ÆLLA.
Reading edition
CELMONDE, att BRYSTOWE.
Before yonne roddie sonne has droove hys wayne Throwe halfe hys joornie, dyghte yn gites[1] of goulde, Mee, happeless mee, hee wylle a wretche behoulde, Mieselfe, and al that's myne, bounde ynne myschaunces chayne.
Ah! Birtha, whie dydde Nature frame thee fayre? 5 Whie art thou all thatt poyntelle[2] canne bewreene[3]? Whie art thou nott as coarse as odhers are?— Botte thenn thie soughle woulde throwe thy vysage sheene, Yatt shemres onn thie comelie semlykeene[4], Lyche nottebrowne cloudes, whann bie the sonne made redde, 10 Orr scarlette, wythe waylde lynnen clothe ywreene[5], Syke[6] woulde thie spryte upponn thie vysage spredde. Thys daie brave Ælla dothe thyne honde & harte Clayme as hys owne to be, whyche nee fromm hys moste parte.
And cann I lyve to see herr wythe anere[7]! 15 Ytt cannotte, muste notte, naie, ytt shalle not bee. Thys nyghte I'll putte stronge poysonn ynn the beere, And hymm, herr, and myselfe, attenes[8] wyll slea. Assyst mee, Helle! lett Devylles rounde mee tende, To slea mieselfe, mie love, & eke mie doughtie[9] friende. 20