I saie ne moe; youre spryte the reste wylle saie;
    Youre spryte wylle wrynne, thatte Brystow ys yer place;
    To honoures house I nede notte marcke the waie; 655
    Inne youre owne hartes you maie the foote-pathe trace. 
    ’Twexte shappe & us there ys botte lyttelle space;
    The tyme ys nowe to proove yourselves bee menne;
    Drawe forthe the bornyshed bylle wythe fetyve grace,
    Rouze, lyche a wolfynne rouzing from hys denne. 660
    Thus I enrone mie anlace; goe thou shethe;
  I’lle potte ytt ne ynn place, tyll ytte ys sycke wythe deathe.

  SOLDYERS.

    Onn, AElla, onn; we longe for bloddie fraie;
    Wee longe to here the raven synge yn vayne;
    Onn, AElla, onn; we certys gayne the daie, 665
    Whanne thou doste leade us to the leathal playne.

  CELMONDE.

    Thie speche, O Loverde, fyrethe the whole trayne;
    Theie pancte for war, as honted wolves for breathe;
    Go, & sytte crowned on corses of the slayne;
    Go, & ywielde the massie swerde of deathe. 670

  SOLDYERRES.

    From thee, O AElla, alle oure courage reygnes;
  Echone yn phantasie do lede the Danes ynne chaynes.

  AELLA.

    Mie countrymenne, mie friendes, your noble sprytes
    Speke yn youre eyne, & doe yer master telle. 
    Swefte as the rayne-storme toe the erthe alyghtes, 675
    Soe wylle we fall upon these royners felle. 
    Oure mowynge swerdes shalle plonge hem downe to helle;
    Theyre throngynge corses shall onlyghte the starres;
    The barrowes brastynge wythe the sleene schall swelle,
    Brynnynge[92] to commynge tymes our famous warres; 680
    Inne everie eyne I kenne the lowe of myghte,
  Sheenynge abrode, alyche a hylle-fyre ynne the nyghte.

    Whanne poyntelles of oure famous fyghte shall saie,
    Echone wylle marvelle atte the dernie dede,
    Echone wylle wyssen hee hanne seene the daie, 685
    And bravelie holped to make the foemenn blede;
    Botte for yer holpe oure battelle wylle notte nede;
    Oure force ys force enowe to staie theyre honde;
    Wee wylle retourne unto thys grened mede,
    Oer corses of the foemen of the londe. 690
    Nowe to the warre lette all the slughornes sounde,
  The Dacyanne troopes appere on yinder rysynge grounde.

    Chiefes, heade youre bandes, and leade.

  DANES flyinge, neare WATCHETTE.

  FYRSTE DANE.

    Fly, fly, ye Danes; Magnus, the chiefe, ys sleene;
    The Saxonnes comme wythe AElla atte theyre heade; 695
    Lette’s strev to gette awaie to yinder greene;
    Flie, flie; thys ys the kyngdomme of the deadde.