University of Virginia Library

THE PREFACE.

It come not only of my awin consait,
In Inglish toung, this story to translait.
Nor zit it was my selfe that did deuyse,
For till attempt so peirt an enterpyse.
Lat him that bad me, beir the haill rebuke,
And me excuse, the enterpryse that tuke.
Requeistit be ane Scollar as I say,
I wes eschamed, his sute to dissobay.
Not for na lairning quhilk he saw in me,
Bot done expres, to proue my poetrie:
Quhairin I grant, in coulers and degreis,
Ar mone faults and gret absurdities.
Howbeid so be my author hes na blame,
Bot it is I, that dois resaue the schame.
Yet haue I done, the thing that lyis in me,
To keipe the coulour of his propertie.
I can not tell, how thay the authour call,
Quho of this buk, wes first originall.
Na dout, bot it hes bene composd by Clarks,
Els recollectit out of Ovids warks.
Mone thair be that dois this mening moue,
Becaus this laureat Poet, wryts of loue.
Quha euer it be, that hes the author bene,
He hes na schame, the wark may weil be sene.
Sumtyme it is als necessair as meit,
To haue consaits to recreat the spreit.
The Poet heir implois his hail pretence,
To myrrie mowis, not tending to small sence.
Quhairin thou planely, may persaue and see,
As in ane specular before thine eie.
Quhat skaith acurs ill company to hant,
As Galathea dois confes and grant.
Cursing the day of hir natiuitie,
That sche had hantit in sic companie.
Namely of Anvs, quho did her bechok,
And brocht her blindlings, on this schameful blok.
As efterward intill effect sche fand,
Quhilk till all maids, may for example stand.
Sic peruers company, for till forbeir,
And to thair counsall not to len thair eir.
Be Pamphilvs, he likwais dois present,
The crukit cours, and fleschly full intent.
And heir be Venvs, is demonstrat to,
The fleschlie cours, quhilk nature bids vs do.
Thairfore tak tent this mater to remeid,
The peth of lufe is parralus indeid.
And as the Poet in sum pairts dois say,
Lufe is baith frost and snaw, in mids of May.
It is a thing mens sensis for to moue,
To enter in the laborinth of loue.
Thairfore bewar with sicklik things to mell,
Vnles thairin ye intricat your sell.
The subtill schafts of Cvpid ar maist kene,
For be his counsall fail, hes blindit bene.
Sum Poets pens of Venvs majestie,
And cals hir medcin, of Malancolie.
At the first face thocht it be sweit but dout,
Into the end it bitternes brings out.
It is worse then, ane laborynth I thinke,
To fall in such a perrilous precinct.
I think it not convenient for the cace,
For to deduce exampils in this place.
Sen I haue thame discriuid maist copiuslie,
As into my adition ye sall see.
Quhairin, I say men may thame selfs resolue,
This lytill volume, gif thay wald reuolue.
Quhairby I think the reder sall get gane,
And I sall not repent me of my pane.
Out of zour breists dame Venvs pangs expel
And se sche not insinuat hir sell.
That is als mutch, as gif thou wald requier,
To tak fat oyle for quenching of the fier.
Ouer gret resort, sum time ingenders wo,
With Venvs court, quho chancis for to go.
For wantoun lukis, the messengers of loue,
Temps mone men & maks thair harts to moue.
Thocht femenin be fragrant and formose,
Sum Poets be compairs thame to the rose.
Thocht it be rid, and fellun fair of hew,
Zit in the stalke, scharp pyks it hes anew.
Thocht thay aboue be beutifull and fair,
Perhaps beneth thair pyks may pik the sair.
That this is trew, experience plain dois proue
Quhair men I mene lyis in licencius loue.
To mak remeid, and set thy mynd at eis,
And for to suffocat thir flams that fleis.
Conjoine thy selfe, in honest marage band,
Acording as the Lord hes geuin command.
Suspend your frendlie censure in this cace,
And lufinglie this lytill book imbrace.
Seing it is the first and formest fruits
Of my small gairding, full of widerit ruits.
The first crop of the ground, is not so gud,
As the second quhilk ye may conclud.
Thairfore redarguat not my dull ingyne,
Sen with gud will my cair I doe inclyne.
This mater to make manifest to the,
Quhilk to thy eir delectabill sall be.
Not for na sacond terms, quhilk thou sall fynd,
Nather before, nor in the pairt behynd.
I pride me mair, the truth for to repeit,
Nor into rethorik flours to flow and fleit.
Better with simpill wourds to keepe the way,
Nor with trim termes, to er and go astray.
Althoch that I wald from my mater flie,
The warke in latin extant is to se.
Quhilk may correct me, quhen I mak offence
Quhairfore I am compeld, to keepe the sens.
And imitat my author lyne be lyne,
Quhilk maks my vers, so darkly for to schyne.
Perchance gif I had pend at libertie,
My vers had bene mair elegant and hie.
Out of the way I haue not gretlie sweruid,
His method I so dewlie haue obseruid.
I haif omitit na thing be my brane,
Bot rather amplifiet the mater plane.
Esteme not that I of my selfe mak ruce,
Bot in translation thair is sum abuce.
Zit als subcinctlie, as I culd or micht,
The sentence I haif prosecute aricht.
And thocht my vers, be not poeticall,
Nor sounding of the court rethoricall.
Nor thocht I be not of Precoxel spreit,
Nor into wit, ouer pregnant or pereit.
Bot as ane scoller laikand lair and skill,
I you beseik, to ponder my gud will.
And luk not at my hands, quho this compils,
For cureous frasis, or for ornat stils.
Nor luk not, les thy selfe thou suld abuse,
For polist terms, proceding from my muse.
Vnles that my prolixnes suld you pane,
Into reciting, one thing over agane.
I will conclud and schortlie mak an end,
Praying you not this warke to vilipend.
Gif vertue be extold, or rusid I say,
It flurish will, as flours in mids of May.
Quhair be the contrair, vertew wants exces,
It dois decay, and vtterlie decres.
Euin so gif thou this wark disdainfull hauld,
In time to come my courage will wax cauld.
Bot thou esteming of my poesie,
Farther to write it may incourage me.
Quhilk vnto the mair comfort sal redound,
And to the glore of God mair gretlie sound.