SONGE TO ÆLLA,

Lorde of the Castel of Brystowe ynne Daies of Yore.

H thou, orr what remaynes of thee,

OH

Ella, the darlynge of futurity,

Lett thys mie songe bolde as thie courage be,

As everlastynge to posteritye.

Whanne Dacya's sonnes, whose hayres of bloude

redde hue

[due,

Lyche kynge-cuppes brastynge wythe the morning Arraung'd ynne dreare arraie,

Upponne the lethale daie,

Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchets shore;
Than dyddst thou furiouse stande,
And bie thie valyante hande
Beesprengedd all the mees wythe gore.

Drawne bie thyne anlace felle,
Downe to the depthe of helle
Thousandes of Dacyanns went;
Brystowannes, menne of myghte,
Ydar'd the bloudie fyghte,
And actedd deeds full quent.

Oh thou whereer (thie bones att reste)
Thye Spryte to haunte delyghteth best,
Whetherr upponne the bloude-embrewedd pléyne,
Orr whare thou kennst fromm farre
The dysmall crye of warre,

Orr seest somme mountayne made of corse of sleyne;

Orr seest the hatchedd stede,
Ypraunceynge o'er the mede,

And neighe to be amenged the poynctedd speeres;
Orr ynne blacke armoure staulke arounde
Embattel'd Brystowe, once thie grounde,
And glowe ardurous onn the Castle steeres;
Orr fierye round the mynsterr glare;
Lette Brystowe stylle be made thie care;
Guarde ytt fromme foemenne and consumynge fyre;
Lyche Avones streme ensyrke ytt rounde,
Ne lette a flame enharme the grounde,
Tylle ynne one flame all the whole worlde expyre.

THE

BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE:

Or the Dethe of Syr Charles Bawdin.

HE feathered songster chaunticleer
Han wounde hys bugle horne,

And tolde the earlie villager

The commynge of the morne:

Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes
Of lyghte eclypse the greie ;

And herde the raven's crokynge throte
Proclayme the fated daie.

"Thou'rt ryghte," quod hee, "for, by the Godde
"That syttes enthron'd on hyghe!
"Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine,
"To daie shall surelie die."

Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale

Hys Knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite;
"Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie
"Hee leaves thys mortall state."

Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe,
Wythe harte brymm fulle of woe;
Hee journey'd to the castle-gate,
And to Syr Charles dydd goe.

But whenne hee came, hys children twaine,
And eke hys lovynge wyfe,

Wythe brinie teares dydd wett the floore,

For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.

"O goode Syr Charles!" sayd Canterlone, "Badde tydyngs I doe brynge." "Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr Charles, "Whatte says thie traytor kynge?"

"I greeve to telle, before yonne sonne "Does fromme the welkinn flye,

"Hee hathe uponne bys honnour sworne, "Thatt thou shalt surelie die."

"Wee all must die," quod brave Syrr Charles;

"Of thatte I'm not affearde;

"Whatte bootes to lyve a little space?

"Thanke Jesu, I'm prepar'd:

"But telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not,

"I'de sooner die to-daie

"Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are, "Tho' I shoulde lyve for aie."

Thenne Canterlone hee dydd goe out,

To tell the maior straite

To gett all thynges yun reddyness
For goode Syr Charleses fate.

Thenne Maisterr Canynge saughte the kynge,
And felle down onne hys knee;
"I'm come," quod hee, "unto your grace
"To move your clemencye."

Thenne quod the kynge," Youre tale speke out, "You have been much oure friende ; "Whatever youre request may bee,

"Wee wylle to ytte attende."

"My nobile leige! alle my request

"Ys for a nobile' knyghte,

"Who, tho' may hap hee has donne wronge,

"Hee thoughte ytte stylle was ryghte:

"He has a spouse and children twaine,

"Alle rewyn'd are for aie;

"Yff that you are resolv'd to lett

"Charles Bawdin die to-daie."

"Speke nott of such a traytour vile,"
The kynge ynne furie sayde;
"Before the evening starre doth sheene,
"Bawdin shall loose hys hedde:

"Justice does loudlie for hym calle,

"And hee shalle have hys meede:

"Speke, Maister Canynge! Whatte thynge else "Att present doe you neede ?"

66 My nobile leige!" goode Canynge sayde,

"Leave justice to our Godde,

"And laye the yronne rule asyde;

"Be thyne the olyve rodde.

"Was Godde to serche our hertes and reines ;

"The best were synners grete; "Christ's vycarr only knowes ne synne,

"Ynne alle thys mortall state.

"Lette mercie rule thyne infante reigne, "Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure; "From race to race thy familie

"Alle sov'reigns shall endure:

"But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou "Beginne thy infante reigne,,

"Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows "Wylle never long remayne."

"Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vile

"Has scorn'd my power and mee; "Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne "Intreate my clemencye?"

"Mie nobile leige! the trulie brave

"Wylle val'rous actions prize,

"Respect a brave and noble mynde,

"Altho' ynne enemies."

"Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n "That dydd mee beinge gyve,

"I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade
"Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

"Bie Marie, and alle Seinctes in Heav'n,

Thys sunne shall be hys laste."

Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare,

And from the presence paste.

Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief
Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,

And satt hymm downe uponne a stoole,

And teares beganne to flowe.

"We all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne; "Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate "Of all we mortall menne.

"Saye, why, my friend, thie honest soul "Runns overr att thyne eye;

"Is ytte for my most welcome doome "That thou doste child-lyke crye?"

Quod godlie Canynge, "I doe weepe, "Thatt thou soe soone must dye, "And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe; "Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye."

"Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye "From godlie fountaines sprynge; "Dethe I despise, and alle the power "Of Edwarde, traytor kynge.

"Whan throgh the tyrant's welcom means "I shall resigne my lyfe,

"The Godde I serve wylle soon provyde "For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.

"Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne,

"Thys was appointed mee; "Shall mortal manne repyne or grudge "Whatt Godde ordeynes to bee?

"Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, "Whan thousands dy'd arounde;

"Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode "Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde:

"Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte, "That cutte the airie waie,

"Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte, "And close myne eyes for aie?

"And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, "Looke wanne and bee dysmayde? "Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere, "Bee alle the manne display'd.