Comme, wythe acorne-coppe & thorne,
    Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
    Lyfe & all yttes goode I scorne, 895
    Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie. 
        Mie love ys dedde,
        Gon to hys death-bedde,
        Al under the wyllowe tree.

    Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes[103], 900
    Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. 
    I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. 
    Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.

  BIRTHA.

    Thys syngeyng haveth whatte coulde make ytte please;
  Butte mie uncourtlie shappe benymmes mee of all ease. 905

  AELLA, atte WATCHETTE.

    Curse onne mie tardie woundes! brynge mee a stede! 
    I wylle awaie to Birtha bie thys nyghte: 
    Albeytte fro mie woundes mie soul doe blede,
    I wylle awaie, & die wythynne her syghte. 
    Brynge mee a stede, wythe eagle-wynges for flyghte; 910
    Swefte as mie wyshe, &, as mie love ys, stronge. 
    The Danes have wroughte mee myckle woe ynne syghte,
    Inne kepeynge mee from Birtha’s armes so longe. 
    O! whatte a dome was myne, sythe masterie
  Canne yeve ne pleasaunce, nor mie londes goode leme myne eie! 915

    Yee goddes, howe ys a loverres temper formed! 
    Sometymes the samme thynge wylle bothe bane, & blesse;
    On tyme encalede[104], yanne bie the same thynge warmd,
    Estroughted foorthe, and yanne ybrogten less. 
    ’Tys Birtha’s loss whyche doe mie thoughtes possesse; 920
    I wylle, I muste awaie:  whie staies mie stede? 
    Mie huscarles, hyther haste; prepare a dresse,
    Whyche couracyers[105] yn hastie journies nede. 
    O heavens!  I moste awaie to Byrtha eyne,
  For yn her lookes I fynde mie beynge doe entwyne. 925

  CELMONDE, att BRYSTOWE.

    The worlde ys darke wythe nyghte; the wyndes are stylle;
    Fayntelie the mone her palyde lyghte makes gleme;
    The upryste[106] sprytes the sylente letten[107] fylle,
    Wythe ouphant faeryes joynyng ynne the dreme;
    The forreste sheenethe wythe the sylver leme; 930
    Nowe maie mie love be sated ynn yttes treate;
    Uponne the lynche of somme swefte reynyng streme,
    Att the swote banquette I wylle swotelie eate. 
    Thys ys the howse; yee hyndes, swythyn appere.

  CELMONDE, SERVYTOURE.

  CELMONDE.

    Go telle to Birtha strayte, a straungerr waytethe here. 935

  CELMONDE, BIRTHA.

  BIRTHA.

    Celmonde! yee seynctes!  I hope thou haste goode newes.

  CELMONDE.

    The hope ys loste:  for heavie newes prepare.

  BIRTHA.

    Is AElla welle?