The works of Sir William Mure of Rowallan Edited with introduction, notes, and glossary by William Tough |
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 | The works of Sir William Mure of Rowallan |  |
193
FANCIES FAREWELL
195
Son. 1.
[Too long, my Muse, (ah) thou too long didst toile]
Too long, my Muse, (ah) thou too long didst toile,An Æthiopian striving to make white;
Lost seede on furrowes of a fruitlesse soile,
Which doth thy trauells but with Tares acquite.
Hence-foorth fare-well all counterfeit delyte,
Blinde Dwarfling, I disclaime thy deitie,
My Pen thy Trophees neuer more shall write:
Nor after shall thine arts enveigle mee.
With sacred straines, reaching a higher key,
My Thoughts aboue thy fictions farre aspire:
Mounted on wings of immortalitie,
I feele my brest warmde with a wountless fire.
My Muse a strange enthusiasme inspires,
And peece and peece thy flamme in smoake expires.
Son. 2.
[Houres mis-employed, evanisht as a dreame]
Houres mis-employed, evanisht as a dreame,My lapse from Vertue and recourse to Ill,
I should, I would, I dare not say I will,
By due repentance and remorse redeeme.
Love's false delight and beautees blazing beame
Too long benighted haue my dazled eyes.
By Youth misled, I too too much did prise
Deceaving shads, toyes worthy no esteame.
Plungde in the tyde of that impetuous streame,
Where fynest wits haue frequent naufrage made.
O heavenly Pilote, I implore thine aide!
Rescue my Soule, in danger most extreame:
Conduct mee to thy Mercyes Port, I pray,
Save Lord; oh let mee not bee cast away!
196
Sonnet 3.
[Looke home my Soule, deferre not to repent]
Looke home my Soule, deferre not to repent,Time euer runnes: in sloath great dangers ly:
Impostumde soares the patient most torment,
While wounds are greene the salve with speed apply,
Workes once adjourn'd good successe seldome try,
Delay's attended still with discontent:
Thrise happie hee takes time ere time slyde by
And doth by fore-sight after-wit prevent.
Look on thy labours: timouslie lament:
Trees are hewde down vnwholesome fruits bring foorth.
Thy younger yeares, youthes sweet Aprile mispent,
Strive to redeeme with works of greater worth.
Looke home, I say, make haste: O shunne delay:
Hoyse sayle while tyde doth last: Time posts away.
Finis.
| The works of Sir William Mure of Rowallan | |