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 Ælla welle? CELMONDE. Hee lyves; & stylle maie use The behylte[108] blessynges of a future yeare. BIRTHA. Whatte heavie tydynge thenne have I to feare? 940 Of whatte mischaunce dydste thou so latelie saie? CELMONDE. For heavie tydynges swythyn nowe prepare. Ælla sore wounded ys, yn bykerous fraie; In Wedecester's wallid toune he lyes. BIRTHA. O mie agroted breast! CELMONDE: Wythoute your syghte, he dyes. 945 BIRTHA. Wylle Birtha's presence ethe herr Ælla's payne? I flie; newe wynges doe from mie schoulderrs sprynge. CELMONDE. Mie stede wydhoute wylle deftelie beere us twayne. BIRTHA. Oh! I wyll flie as wynde, & no waie lynge; Sweftlie caparisons for rydynge brynge; 950 I have a mynde wynged wythe the levyn ploome. O Ælla, Ælla! dydste thou kenne the stynge, The whyche doeth canker ynne mie hartys roome, Thou wouldste see playne thieselfe the gare to bee; Aryse, uponne thie love, & flie to meeten mee. 955 CELMONDE.