HAROLDE, bie T. Rowleie, the Aucthoure.
GODDWYN, bie Johan de Iscamme.
ELWARDE, bie Syrr Thybbot Gorges.
ALSTAN, bie Syrr Alan de Vere.
KYNGE EDWARD; bie Mastre Wilyam Canynge.
Odhers bie Knyghtes Mynnstrells.

WHYLOMME bie pensmenne moke ungentle name
Have upon Goddwynne Erle of Kente bin layde,
Dherebie benymmynge hymme of faie and fame;
Unliart divinistres haveth saide,
Thatte he was knowen toe noe hallie wurche ;
Botte thys was all hys faulte, he gyfted ne the churche.
The aucthoure of the piece whiche we enacte,
Albeytte a clergyon trouthe wyll wrytte.
Inne drawynge of hys menne no wytte ys lackte;
Entyn a kynge mote bee full pleased to nyghte.
Attende, and marcke the partes nowe to be done;
Wee better for toe doe do champyon anie onne.

Mie loverde!
O! I weepe to thyncke,
What foemen riseth to isrete the londe.
Theie batten onne her fleshe, her hartes bloude dryncke,
And all ys graunted from the roieal honde.
Lette notte this agreme blyn ne aledge stonde;
Bee I toe wepe, I wepe in teres of gore.
Am I betrassed , syke shulde mie burlie bronde
Depeyncte the wronges on hym from whom I bore.
I ken thie spryte ful welle; gentle thou art,
Stringe , ugsomme rou as smethynge armyes seeme;
Yett efte , I feare, thie chefes toe grete a parte,
And that thie rede bee efte borne downe bie breme .
What tydynges from the kynge?
His Normans know.
I make noe compheeres of the shemrynge trayne.
Ah Harolde! tis a syghte of myckle woe,
To kenne these Normannes everich rennome gayne.
What tydynge withe the foulke ?
Stylle mormorynge atte yer shap , stylle toe the kynge
Theie rolle theire trobbles, lyche a sorgie sea.
Hane Englonde thenne a tongue, butte notte a stynge?
Dothe alle compleyne, yette none wylle ryghted bee?
Awayte the tyme, whanne Godde wylle sende us ayde.
No, we muste streve to ayde oureselves wyth powre.
Whan Godde wylle sende us ayde! tis fetelie prayde.
Moste we those calke awaie the lyve-longe howre?
Thos croche oure armes, and ne toe lyve dareygne ,
Unburled , undelievre , unespryte ?
Far fro mie harte be fled thyk thoughte of peyne,
Ile free mie countrie, or Ille die yn fyghte.
Botte lette us wayte untylle somme season fytte.
Mie Kentyshmen, thie Summertons shall ryse;
Adented prowess to the gite of witte,
Agayne the argent horse shall daunce yn skies.
Oh Harolde, heere forstraughteynge wanhope lies.
Englonde, oh Englonde, tys for thee I blethe .
Whylste Edwarde to thie sonnes wylle nete alyse ,
Shulde anie of thie sonnes sele aughte of ethe ?
Upponne the trone I sette thee, helde thie crowne;
Botte oh! twere hommage nowe to pyghte thee downe.
Thou arte all preeste, & notheynge of the kynge.
Thou arte all Norman, nothynge of mie blodde.
Know, ytte beseies thee notte a masse to synge;
Servynge thie leegefolcke thou arte servynge Godde.
Thenne Ille doe heaven a servyce. To the skyes
The dailie contekes of the londe ascende,
The wyddowe, fahdrelesse, & bondemennes cries
Acheke the mokie aire & heaven astende
On us the rulers doe the folcke depende
Hancelled from erthe these Normanne hyndes shalle bee;
Lyche a battently low , mie swerde shalle brende ;
Lyche fallynge softe rayne droppes, I wyll hem slea .
Wee wayte too longe; our purpose wylle defayte
Aboune the hyghe empryze , & rouze the champyones strayte.
Thie suster --
Aye, I knowe, she is his queene.
Albeytte , dyd shee speeke her foemen fayre,
I wulde dequace her comlie semlykeene ,
And foulde mie bloddie anlace yn her hayre.
Thye fhuir blyn .
No, bydde the leathal mere ,
Upriste withe hiltrene wyndes & cause unkend ,
Beheste it to be lete ; so twylle appeare,
Eere Harolde hyde hys name, his contries frende.
The gule-steyncte brygandyne , the adventayle
The feerie anlace brede shal make mie gare prevayle.
Harolde, what wuldest doe?
Bethyncke thee whatt,
Here liethe Englonde, all her drites unfree,
Here liethe Normans coupynge her bie lotte,
Caltysnyng everich native plante to gre
Whatte woulde I doe? I brondeous wulde hem slee ;
Tare owte theyre sable harte bie ryghtefulle breme ;
Theyre deathe a meanes untoe mie lyfe shulde bee,
Mie spryte shulde revelle yn theyr harte-blodde streme.
Eftsoones I wylle bewryne mie ragefulle ire,
And Goddis anlace wielde yn furie dyre.
Whatte wouldest thou wythe the kynge?
Take offe hys crowne;
The ruler of somme mynster hym ordeyne;
Sette uppe som dygner than I han pyghte downe;
And peace in Englonde shulde be brayd agayne.
No, lette the super-hallie seyncte kynge reygne,
Ande somme moe reded rule the untentyff reaulme;
Kynge Edwarde, yn hys cortesie, wylle deygne
So to yielde the spoiles, and alleyne were the heaulme
Botte from mee harte bee everych thoughte of gayne,
Nor anie of mie kin I wysche him to ordeyne.
Tell me the meenes, and I wylle boute ytte strayte;
Bete mee to slea mieself, ytte shalle be done.
To thee I wylle swythynne the menes unplayte ,
Bie whyche thou, Harolde, shalte be proved mie sonne.
I have longe seen whatte peynes were undergon,
Whatte agrames braunce out from the general tree;
The tyme ys commynge, whan the mollock gron
Drented of alle yts swolynge owndes shalle bee;
Mie remedie is goode; our menne shall ryse.
Eftsoons the Normans and owre agrame flies.
I will to the West, and gemote alle the knyghtes,
Wythe bylles that pancte for blodde, and sheeldes as brede
As the ybroched moon, when blaunch she dyghtes
The wodeland grounde or water-mantled mede;
Wythe hondes whose myghte canne make the doughtiest blede,
Who efte have knelte upon forslagen foes,
Whoe wythe yer fote orrests a castle-stede
Who dare on kynges for to bewrecke yiere woes;
Nowe wylle the menne of Englonde haile the daie,
Whan Goddwyn leades them to the ryghtfulle fraie.
Botte firste we'll call the loverdes of the West,
The erles of Mercia, Conventrie and all;
The moe wee gayne, the gare wylle prosper beste,
Wythe syke a nomber wee can never fall.
True, so wee sal doe best to lyncke the chayne,
And alle attenes the spreddynge kyngedomme bynde.
No crouched champyone wythe an harte moe feygne
Dyd yssue owte the hallie swerde to fynde,
Than I nowe strev to ryd mie londe of peyne.
Goddwyn, what thanckes owre laboures wylle enhepe!
I'lle ryse mie friendes unto the bloddie pleyne;
I'lle wake the honnoure thatte ys now aslepe.
When wylle the chiefes mete atte thie feastive halle,
That I wythe voice alowde maie there upon 'em calle?
Next eve, mie sonne.
Nowe, Englonde, ys the tyme,
Whan thee or thie felle foemens cause moste die.
Thie geason wronges bee reyne ynto theyre pryme;
Nowe wylle thie sonnes unto thie succoure flie.
Alyche a storm egederinge yn the skie,
Tys fulle ande brasteth on the chaper grounde;
Sycke shalle mie fhuirye on the Normans flie,
And alle theyre mittee
Nowe, nowe, wylle Harolde or oppressionne falle,
Ne moe the Englyshmenne yn vayne for hele shal calle.

BOTTE, loverde , whie so manie Normannes here?
Mee thynckethe wee bee notte yn Englyshe londe.
These browded straungers alwaie doe appere,
Theie parte yor trone , and sete at your ryghte honde.
Go to, goe to, you doe ne understonde.
Theie yeave mee lyffe, and dyd mie bowkie kepe;
Theie dyd mee feeste, and did embowre me gronde;
To trete hem ylle wulde lette mie kyndnesse slepe.
Mancas you have yn store, and to them parte;
Youre leege-folcke make moke dole , you have theyr worthe asterte .
I heste no rede of you. I ken mie friendes.
Hallie dheie are, fulle ready mee