Thie mynde ys now thieselfe; why wylte thou bee
    All blanche, al kyngelie, all soe wyse yn mynde,
    Alleyne to lett pore wretched AElla see, 370
    Whatte wondrous bighes[63] he nowe muste leave behynde? 
    O Birtha fayre, warde everyche commynge wynde,
    On everych wynde I wylle a token sende;
    Onn mie longe shielde ycorne thie name thoul’t fynde. 
    Butte here commes Celmonde, wordhie knyghte and friende. 375

  AELLA, BIRTHA, CELMONDE

  speaking.

    Thie Brystowe knyghtes for thie forth-comynge lynge[64];
  Echone athwarte hys backe hys longe warre-shield dothe slynge.

  AELLA.

    Birtha, adieu; but yette I cannotte goe.

  BIRTHA.

    Lyfe of mie spryte, mie gentle AElla staie. 380
    Engyne mee notte wyth syke a drierie woe.

  AELLA.

    I muste, I wylle; tys honnoure cals awaie.

  BIRTHA.

    O mie agroted harte, braste, braste ynn twaie. 
    AElla, for honnoure, flyes awaie from mee.

  AELLA.

    Birtha, adieu; I maie notte here obaie. 385
    I’m flyynge from mieselfe yn flying thee.

  BIRTHA.

    O AElla, housband, friend, and loverde, staie. 
  He’s gon, he’s gone, alass! percase he’s gone for aie.

  CELMONDE.

    Hope, hallie suster, sweepeynge thro’ the skie,
    In crowne of goulde, and robe of lillie whyte, 390
    Whyche farre abrode ynne gentle ayre doe flie,
    Meetynge from dystaunce the enjoyous fyghte,
    Albeytte efte thou takest thie hie flyghte
    Hecket[65] ynne a myste, and wyth thyne eyne yblente,
    Nowe commest thou to mee wythe starrie lyghte; 395
    Ontoe thie veste the rodde sonne ys adente[66];
    The Sommer tyde, the month of Maie appere,
  Depycte wythe skylledd honde upponn thie wyde aumere.

    I from a nete of hopelen am adawed,
    Awhaped[67] atte the fetyveness of daie; 400
    AElla, bie nete moe thann hys myndbruche awed,
    Is gone, and I moste followe, toe the fraie. 
    Celmonde canne ne’er from anie byker staie. 
    Dothe warre begynne? there’s Celmonde yn the place. 
    Botte whanne the warre ys donne, I’ll haste awaie. 
    The reste from nethe tymes masque must shew yttes face. 405
    I see onnombered joies arounde mee ryse;
  Blake[68] stondethe future doome, and joie dothe mee alyse.

    O honnoure, honnoure, whatt ys bie thee hanne? 
    Hailie the robber and the bordelyer, 410
    Who kens ne thee, or ys to thee bestanne,
    And nothynge does thie myckle gastness fere. 
    Faygne woulde I from mie bosomme