HURRA.

    Thie wordes are greate, full hyghe of sound, and eeke
    Lyche thonderre, to the whych dothe comme no rayne. 
    Itte lacketh notte a doughtie honde to speke; 465
    The cocke saiethe drefte[75], yett armed ys he alleyne. 
    Certis thie wordes maie, thou motest have sayne
    Of mee, and meynte of moe, who eke canne fyghte,
    Who haveth trodden downe the adventayle,
    And tore the heaulmes from heades of myckle myghte. 470
    Sythence syke myghte ys placed yn thie honde,
  Lette blowes thie actyons speeke, and bie thie corrage stonde.

  MAGNUS.

    Thou are a warrioure, Hurra, thatte I kenne,
    And myckle famed for thie handie dede. 
    Thou fyghtest anente[76] maydens and ne menne, 475
    Nor aie thou makest armed hartes to blede. 
    Efte I, caparyson’d on bloddie stede,
    Havethe thee seene binethe mee ynn the fyghte,
    Wythe corses I investynge everich mede,
    And thou aston, and wondrynge at mie myghte. 480
    Thanne wouldest thou comme yn for mie renome,
  Albeytte thou wouldst reyne awaie from bloddie dome?

  HURRA.

    How! butte bee bourne mie rage.  I kenne aryghte
    Bothe thee and thyne maie ne bee wordhye peene. 
    Eftsoones I hope wee scalle engage yn fyghte; 485
    Thanne to the souldyers all thou wylte bewreene. 
    I’ll prove mie courage onne the burled greene;
    Tys there alleyne I’ll telle thee whatte I bee. 
    Gyf I weelde notte the deadlie sphere adeene,
    Thanne lett mie name be fulle as lowe as thee. 490
    Thys mie adented shielde, thys mie warre-speare,
  Schalle telle the falleynge foe gyf Hurra’s harte can feare.

  MAGNUS.

    Magnus woulde speke, butte thatte hys noble spryte
    Dothe soe enrage, he knowes notte whatte to saie. 
    He’dde speke yn blowes, yn gottes of blodde he’d wryte, 495
    And on thie heafod peyncte hys myghte for aie. 
    Gyf thou anent an wolfynnes rage wouldest staie,
    ’Tys here to meet ytt; botte gyff nott, bee goe;
    Lest I in furrie shulde mie armes dysplaie,
    Whyche to thie boddie wylle wurche[77] myckle woe. 500
    Oh!  I bee madde, dystraughte wyth brendyng rage;
  Ne seas of smethynge gore wylle mie chafed harte asswage.

  HURRA.

    I kenne thee, Magnus, welle; a wyghte thou art
    That doest aslee alonge ynn doled dystresse,
    Strynge bulle yn boddie, lyoncelle yn harte, 505
    I almost wysche thie prowes were made lesse. 
    Whan AElla (name drest uppe yn ugsomness[78]
    To thee and recreandes[79]) thondered on the playne,
    Howe dydste thou thorowe fyrste of fleers presse! 
    Swefter thanne federed takelle dydste thou reyne. 510
    A ronnynge pryze onn seyncte daie to ordayne,
  Magnus, and none botte hee, the ronnynge pryze wylle gayne.