The battelle jyned; swerdes uponne swerdes dyd rynge; Ælla was chased, as lyonns madded bee; 765 Lyche fallynge starres, he dydde the javlynn flynge; Hys mightie anlace mightie menne dyd slea; Where he dydde comme, the flemed[97] foe dydde flee, Or felle benethe hys honde, as fallynge rayne, Wythe syke a fhuyrie he dydde onn 'hemm dree, 770 Hylles of yer bowkes dyd ryse opponne the playne; Ælla, thou arte--botte staie, mie tynge; saie nee; Howe greate I hymme maye make, stylle greater hee wylle bee. Nor dydde hys souldyerres see hys actes yn vayne. Heere a stoute Dane uponne hys compheere felle; 775 Heere lorde & hyndlette sonke uponne the playne; Heere sonne & fadre trembled ynto helle. Chief Magnus sought hys waie, &, shame to telle! Hee soughte hys waie for flyghte; botte Ælla's speere Uponne the flyynge Dacyannes schoulder felle. 780 Quyte throwe hys boddie, & hys harte ytte tare, He groned, & sonke uponne the gorie greene, And wythe hys corse encreased the pyles of Dacyannes sleene. Spente wythe the fyghte, the Danyshe champyons stonde, Lyche bulles, whose strengthe & wondrous myghte ys fledde; 785 Ælla, a javelynne grypped yn eyther honde, Flyes to the thronge, & doomes two Dacyannes deadde. After hys acte, the armie all yspedde; Fromm everich on unmyssynge javlynnes flewe; Theie straughte yer doughtie swerdes; the foemenn bledde; 790 Fulle three of foure of myghtie Danes dheie slewe; The Danes, wythe terroure rulynge att their head, Threwe downe theyr bannere talle, & lyche a ravenne fledde. The soldyerres followed wythe a myghtie crie, Cryes, yatte welle myghte the stouteste hartes affraie. 795 Swefte, as yer shyppes, the vanquyshed Dacyannes flie; Swefte, as the rayne uponne an Aprylle daie, Pressynge behynde, the Englysche soldyerres slaie. Botte halfe the tythes of Danyshe menne remayne; Ælla commaundes 'heie shoulde the sleetre staie, 800 Botte bynde 'hem prysonners on the bloddie playne. The fyghtynge beynge done, I came awaie, In odher fieldes to fyghte a moe unequalle fraie. Mie servant squyre! CELMONDE, SERVITOURE. CELMONDE. Prepare a fleing horse, Whose feete are wynges, whose pace ys lycke the wynde, 805 Whoe wylle outestreppe the morneynge lyghte yn course, Leaveynge the gyttelles of the merke behynde. Somme hyltren matters doe mie presence fynde. Gyv oute to alle yatte I was sleene ynne fyghte. Gyff ynne thys gare thou doest mie order mynde, 810 Whanne I returne, thou shalte be made a knyghte; Flie, flie, be gon; an howerre ys a daie; Quycke dyghte mie beste of stedes, & brynge hymm heere--awaie! CELMONDE.