynutyle membere fyrste beganne, Ywroghte with moche of water, lyttele fyre; Therefore theie seke the fyre of love, to hete The milkyness of kynde, and make hemselfes complete. Albeytte wythout wommen menne were pheeres Go, take thee swythyn to thie bedde a wyfe; [0, SYNGE UNTOE MIE ROUNDELAIE] O, synge untoe mie roundelaie! O, droppe the brynie teare wythe mee! Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, O hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes, Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. I die! I comme! mie true love waytes.Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITIE AS WROTEN BIE THE GODE PRIESTE THOMAS ROWLEY, 1464 In Virgynè the sweltrie sun gan sheene, And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie; The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie, The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe, 're. And the blacke tempeste swolne and gathered up apace. Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side Where from the hailstone coulde the almer flie? Look in his glommèd face, his spright there scanne: The gathered storme is rype; the bigge drops falle; And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies. |