BIRTHA.

    Rouze all thie love; false and entrykyng wyghte! 
  Ne leave thie Birtha thos uponne pretence of fyghte.

    Thou nedest notte goe, untyll thou haste command
    Under the sygnette of oure lorde the kynge.

  AELLA.

    And wouldest thou make me then a recreande? 330
    Hollie Seyncte Marie, keepe mee from the thynge! 
    Heere, Birtha, thou hast potte a double stynge,
    One for thie love, anodher for thie mynde.

  BIRTHA.

    Agylted[56] AElla, thie abredynge[57] blynge[58]. 
    Twas love of thee thatte foule intente ywrynde. 335
    Yette heare mie supplycate, to mee attende,
  Hear from mie groted[59] harte the lover and the friende. 
    Lett Celmonde yn thie armour-brace be dyghte;
    And yn thie stead unto the battle goe;
    Thie name alleyne wylle putte the Danes to flyghte, 340
    The ayre thatt beares ytt woulde presse downe the foe.

  AELLA.

    Birtha, yn vayne thou wouldste mee recreand doe;
    I moste, I wylle, fyghte for mie countries wele,
    And leave thee for ytt.  Celmonde, sweftlie goe,
    Telle mie Brystowans to bedyghte yn stele; 345
    Tell hem I scorne to kenne hem from afar,
  Botte leave the vyrgyn brydall bedde for bedde of warre.

  AELLA, BIRTHA.

  BIRTHA.

    And thou wylt goe; O mie agroted harte!

  AELLA.

    Mie countrie waites mie marche; I muste awaie;
    Albeytte I schulde goe to mete the darte 350
    Of certen Dethe, yette here I woulde notte staie. 
    Botte thos to leave thee, Birtha, dothe asswaie
    Moe torturynge peynes yanne canne be sedde bie tyngue,
    Yette rouze thie honoure uppe, and wayte the daie,
    Whan rounde aboute mee songe of warre heie synge. 355
    O Birtha, strev mie agreeme[60] to accaie[61],
  And joyous see mie armes, dyghte oute ynn warre arraie.

  BIRTHA.

    Difficile[62] ys the pennaunce, yette I’lle strev
    To keepe mie woe behyltren yn mie breaste. 
    Albeytte nete maye to mee pleasaunce yev, 360
    Lyche thee, I’lle strev to sette mie mynde atte reste. 
    Yett oh! forgeve, yff I have thee dystreste;
    Love, doughtie love, wylle beare no odher swaie. 
    Juste as I was wythe AElla to be bleste,
    Shappe foullie thos hathe snatched hym awaie. 365
    It was a tene too doughtie to bee borne,
  Wydhoute an ounde of teares and breaste wyth syghes ytorne.

  AELLA.