Bethyncke thee whatt. 
    Here liethe Englonde, all her drites [95] unfree, 65
    Here liethe Normans coupynge[96] her bie lotte,
    Caltysnyng[97] everich native plante to gre[98],
    Whatte woulde I doe?  I brondeous[99] wulde hem slee[100];
    Tare owte theyre sable harte bie ryghtefulle breme[101];
    Theyre deathe a meanes untoe mie lyfe shulde bee, 70
    Mie spryte shulde revelle yn theyr harte-blodde streme. 
    Eftsoones I wylle bewryne[102] mie ragefulle ire,
  And Goddis anlace[103] wielde yn furie dyre.

GODDWYN.

Whatte wouldest thou wythe the kynge?

HAROLDE.

                   Take offe hys crowne;
    The ruler of somme mynster[104] hym ordeyne; 75
    Sette uppe fom dygner[105] than I han pyghte[106] downe;
    And peace in Englonde shulde be brayd[107] agayne.

GODDWYN.

No, lette the super-hallie[108] seyncte kynge reygne,
Ande somme moe reded[109] rule the untentyff[110] reaulme;
Kynge Edwarde, yn hys cortesie, wylle deygne 80
To yielde the spoiles, and alleyne were the heaulme: 
Botte from mee harte bee everych thoughte of gayne,
Not anie of mie kin I wysche him to ordeyne.

  HAROLDE.

    Tell me the meenes, and I wylle boute ytte strayte;
    Bete[111] mee to slea[112] mieself, ytte shalle be done. 85

  GODDWYN.

    To thee I wylle swythynne[113] the menes unplayte[114],
    Bie whyche thou, Harolde, shalte be proved mie sonne. 
    I have longe seen whatte peynes were undergon,
    Whatte agrames[115] braunce[116] out from the general tree;
    The tyme ys commynge, whan the mollock[117] gron[118] 90
    Drented[119] of alle yts swolynge[120] owndes[121] shalle bee;
    Mie remedie is goode; our menne shall ryse: 
  Eftsoons the Normans and owre agrame[122] flies.

  HAROLDE.

    I will to the West, and gemote[123] alle mie knyghtes,
    Wythe bylles that pancte for blodde, and sheeldes as brede[124] 95
    As the ybroched[125] moon, when blaunch[126] shedyghtes[127]
    The wodeland grounde or water-mantled mede;
    Wythe hondes whose myghte canne make the doughtiest[128] blede,
    Who efte have knelte upon forslagen[129] foes,
    Whoe wythe yer fote orrests[130] a castle-stede[131], 100
    Who dare on kynges for to bewrecke[123] yiere woes;
    Nowe wylle the menne of Englonde haile the daie,
  Whan Goddwyn leades them to the ryghtfulle fraie.

  GODDWYN.

    Botte firste we’ll call the loverdes of the West,
    The erles of Mercia, Conventrie and all; 105
    The moe wee gayne, the gare[133] wylle prosper beste,
    Wythe syke a nomber wee can never fall.