More Reliques of Rowley. | 647 
To dandle me on hie and plaie withalle— 
Somtime upon dhie kneen thou wuldft me pyghte 
Crie boh! from undernethe dhie aventalle, 
Or inne the horfetayle yatte dhie helmet dyghte, 
Shackle mie lyttle hondes, and mocke mie ydel flyzhte. 
Then wuld thou fondle me with connynge games 
And to mie lifped prarrle wende dhine eare, 
Teche me to fpeke grete names, not Brydyan names, 
Syche names I wyfhe mic hufbond for to weare. 
Hengift. Kiffe me, thou moveft me, mie hertis deare. 
Rowene. Nilt miffe Rowene >? Sythen mie modherre dyde 
Saie when do I the duteous care forbeare ? 
Thie wantes and wythes have I not efpyde, 
And on dhie wandrynge fuorfteppe wayted farre and wyde? 
Han nor mie hondes dhie dailie meale ydizhte, 
And on dhie reftyng-ftede outfpredde the ftrowe, 
And made dhine armure fheente for the fighte, 
Kerchefde the fwette ov batrayle offe dhie browe, 
Sownded with wholefome wort the paineful blowe, 
Y¥fuckde the ragged woundes ov cruelle warre, 
And fayde the rimes yatte ftoppe the bloodde to flowe ? 
Hengift. Maiden, thou haft. 
Rowene. Then fende me not afarre 
Fro countrie, freendes, and thee: Thie harde intente o barre. 
Hengift. 1 flal not leave dee botte henceafter wone ~ 
In Brydyan londe dhie goodneffe to repaye. 
Rowene. Emptie mefeeme the gaudes yatte decke a trone. 
Seeke me the man whofe deedes the fkald fhul faye 
To aftertymes, not he yatte prankes awaye - 
Inne ftate unearnde and praifeleffe oucherite. 
Hengifi. Mie troth is plyght: I yet moft faic dhee naye. 
Thefe feemlie teares of maiden modeftie 
O blinne awhile Rowene. Ye men of fong be nie. 
A Skald Art thou yfled fro Dethmolds wood 
fingetb. Youth ov the traylynge fpeare— 
I quak’de the while I thoughte you bold 
Wanhope awaytes your feare. 
Theye dar’de ne face the feelde ov fyghte - 
Botte foughte the hylfterde pathe 
Han ye theire craven wayes ylearn’de 
And they youre nobyl wrathe ? 
Thilke weren the bitterre wordes y{poke 
Reen Withelms {peede to fiaye. - 
W yth faultrynge lyppe the faire Elgive 
The bitterre wordes did faye. 
Wan as the moone her wo-whyte cheke 
Her bofome bet fuli hye, 
Lyche the wood-vilet bryghte with dewe 
Her teareful dark-blewe eye. 
Sooth am I come, oufighthde the boye, 
Fro Dethmo!ds wood of wo. 
We far’de to feeke the tofked boare, 
We fonde the lurkynge fo. 
402 Hafie 
