SCENE I.
AT BRYSTOWE.
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SCENE I.
BRISTOWE.
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HERAWDE
THE Tournament begynnes; the hammerrs sounde;
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SCENE I
MAGNUS, HURRA, and HIE PREESTE, wyth the ARMIE, neare Watchette.
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ANENT a brooklette as I laie reclynd,
Listeynge to heare the water glyde alonge,
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Mie boolie entes, adiewe: ne more the syghte
Of guilden merke shalle mete mie joieous eyne;
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Somme cherisaunei 'tys to gentle mynde,
Whan heie have chevyced theyre londe from bayne ,
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SCENE I.
CELMONDE, att BRYSTOWE.
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BOOKE st.
WHANNE Scythyannes, salvage as the wolves theie chacde,
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SPRYTES of the bleste, the pious Nygelle sed,
Poure owte yer pleasaunce onn mie fadres hedde.
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Wouldst thou kenn Nature in her better parte?
Goe, serche the logges and bordels of the hynde ;
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THOROWE the halle the belle han sounde;
Byelecoyle doe the Grave beseeme;
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Johne makes a jarre 'boute
Lancaster and Yorke.
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OH Truth! immortal daughter of the skies,
Too lyttle known to wryters of these daies,
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AS onn a hylle one eve sittynge,
At oure Ladie's Chyrche mouche wonderynge,
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ONNE Ruddeborne bank twa pynynge Maydens sate,
Theire teares faste dryppeynge to the waterre cleere;
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To JOHNE LADGATE.
WELL thanne, goode Johne, sythe ytt must needes be soe,
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THYS mornynge starre of Radcleves rysynge raie,
A true manne good of mynde and Canynge hyghte,
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WHANNE Englonde, smeethynge from her lethal wound;
From her galled necke dyd twytte the chayne awaie,
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STAY, curyous traveller, and pass not bye,
Until this fetive pile astounde thine eye.
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PERSONS REPRESENTED.
HAROLDE, bie T. Rowleie, the Aucthoure.
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O CHRYSTE, it is a grief for me to tell;
HOW manie a nobil erle and valrous knyghte
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THE featherd songster chaunticleer
Han wounde hys bugle horne,
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MAIE Selynesse on erthes boundes bee hadde?
Maie yt adyghte yn human shape bee founde?
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Revolving in their destin'd sphere,
The hours begin another year
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The night was cold, the wind was high,
And stars bespangled all the sky;
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Behold! just coming from above,
The judge, with majesty and love!
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Sharp was the frost, the wind was high
And sparkling stars bedeckt the sky
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In days of old, when Wesley's power
Gathered new strength by every hour;
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Says Tom to Jack, 'tis very odd,
These representatives of God,
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