Book 11
Which was the onely thing that made her loving hart to bend:
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All taryance will assuredly seeme over long to mee.
And by my fathers blasing beames I make my vow to thee
That at the furthest ere the tyme (if God therto agree)
The moone doo fill her circle twyce, ageine I will heere bee.
When in sum hope of his returne this promis had her set,
He willd a shippe immediatly from harbrough to bee fet,
And throughly rigged for to bee, that neyther maast, nor sayle,
Nor tackling, no nor other thing should apperteyning fayle.
Which when Alcyone did behold, as one whoose hart misgave
The happes at hand, shee quaakt ageine, and teares out gusshing drave.
And streyning Ceyx in her armes with pale and piteous looke,
Poore wretched soule, her last farewell at length shee sadly tooke,
And swounded flat uppon the ground. Anon the watermen
(As Ceyx sought delayes and was in dowt to turne agen)
Set hand to Ores, of which there were two rowes on eyther syde,
And all at once with equall stroke the swelling sea devyde.
Shee lifting up her watrye eyes behilld her husband stand
Uppon the hatches making signes by beckening with his hand:
And shee made signes to him ageine. And after that the land
Was farre removed from the shippe, and that the sight began
To bee unable to discerne the face of any man,
As long as ere shee could shee lookt uppon the rowing keele.
And when shee could no longer tyme for distance ken it weele,
Shee looked still uppon the sayles that flasked with the wynd
Uppon the maast. And when shee could the sayles no longer fynd,
She gate her to her empty bed with sad and sorye hart,
And layd her downe. The chamber did renew afresh her smart,
And of her bed did bring to mynd the deere departed part.
From harbrough now they quyght were gone: and now a plasant gale
Did blowe. The mayster made his men theyr Ores asyde to hale,
And hoysed up the toppesayle on the hyghest of the maast,
And clapt on all his other sayles bycause no wind should waast.
Scarce full t'one half, (or sure not much above) the shippe had ronne
Uppon the sea and every way the land did farre them shonne,
When toward night the wallowing waves began to waxen whyght,
And eeke the heady easterne wynd did blow with greater myght,
Anon the Mayster cryed: Strike the toppesayle, let the mayne
Sheate flye and fardle it to the yard. Thus spake he, but in vayne,
For why so hideous was the storme uppon the soodeine brayd,
