8 Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my hearte's-blood away; Life and all its goods I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. 9 Water-witches, crowned with reytes,[6] Bear me to your lethal tide. 'I die! I come! my true love waits!' Thus the damsel spake, and died. [1] 'Cryne:' hair. [2] 'Rode:' complexion. [3] 'Dent:' fix. [4] 'Gree:' grow. [5] 'Ouphant:' elfish. [6] 'Reytes:' water-flags. THE STORY OF WILLIAM CANYNGE. 1 Anent a brooklet as I lay reclined, Listening to hear the water glide along, Minding how thorough the green meads it twined, Whilst the caves responsed its muttering song, At distant rising Avon to he sped, Amenged[1] with rising hills did show its head; 2 Engarlanded with crowns of osier-weeds And wraytes[2] of alders of a bercie scent, And sticking out with cloud-agested reeds, The hoary Avon showed dire semblament, Whilst blatant Severn, from Sabrina cleped, Boars flemie o'er the sandes that she heaped. 3 These eyne-gears swithin[3] bringeth to my thought Of hardy champions knowen to the flood, How on the banks thereof brave Aelle fought, Aelle descended from Merce kingly blood, Warder of Bristol town and castle stede, Who ever and anon made Danes to bleed. 4 Methought such doughty men must have a sprite Dight in the armour brace that Michael bore, When he with Satan, king of Hell, did fight, And earth was drenched in a sea of gore; Or, soon as they did see the worlde's light, Fate had wrote down, 'This man is born to fight.' 5 Aelle, I said, or else my mind did say, Why is thy actions left so spare in story? Were I to dispone, there should liven aye, In earth and heaven's rolls thy tale of glory; Thy acts so doughty should for aye abide, And by their test all after acts be tried. 6 Next holy Wareburghus filled my mind, As fair a saint as any town can boast, Or be the earth with light or mirk ywrynde,[4] I see his image walking through the coast: Fitz-Hardynge, Bithrickus, and twenty moe, In vision 'fore my fantasy did go. 7 Thus all my wandering faitour[5] thinking strayed, And each digne[6] builder dequaced on my mind, When from the distant stream arose a maid, Whose gentle tresses moved not to the wind; Like to the silver moon in frosty night, The damoiselle did come so blithe and sweet. 8 No broidered mantle of a scarlet hue, No shoe-pikes plaited o'er with riband gear, No costly robes of woaden blue, Nought of a dress, but beauty did she wear; Naked she was, and looked sweet of youth, All did bewrayen that her name was Truth.