To the Richt High Lodvvik Duke of Lenox :: :: University of Virginia Library

VVoundit I am and in my breist expresse,
Ane dart obscure lies lurken priuilie:
Nocht onely lufe throuch my corps dois acres
Bot dolour daily dois augment in me.
Quho schot the schaft and strucke the straik trulie,
The name na waies I dare expreme nor tell:
For lufe, I say, may neuer thole nor see,
The sight or contemplatioun of it sell.

Quhairthrow the perrells greter are I say,
Nor is the domage of my skaith indeid:
No helpe of helth I thinke in ony way.
May medecene giue, my pains for to remeid.
Be what way than; can I cum ony speid,
To plucke my selfe from yis cairfull consait.
Alas, quhat sall I do now into neid,
I may be countit in ane stackren stait.

I murne, I plene in anguisch and in baill,
And not but caus to cares I do incline,
Seeing no helpe of counsall can awaill,
Vnto my persoun quhilk remains in pine.
Of mony things sin I suffer reuine,
Of mony things I had gret mister to,
For oft times craft with pleasour dois propine,
The awin maister quhen he hes ado.

Bot gif my lufe discouer and lat see,
And in effect the face make sene and bair,

Quhairfra it come and quhat it selfe mot be,
And quha the armour dewly did prepaire:
Perchance the selfe sic esperance micht spaire,
That it wald schortly make the awin remeid,
Hope, oft times helps the Maister into cair,
And oft times it dois him desaiue indeid.

Or gif it couer the face in sic a sort,
Throuch dolour and feir, that it may not be kend,
Or gif that lufe, sal neuer seike support,
Of helth, quhilk first that maladie man mend:
Perchance war things, sall cum me til offend,
Nor were the former, quhilk molestit me,
So sall it cum to passe into the end,
Into displesour for to duine and die.

Better it is to let things cum to licht,
For fire vnseene is vehement with reik,
Bot as for fire that is put into sicht,
Ye se it is mair moderate and meik:
And thairfoir now to Venvs will I speik,
Our life, our deid, and naturall nourishment,
All things are led and gidit be hir eik,
Sic is hir counsal and gouernement.

Pamphilus speaks to Venus.

God saue you Venvs and your hail exces,
Our hope of helth in quhome we do espier,
That causis all things that are more and lesse,
for to gif place and yeild to thine impier:
The power of Captains quhen thou dois requier,
And michty monarchs seruis quhen thou commands
O godly Venvs spair I thee desire,
My simple vowis and supplicant demandis.

Be thou nocht hard, O Venvs I besiek,

My humble praiers see thou not neglect,
Bot graunt thou that quhilk I do sute and seike,
Seing the mater is of small effect:
Smal thing saide I, for so I did suspect,
Bot to me caitife muche thai ar as zit,
It is not harde to thee quha art elect,
To grant thir thingis, thocht thay wer twise so grit.

Gif thou wald grant and let my speich cum speid,
I wald be blist, and turne away to rest,
Sua suld all things weill prosper and succeid,
And turne to me in all things for the best:
Ane damisell neir hand me is adrest,
Quhome I mislike, that scho suld heir remaine,
Gif sche war absent, this I wald protest,
Sche wald releiue me meikil of my paine.

Nar fire ay vsis for to doe mair ill,
Nor fire quhairfra, folke may flee far abak,
Quhairfoir I seike your fauour and gud will,
For to releiue and helpe me in this fact:
Sche is estemit mair frolick fair and frack,
Nor all hir nichbours and hir fallow feirs,
I am desaiuit, and lufe is far to lake,
Gif sche surmount not far aboue hir peirs.

My inwert pains sche dois baith perse and prick,
With dolent darts, quhilk in me dois abide,
Thir dolent darts quhilk in my hart dois stick,
Na force of mine may thame remoue aside:
Quhairfoir al hours, ye euery time and tide,
The dolorous wounds molests me mony wais,
My colour and my strencth from me dois slide,
My bewtie als, decressis and decais.

This tale I keipit secreit and obscure,
Nocht schawing, quho maid first my woundis to beil,

Iust cause there was the sooth I you assure,
Quhilk me forbad the matter to reueill.
She is esteemit of nobler race and quheill,
Nor I, quhairto I schortly condiscend,
Whairfoir my secreitis now I will conseill,
Fering that sche my wourdis suld vilie pend.

In geir and ritches sche surpassis me,
Quhilk to be true richt weill I do consider,
For ritches oftimes seikis as we may see
Honour and tocher baith conioynit togither:
Suppose my ritches simple be and slider,
Yet honour and renoune with me remains,
Bot that quilk I may get or conqueis hider,
The same I get with diligence and pains.

Sen sche the dochter is as I suspect,
Of sum ritch berger quhilk inhabits heir,
Amangis a thousand ane sche will elect,
Quhome best sche lufes and greatest lufe dois beir,
My trembling members in my flesch dois feir,
To see hir forme quilk puts me in ane fyer,
Bot mony causis euident and cleir,
Forbids me plaine to tell of my desier.

Pride quhilk procedis of forme and wauering wittis,
Prouokis proud harts to follow furth that traine,
For pride I say not suffers nor permittis:
In modestie ye maistres to remaine:
I sailzit oft from thir flammis to refraine,
And from my hart with force thame till haife dung,
Bot lufe me vrgit ay mair and mair againe,
Quhen I begoud the same for to repung.

My misery ye may behold and se,
My dolour als is not to thee vnkend,
Thairfoir I pray thee present for to be,

And on my praier let thy lufe extend,
Venvs, to me na answer thou dois send,
Nor to my wourdis thou not inclines thine eir,
Thine christall eies on mine dois not discend,
Naither to me thy fauour dois apeir.

Take out the arrows that so swiftlie flies,
Out of my hart quhilk dois it breke and bruse,
Or els my woundis ze metigat and meis,
Conforme vnto the fashioun quilk ye vse,
Quha can susteine the care and great confuse,
Of so grete labours and sic strange intents,
Quhat care is it that walde rewardes refuse,
Vnto the murning maister that laments.

I schaw thir things so that ye may perceaue,
Quhat carefull dolour all my courage clokes,
The griefe and dolour quhilk I do conceiue,
To ardent praiers daily me prouokes.

Now answers Venus to Pamphilus.

Than Venvs speikis vnto this lufer boy,
Against grete labour nothing can resist,
For ony maid or lasse ye may inioy,
With warke and labour gif ye like or list,
Eschame not then nor feir not till incist,
To schaw thy mind to quhome thou wald apply,
Scarce of a thousand ane I wald thou wist,
Sall giue the na say with ane plaine denie.

Sche quhome thou seikis with praier till intrait,
Fra thy desire perchance will change hir eir,
Bot not regard hir carlage rouch consait,
Seeing the burding is bot light to beir,
The wicked byer on his backe dois beir,
That sorte of marchandrise to schange and sell,

Quhilk first the seller by ane aith did sweir,
Nocht for to haife as he the truth did tell.

To sail the Sea men wald not be content,
Gif that thair harts, for feir suld faint and fail,
Quhair raging wauis and waters turbilent,
Gainestandis the schip, and dois the same assail:
Than gif thou seest sche fauours not thy tail,
Euin at the first vpoun ane suddentie,
Be bissie than, to win hir fauour hail,
With craftie art and great subtilitie.

Craft breks mens minds thocht thay astray be boun,
And touns destrois thocht thay be strang and wicht
Castels throw craft are strucken and dung doun,
Likewais by craft, the burding is maid licht:
Fisches are tane by craft, and subtil slicht,
Beneith the fludis and waters that dois fleit,
Also by craft, men ryns baith day and nicht,
Drie fute on Sea, but waknes or but weit.

Ye craft and office, with ane subtill tred,
Helpis mony things, that wald returne to wrack,
Pure men oft times are nutrefeit and fed,
Vpoun the simple schift quhilk they may make:
Howbeit ane Prence despite and malice take,
By craft his spite to pleasour may appeir,
Ane giltie man by craft stands stout and fracke,
Preseruing baith his body and his geir.

The rich man now reioysis ye may se,
Quho wont before to sing dame Purtethis sang,
And now on horsebacke he is montit he,
Quha on his fute befoire wes wont to gang:
Things that by Parents na wais did belang,
Bot be dame Fortune that maist noble dame,
This craft and office hes giuin for ane fang,

Vnto the exerciser of the sam.

Perchance gif that thou seis sche disobay,
To do your dewty quhilk with pains ye wan,
Zit not the les, see thou be ready ay,
To serue and please hir so far as ye can:
Be this remeid, I think ye may and man,
Your lemens strife, and boste orecum the more,
And so ane lufer ye obtaine sall than,
Quho to you did profes ane foe before.

Into those placis quhair sche hantis or bourdis,
Or hes maist hanting so far as ye se,
Pretend ye thair to feid thame with fair wourdis
With merry mowis and sportis that plesant be:
Youtheheid lufes blithnes, and sweit melody,
With sporting wourdis best seruing thair behoofe,
This drawis the harts of young men halilie,
Fast for til enter in the snaris of lufe.

Schaw thou thy selfe, so sal thou not be deimd,
With visage blyth, quhilk wil content hir best,
For ay ane man the lustier is esteimd,
The mair with blythnes that he be possest:
See thou be not ouer quiet or degest,
Naither thy toung superfluously apply,
For damisels are euer mair adrest,
Thy countenance and gesture till espy.

Sweit modestie and plesant talke procuris,
And lufe dois nutrifie as all men seis,
For plesant talke not onely harts alluris,
Bot cruell minds dois metegat and meis:
Gif place be grantit than quhair euer it beis,
Proceid with courage baith to skeip and loup,
Sche sall nocht onely thee propine and pleis,
Bot gif thee that, of quhilk thou had na houp.

Shamefastnes not permits hir till espire,
To seike that thing quhiilk sche wald fainest bie,
Bot that quhairof sche hes ane maist disire.
That samin thing sche titest will denie.
Sche thinkes it is mair honester say I,
Be force and strength her maidinhead to tine,
Nor for to say I plainely wil applie,
Cum do your will and so the shame war mine.

Beware my counsail heir I will thee len,
Gif thou to litle domiscill succeid,
Se thou conseale and na waies let her ken,
Thy pouertie necessitie or neid,
But diligence we see driues ouer indeid,
Ane honest life thocht thair be litle geir,
And can cloke ouer hir teares in time of steid,
With cheirfull countenance for till appeir.

By thy behauiour and thy wordis but dout,
Thou maist esteeme thy selfe for to be fine,
For hap and chance oftimes we se fall out,
Vpon an small industrie and ingine,
Men in the warld haue money things be line,
Quhilk to their nichbours not the same recordis,
Be this I say ye may consider sine,
How mony to hir qualities accordis.

Quhiles lesings helps as we may se our sell,
And be that mene sum makes thair profit weill,
Hurtful it is somtime the truth to tell,
And in al things the veritie to reueile,
Se that great gifts thou distribute and deale.
To seruand men and handmaids of her house.
Namely to sic as of her hes best feile,
And can perswade her with sweete wordes and dous.

Se so thou doe for this cause and behoofe,

That thay of thee may make report at hame,
And feid thy lustie Lady and thy lufe,
With lufing praises to thy laud and fame:
Quhile sche excogitatis and weis the schame,
And hes the ballance present in hir hand,
Quhither sche mindis for til fulfill the same,
Or quhither sche the samin will gainstand.

Than bissie be to tire hir with assais,
For so the bad, that blindit artchour boy,
Thou being victor, be thir menis and wais,
In schorter space, thy lufe thou sal inioy:
The mind of man, gets mony tost and toy,
Quhiles heir, quhiles thair, bewrapit round about,
In paine, perplexity, and gret anoy,
Ay quhile he leuis and lies into this dout.

Sum trinschman true, man in this mater mell,
Quho wald content you baith, for litle hier,
And in this mater, quietly culd tell,
Quhat war the thing, that baith ye did desier:
Inuious age, ay subject vntill Ier,
The deids of young men, dois serch out and seik,
And angry age, subiect to flite and flyer,
Forbids young men, sic purposis to speik.

Begin, for time hes giuin, and sall gif yit,
Things, that by expectatioun sall appeir,
No lufe sall be, in that place, I promit,
Quhairin ye mister, for to dout or feir:
I say na mair, and thairfoir gif gud eir,
Tak tent to win your lufe, that disobais,
The warke begun, sall schaw the selfe maist cleir,
And sall proceid, ane thousand sindry wais.

Pamphilus speakis with himselfe.

Ane hail man makis small comfort to consaue,
In him that lies desesid, into distres,
Hereby, the Patient, na wais can persaue,
His maladie, and sicknes maid the les:
My dolorous tormentis, na wais dois decres,
By Venvs counsail, thocht hir speich be plane,
Bot pains of lufe, my persoun dois poces,
Returning backward to my breist agane.

For ay before, my hope affixt wes fast,
Into dame Venvs, thinking to get gane,
Frame, my hope, and esperance, is past,
Bot dolour still within me dois remaine:
My marinell hes left me frustrat waine,
In waters deipe, and fludis of all mischief,
Ane heuening place and port I seik with paine,
Yit can I find nane, for my schips relief.

Quhat sall I do? for faine I wald eschew,
My esperance, in hir remains no more,
It mo behouis, to gang againe of new,
To speik with hir, with quhome I spack before.

Pamphilus seeing Galathea.

O God, gif sche cums with ane gudly grace,
With nakit hair, and countenence so mile,
This is ane maist conuenient proper place,
vntill vs twa, for to confer ane quhile:
I am in feir, as ane into exile,
In dolorous torments, heir for to be left,
And that my voice, and wourdis sall tine thair stile,
As ane, that of thair sencis are bereft.

My force and strength, away from me is went,

I ttymbil and schaik baith into handis and feit,
To me pure catif in astonisment,
Thair is no part that proper is or meit:
I purposit oft my tail for to repeit,
And of my mynd till maid my stomak tume,
Bot feir and dreid hes so pocest my spreit,
To speik my pleasour I durst not presume.

Alterd I am with angueische greif and baill,
Sua that I skars can ken my self throw cair,
Houbeid ye se my voce dois faint and faill,
Yit not the les to speik I wil not spair.

Pamphilus speikis to Galathea.

I haif ane nece, in kin to me richt neir,
Quho dwellis into ane toun, not far abake,
Sche me requeistit to cum to you heir,
Ane thousand commendatiouns for to make:
Sche knawis you not, nor neuer with you spake,
Bot be report of folkis quhome ye frequent,
To speik with you grit plesour sche dois take,
Quhen tyme or place occasioun sall present.

My parentis maid me grit requeist thame sell,
In my frendis toun till haif remaind ane space,
Of the quhilk frendis, grit number dois induell,
And hes thair habitatioun, in that place:
Thir Parentis me contrackit in a cace,
Vpoun ane maid, quhois tochergud wes grit,
Sche wes esteemd to be of nobill race,
Yit, I that marage neuer wald permit.

All kind of things, I plainly did postpone,
Sen ye haif plesit me best for my behoue,
I haife refusit for your sake alone,
All warldly thingis, awating on your lufe:

With smiling scheir, I speik thir things forsooth,
For sporting speich, in youdeth ye may se,
Few wourdis, with bourdis, to blithnes harts dois moue,
Sua, be that menes, na stur or strife can be.

Gif, thou thy secreit deids, to me will grant,
And sua to the againe, my sacreits tels,
I promeis, nane sall be participant,
Quhat we twa speikis, except it be our sels:
O fragrant flour, in bewtie that excels,
Lat promeis heir, be made betwix vs plane,
Howbeid to speik, I haue begun as els,
Yit not the les, I sall begin agane.

Sen we twa minds, na langer for to striue,
The veritie, we plainly suld expreme,
In all this warld, nane leuand is aliue,
Quhome better I lufe, or mair of dois esteme:
First sen I lusit you, feruent and extreme,
Thre years are past, the sooth I you assure,
Yit durst I neuer, sic things schaw or deme,
Bot wes compellit, to keip the same obscure.

Ane wise man will, from conference refraine,
Gif his companioun deife, he do suspect,
Swa, it becums vs not to speik in vaine,
Except the mater turne to sum effect:
My feruent lufe, nane abil is to breke,
For farther talk, I speik na mair you to,
Vnto the time, your answer ye derect,
Quhat in this purpose, ye pretend to do.

Galathea, answers to Pamphilus.

Svm young men be, that all thair cairs inclins,
For to deflore, pure damisels estaitis,
For craftie lufe, and curious hie ingins,

Begiles pure lassis, with thair licht consaitis:
I set not by your wiles, and wrang debaitis,
Your craft and art, I vilie pend in plaine,
Quhome to begile, with flatry and defaitis,
It sall surpas your hie politike braine.

Seik siclike folkes, as feirs for your estait,
And with your wickit plesours will comix,
And sic as with your fraudulent desait,
Will be begilit, with trumperie and triks.

Pamphilus speakis to Galathea.

Oft times, the falts of wickit bissie bois,
Perturbis the iust, and dois thame back repell,
It is my nichbours faut, quhilk me anois,
And not the faut, quhilk I commit my sell:
O burd bening, whois bewtie dois excell,
Of thy gud grace, I thee beseik, til heir,
And grant me grace, a few wourds for to tell,
To you my maistres, and my darling deir.

I take to witnes, God ouer euery quhair,
With all the powers of this earthly sile,
Gif ony thing to you, I do declair,
Quhilk spoken is, for fraudfulnes or gile:
In all this warld, nane can I spie or pile,
Mair deir to me, or mair for my behoofe,
My hart and mind seis nane, of na kin stile,
Mair apt and wordie till auance in lufe.

It is in vaine, the purpose quhilk I spak,
Be resoun of my barnlie age so short,
quhilk scarce yit kens, quhat domage it can mak,
Or yit the profit, quhilk it may import:
Suppose young age, be scharper in a sort,
And prompter spreitit teddence for to try,

Quhen men of age, seis mony things athort,
Young men I think, far mo things suld espy.

Thocht thou be young, and barnely, I wald wis,
That thou suld ken, and cairfully incist,
First quhat I am, sine, quhat my calling is,
And quhair my lufe and kindnes dois concist:
Wisedome and craft, I wald thou kend and wist,
By vse and custome, sall thair secreits schaw,
All things be vse, hes lernit bene at list,
Quhilk mortall men, dois vnderstand and knaw.

To gang and cum, and towartis you resort,
Our time about, for to confer anone,
With ernest mind, maist humbly I exhort,
That we together may be baith alone:
The inwart of the hart, is knawn to none,
Bot be the speich, it is cognossit and kend,
And thairfore now, I pray thee to propone,
Quhat is your will, and pleasour ye pretend.

Galathea, answers to Pamphilus.

You, nor na man, I sall forbid, I say,
To cum or gang, or yit his speich to spair,
Ilk traueller hes a richt gait and a way,
In sic parts quhair, it happins him to repair:
It is maist decent, for a maiden fair,
Vnto the askers answer, to reply,
A Damisell may do this meikill mair,
On ony young man, till incall or cry,

For to confes the truth, I thinke no schame,
Of you, nor na mans cumming I take cure,
Prouiding, that my honour and gud name,
From spot and blot, may be preseruit sure:
To heir and se, It settis I you assure,

And to make answer, quhen young men inquires,
This wald be done, with countenance demure,
And moderat maner, as the caus requires.

With mocking wourdis, gif ye impeche my eir,
Like speich again, to you I will present,
In ony thing, gif I haue hurt you heir,
To make ane mends; I sall be weill content:
To be alone, howbeid, your will be bent,
That I refuse, and thairfoir speik na mair,
It is not decent, we twa suld frequent,
In ony part, quhair na man makis repair.

In secreit parts, my conference to seik,
A sclanderous fame, sall rise from that effect,
Bot in the peoples presence gif I speik,
Ye knaw your selfe, I will be les suspect.

Pamphilus speakis to Galathea.

Not small rewardis, on me thou dois imploy,
Bot gifts maist gret, with fauour I do feil,
Gret gladnes I consaiue, and inwart ioy,
Your talking hes contentit me so weill:
To rander thankis, I scantly can haif skeill,
To you, quha did the benefits auance,
The constant talke, and wourds quhilk ye reueill,
I am vnabill for to recompance.

Perchance, the time sall schortly cum behind,
And I beleife to see that happy day,
That for your fauour, ye schall frendschip find,
And to my power, sall the fame repay:
I dar demaund, or seik na thing, I say,
For feir I suld prouoke your wrath and ier,
Bot vnto you, I man bow and obay,
Albeid, I yit haue sum things to requier.

Thy lufe and fauour, I wald ken and knaw,
Gif kissis sweit, thou wald vouchsafe on me,
That we mair kindnes, micht till vther schaw,
Quhen time and place suld offerit till vs be.

Galathea answers to Pamphilus.

Albeid, imbrasings nutrifies repas,
To wilfull lufe, proceiding from dispair,
By kissis sweit, oftimes it cums to pas,
That women are tane captifs in the snair:
To kis and clap, I will permit and spair,
Prouiding, that ye do na mair nor this,
Except your selfe, the suth I you declair,
My mouth, nane suld get credit for to kis.

Now I beleife, the Kirk be scaild amaist,
And that my father and mother be remouit,
Thairfoir I man pas to the house in haist,
That be my Parents, I be not reprouit:
The time sall cum thairfoir, be not commouit,
Quhen of our purpose, we sall speik in plaine,
Let euery one of vs twa weill belouit,
Haue mind of vther, will we meit againe.

Pamphilus speakis to himselfe.

In all this warld, thair is no persoun past,
Mair blithe nor I, or better at mine eis,
My hope and anker is affixit fast,
Into the part quhilk maist my mind did pleis:
The gods aboue, hes blessit my haill decreis,
Dame nature als hes giuin me gifts in store,
I am maid rich in mony gret degreis,
Quha wes maist pure and miserable of before.

She did desire with clament wourdis and kind,

In my remembre, to be satlet sure,
Na pane sal hir, expell out of my mind,
So lang, as my remembrence may indure:
Hir company, sche kens I doe procure,
Yit skars sche kens, my feruent lufe so fre,
Into my former stait I sal demure,
Excep of me sche memorantif be.

I am releu'd, out of the troublus den,
Yit ma perplexiteis, dois me opres,
The quhilk occaseouns, makeis me to misken,
My counsal, quhilk suld comfort my distres:
Gif I resort, or till hir haif exces,
Sine sporting wourdis, with hir do gest and gek,
The comoun sclander sall the same expres,
And make our speitch, to turne to na effect.

Excep be oft frequenting I tak cure,
Our kindnes to conferme, and mak perfite,
Perchance our lufe, quhilk yit is not maid sure,
Betwix vs baith, sall sinder and acquite.
That lufe acressis, custome hes the wyte,
Bot rair resort, makis kindnes to decres,
For lufe, that is not cherisd with delyte,
Ay waxis cauld, and daylie growis the les.

Ingill, will be als bauld as ye desier,
Gif that with treis, ye bigit round about,
Bot fra ye tak, the timmer fra the fier,
From farther heit, it wil extingueische out:
Now mone cairis, ganestandis my stomok stout,
Gret perrellis als, my persoun dois preuene,
My mind is cast, in mone cairful dout,
Sic ar the troubillis, quhilk I do sustene.

Prosperitie, agains me dois repell,
My fortoun als, from me dois slip and slyd,

My mind, hes na assurement in it sel,
Nor constant purpos, quhairupoun to byd:
Quhilis fortoun will gainstand, and set asid,
The deidis of men, that lukis for to find grace,
For sche permitis not, purpos til abid,
Into the awin rowme, or apointit place.

Albeid by fortoun sum hes hurt resaiued,
Yit hes sche helpit mone, intil neid,
Sua vnder fortoun, it may be persaiued,
How in this warld, men present life dois leid:
God, and gud trauell furnishis indeid,
And vs prouidis in all thingis sound and hail,
Without Godis help, na purpos can cum speid,
Nor in the warld, na labour can awaill.

Let God be than my strenthe and fortreis stark,
And he quha suld, my sacreit turns espy,
God mot be gouernator of my wark,
And to my interprisis all aply:
My brother nor my oye, thairfoir say I,
Sal not be tainschman, as thay war beforne,
For few or nane, findis faithfulnes thairby,
Howbeid, he be his natif brother borne.

Oye, vntil oye, howbeid thay be bot few,
Can skars keip faith, quhilk by ane aith thay sweir,
Brother to brother, wil be found vntrew,
Quhen flammis of lufe thair courage makis to steir:
Throw small occasiouns skaith will quhylis apeir,
Bot wisemen will from siclik thingis apeill,
Thairfoir it me becummis, for to reteir,
Sum better way, quhilk makis mair for my weill.

Heir neir, by duellis ane carling aulde and teuche
Full of Ingine, and craft I you assure,
Sche is ane feruant ape and meit anewche,

In Venvs craft, to exercise hir cure:
Postponing cairs, quhilk present I indure,
To pas away my feit, I will prepair,
And to the auld wife, I will fordward fure,
My mind and counsail that I may declair.

Pamphilus speikis to Anus.

Your laud and praise, in all partis dois apeir,
Ane gud commend, of all men ye resaue,
Quhilk is the caus, that maid me to cum heir,
Your gud consent, and counsall for to craue:
I will beseik, your gud will to consaue,
My wourds, quhilk I am mindit to fulfill,
Let na man heir, quhat we twa spokin haue,
Without it be, with my consent and will,

My nichbour Galathae, that lustie maid,
Quhome weill ye ken, and with hir oft hes bene,
Sche sais hir selfe, hir lufe is on me laid,
Gif so be nocht, I am begild I mene:
I am compeld, my toung for to retene,
So faine from troubils, I wald fle abak,
I am in feir, sum perrill me preuene,
For I feir all thing, that may danger mak.

Ane bruit will cum, but of ane litle cace,
Yit in mens mouthis lang time it will remaine,
Howbeid, it lie and lurke ane litle space,
Be oft report, it will spreid out againe:
Small thing prouokis, pure caitife men to paine,
A thousand ils fast fallows thame with speid,
The wark and labour, quhilk hes vexit my braine,
Is yit in danger, gif it sall succeid.

Sen of my troublus stait, ye haife ane feil,
By your auice, the same may be adrest,

Beseiking you, to couer and consceill,
The falts and spots, quhairwith I am pocest.

Anus answers to Pamphilus.

Ane vther lufis, that quhilk thou lufis thy sell,
And that thou seiks, ane vther seiks thairtill,
Yit not the les, this meikill I the tell,
Into the mater, he wantis my gudwill:
The man is gud anewch, I say na ill,
And seruis ane honest wife, I you assure,
Bot yit, the gift he offerd to fulfill,
Did me displeis, becaus it wes so pure.

He promisd me till exercise my schift
Auld clais, and clokis my mister till haife bet,
Bot sic a small propine and nochty gift,
Did make my dewty to be cleane foryet:
Gif giftis be giuin in time, quhilk are to get,
It makis ane vantage, for to follow sine,
Richt law we see, peruertit is, and set,
Be budis and bribis, and be the awin ingine.

Nane will her get, the truth I you declair,
Bot be my moyen and gudwill, I mene,
For sche wes my familiar euer mair,
And at my biding, sche hes euer bene:
I am hir gider, as it may be sene,
Quha kens hir sacreitis baith in gud and ill,
Na thing vnto hir persoun, dois pertene,
That can be done by my awice and will.

I speik na mair, how euer the mater beis,
Sum vther caris, dois all my body bind,
Let ilkane, gang thair awin gait as thay pleis,
To seik support, quhair thay the same may find.

Pamphilus speakis to Anus.

How for till haif hir, it may cum to pas,
My onely cair, and exercise is bent,
Gif ye culd gar me, get this lustie las,
My mind with all thingis, ye wald weill content:
I thinke it neidfull and expedient,
To by the warke, wrocht be an vncow man,
So soone as he the samin sall present,
Conforme to promeis, to reward him than.

Ye sall not be begild, nor set aside,
Bot for your pains, propines ye sall resaiue,
Gif be your moyen, ye may me prouide,
Thingis quhilk I want, and wischis faine to haue:
I pray you tell me that I may persaiue,
The name of that propine, quhilk ye procure,
Quhat euer it be, that of me ye can craue,
Thou sall it haue, the suth I ye assure.

Anus answers to Pamphilus.

Al sick I say as bears dame Purtethis bell,
Seikis syndrie thingis, quhairof thame selfis ar scant,
I am eschamd, for to declair or tel,
All kind of thingis, quhilk mister garis me want:
Quhen I wes young, and in my simmer plant,
I wes richt ratche, and in gret substance set,
Bot now my geir, is al decayd, I grant,
Thairfore I mister money thingis to get.

My febill corps quhilk daily dois decres,
And als my age, makis purtethe me persew,
The occupatioun, quhilk I do profes,
Na proffite makis to me, I wald ye knew:
In cace ye se your kindnes, I renew,

Or may make profite intill ony way,
In times to cum, I pray you to be trew,
And lat your hous be patent to me ay.

Pamphilus speakis to Anus.

Now baith my hous and all things sall be thine,
It sall stand patent, quhen ye cum thairtill,
The substance and the moyen quhilk is mine,
Sall be your awin, do with thame as ye will:
Frendschip and concord, quhilk sall ay stand still,
Hes vs conioynd, quhairof, I am richt faine,
The faith and promeis, quhilk I suld fulfill,
Mot be maid sure, for euer to remaine.

This ye man do, and thairfoir markit weill,
With walkrife cair, heir I will you protest,
This turne to do, with craftines and skeill,
And with discretioun, as ye can do best:
How things begins, out endis, and how thay lest,
For to behold, it is ane wisemans will,
The end of all things schaws amangis the rest,
Quhat fruit cums furth, baith intill gud and ill.

Lerne to begin, and how to end compleit,
Thy speich and talke, your purpose to decore,
That ye your wourdis, mair promptly may repeit,
Quhilk ye in mind, premeditate before.

Anus speiking that Galathea micht heir her.

Into this toun thair dwellis, as all men seis,
Ane trim young man, surpassing but compair,
Exceding vthers, intill all degrees,
For gud behauiour, and for bewtie fair:
Nane neuer was, mair sweit or debonair,
Intill our time, or age as I suspect,

My pouerty, with helpe he dois repair,
Vnto my purtethe, he hes sic respect.

All of his age, he far excellis in deids,
And in gud manners, as it may be kend,
For Pamphilvs surpassis and exceids,
His haill companiouns, into gud commend:
To play the fule, with fules, he can pretend,
And gentries schaw, quhen gentillis him requiers,
Wise men fra daffing, can thame felfs defend,
By richt and resoun, as the caus requiers.

In all this toun, thair is nane borne or bred,
Mair wise and honest, or in honour maist,
His ritches, quhilk he hes obteind by tred,
In wrang abuse, the same he will not waist:
He is baith wise, and of ane gud behaist,
For all his ofspring, wise folkis wont to be,
Sweit fruit, neid force, man tak ane plesant taist,
Quhilk dois proceid, out of ane plesant tre.

The gud effects, quhilk children will consaiue,
Into thair naturis, plainly will appeir,
Oft times, the soun pretendis him we persaiue,
His fathers futsteps, for to follow neir:
Behauld, I se fair Galathea heir,
Stand nar the port, not far fra me abak,
Vnto my wourdis perchance, sche hes giuin eir,
And hard the wourdis and praises quhilk I spak.

Anus speakis to Galathea.

O Galathea, nane I beleiued to be,
So nar me heir, till harken at my hand,
Yit not the les, I haife not maid ane lie,
I spak the truth, as I occasioun fand:
Of Pamphilvs, this far I vnderstand,

All in this toun, he far excellis, I mene,
Weill he forseis, how his estait may stand,
And how he may an honest life sustene.

His laud and praise, may planely be espyd,
It daily growis, as we may weill persaue,
With na man, he is hatit or inuyd,
By iust occasioun hatrit to consaue:
Howbeid of ritches, he aboundance haue,
Yit pride into his persoun hes na place,
For Pamphilvs, surpassis all the laue,
Baith for his ritches, and his reuerent grace.

Now Galathea, I will tell to the,
I wald he war your husband maist derect,
Gif ye war wise, or culd your weill forse,
Ye wald desire, the same to take effect:
Howbeid my selfe, that marage wald erect,
Yit he himselfe, the same dois not consider,
Into my iudgement, surely I suspect,
That ye and he, ane meit match war togither.

Your kin, your clan, and clament naturis kind,
Togither with your bewties quhilk I se,
Makis me consent, and thinke into my mind,
That ye war meit, togither baith to be:
We baith driue ouer, and tins the tyme trewly,
With idill wourdis, quhilk we may be without,
Ane small occasioun, oftimes is the Kie,
That opins mirth, and makis the same spring out.

Ane ingill gret, with mekill fire and low,
Will oft proceid, bot of ane litle spaill,
Ane small beginning, engenders and gars grow,
Maist waichtie maters, of a gret auaill:
For to reuolfe in mind, I did not faill,
The inwart mening of thir things prolix,

In tyme quhen we suld had our purpos haill,
With wane consaitis the same we suld not mix.

Gif in your mynd, na motioun yit be wrocht,
Nor in your hart, to bring this blok till end,
Quhidder It pleis you, or it pleis you nocht,
Tell furth the truthe, and speik quhat ye pretend:
And thairfoir tell, quhat purpos ye intend,
For na man sall, your sacreitis vnderstand,
I ether sall consceil, or mak it kend,
As it sall pleis you, for to gif commaund.

Stur not for till expel, this schame prophane,
Out of thy hart and mynd, that it may be,
Only this schame, proceidis I mak you plane,
Of rurall vse, and rusticalitie.

Galathea speikis to Anus.

Rvdnes is not the caus, and circumstance,
Nor yit dast schame makis to stay indeid,
Bot in my mynd, I maruel and I pance,
Quhairfra, your talk and speiking suld proceid:
I muse quhat caus, hes enterd in your heid,
To cum to me sic prasis to proclame,
Or gif that he hes promisid you gud deid,
To speik so largely, in his laud and fame.

Anus speikis to Galathea

The faltis quhilk wikit men dois interprise,
Impedis the deids of just men this is sure,
Oft tymes a man sustenes, and vnderlyis,
That pane the quhilk, his falt did not procure:
Albeid that I be indigent, and pure,
I seik not sic rewardis, my pains to pleis,
The present purtethe, quhilk I do indure,

Contentis my mind, and sets the same at eis.

Fra the beginning, sen this block hes bene,
My mind consauid, how maters suld apeir,
Thair na man knawis, quhat talk, is vs betwene,
The giltie man, is not beside to heir:
This is sufficient, thairfore tak na feir,
Gif ye war baith, in wedlock bed at hame,
Then of this block, ye micht the burding beir,
Without reproch, ignominy, or schame.

Honest is he, and nobill thair withall,
Into that samin stait, ye are aricht,
Your ofspring and your first originall,
Is kend to me, for I can count thame richt:
His nichbours he excellis in bewtie bricht,
And likwais ye excell aboue the laue,
Bewtie with bewtie, well agreis in sicht,
And plesant to the parties to persaue,

In age and geir alike, God hes you blist,
Quhilk is ane caus, this mater to compleit,
In cace the common brute, the samin wist,
Thay wald esteeme the marage to be meit:
Sen ye are like in properties contreit,
With richt and law, ye may be ioynd togither,
Betwixt you baith, thair na thing is forleit,
Bot onely lufe, as we may weill consider.

Galathea answers to Anus.

Concerning the conditioun ye requier,
First to my frends, it suld bene tauld indeid,
By quhois consent and counsall I desier,
That this my marage fordwart suld proceid:
Then speik thy selfe, this mater to remeid,
Or els, let Pamphil speik, thair mind to heir,

Swa, sall the purpose cum the better speid.
And in the end, mair plesant sall apeir.

Anus speakis to Galathea.

To haue your frends consent, it dois behoue,
Before ye enter into that estait,
Bot in the mene time, furious flams of lufe,
Burns vp his breist, and haulds him at debait:
Ingenious lufe, steirs vp ane new consait,
Into the hartis of young adolescentis,
Sic as delites to studie in that rait,
May lessouns leir, concerning sic intentis.

This steirs vp mindis, gret gifts to dele and skair,
Bot greid and auarice, it dois plane displeis,
It fallowis mirth and blithnes euer mair,
Bot be the contrar, it from sadnes fleis:
Na man can tell, pretend him as he pleis,
How mutch the vse of Venvs dois thame gud,
Ecept thou condiscend, to thir decreis,
Thou sall be reput rusticall and rud.

Galathea answers to Anus.

Ane Damisell dois tine hir honour cleane,
In Venvs gamis, fra time sche schance to mel,
This ingent furie, and madnes as I mene,
Can haif na rewl or resoun of it sell:
The violent wapins, of king Cupid fell,
Hes na licht burdene as your selfis may se,
And damisellis ay, dreids the truth to tell,
With thir strang wapins, vinqueist for to be,

Brute quhiles, with accusatioun will inquire,
Ane Damisell, quho dois deserfe na wite,
Inuy and malice, eaten vp in Ire,

Takis neuer rest all staitis for to bakbite:
Your awin petitioun, I suld sone acquite,
War not the comoun sclander, quhilk I feir,
Quhilk sclander oft procuris ane grit dispite,
And makis the parteis objectis till apeir.

Anus speakis to Galathea.

The richtuous brute takis mekil force and strenth,
And the effects, maist viuely dois display,
For veritie, sall ay preuail at lenth,
Bot wrangous brute, sall peresch and decay:
The comoun sclander, I sall stenche and stay,
And all your cair, and feir I sall abstract,
Ye and your spots, sall clokit be I say,
Be craft and moyen, quhilk I sall you mak.

Of Venvs vse, I vnderstand the cure,
Hir craft I ken, and can the same define,
Swa, sall the mater be maid saif and sure,
Quhilk is deuisid and wrocht be my ingine:
Counsall me how, my wourdis I suld incline,
To speik to Pamphil, quhen I se him sell,
That I may speik my wourdis the surer sine,
Quhilk ye before, informd me for to tell.

Galathea speakis to Anus.

I feir to you, for to confes my cace,
Or yit, my secreit counsaill to declair,
For falset so abidis in euery place,
That folkis are oft tane captifis in the snair:
Yit sall I say, postponing all dispair,
Thy faith and toung, quhairwith thou dost procure,
To quhat intent, thy crafty art and cair,
Mot me seduce, with fair wourdis till allure.

Oft times I say, se thou him vrge and pres,
With sic assalts, as he may not repell,
Perchance himselfe, to the sal say no les,
Nor I haif said, in presence of thy sell:
Pas hence thy way, and in this mater mell,
Discreit and warly, I will the beseik,
That on the morne, thou may declair and tell,
Sic wourds, as it sall schance him for to speik.

Anus speakis to Pamphilus.

Labour and hope, we may persaue indeid,
That mony men oft times it dois desaue,
Now Pamphile, the mater cums not speid,
Quhilk thou and I, baith wischis fain to haue:
Ye war ouer slaw, my counsall for to craue,
The time is tint, till make remeid to you,
Becaus the craft and cunning quhilk I haue,
Can profite na thing to support you now,

As maters schaws, and plainly dois declair,
Fair Galathis marage is aprotchen neir,
I muse quhat clething can be makand thair,
Hame in hir hous, agains that day to weir:
Ane hundreth causis euident and cleir,
Makis me suspect this mater to be sure,
Yit nocht the les, thocht all thir things apeir,
Hir Parents keipis it secreit and obscure.

Marke weill my wourdis, se thou thame not foryet,
And way thame wisely in thy mind I mene,
Seik neuer that, the quhilk thou may not get,
Bot seik thou that, the quhilk thou may obtene.

Pamphilus answers to Anus.

Alas, how faids my strenth and strang estait,
That wont beforn vnto my corps aply,

My body now is brocht to sic estait,
That mind and toung, thair seruice dois deny:
I catif man, lichtly regardit by,
Hes tint my strength, quhilk na man can restore,
Eitch of my members, as ye may espy,
Denies thair dewties, done to me before.

My hope hes hurt me, far by mine intent,
By hope, lufe to my bains hes stucken sure,
Hope is decaid, and far away is went,
Yit firie flamis, with me dois still indure,
The sails quhairwith, my schip suld fordwart fure,
Can find na port, quhairin to be reset,
Nor yit my ancor, quhilk suld me assure,
Into the awin ground, can na entres get.

My cair is na wais certaine, quhat to do,
Nor quhair to seik, the awin support or rest,
For Galathea is the onely scho,
That may remeid, my cair and dolour best:
Sche is the caus, and wite, as ye may trest,
Of helth and life, belanging vnto me,
Quhome, gif I get not, plainely I protest,
Into displeasour, I will duyne and die.

Anus answers Pamphilus.

Daft Pamphile, quhat madnes mouis thy heid?
Or quhat the mouis, so sore for to complene,
Thy murning teirs, can make the na remeid,
Nor na rewardis, thairby thou can obtene:
Lat modestie and wisedome the sustene,
And gyde thy teirs, but farther brute or din,
From farther teirs, I pray the purge thy ene,
And wisely way, quhat thou may do thairin.

Quhiles pouerty espiers vpon pretence,

Ane michtie spreit, to make the awin remeid,
For oftimes purteth, and gret indigence,
Makis ane maist cunning craftsman, into neid:
The cairfull craft of man, cums oftimes speid,
Orecumming perrils, tending to gret tort,
Perschance your cair, and deligent craft indeid,
Into the mater, may you yit support.

Pamphilus speikis to Anus.

Qvhat pain allas, now can orecum at last,
This michty perrill, of it selfe so grand,
My hope and esperance, perischis maist fast,
Seing hir day of marage, is at hand:
Sche will not marry me, thocht I command,
So lang as hir gudman, with life is led,
The crime is odious, as I vnderstand,
For to polute or file the lawfull bed.

The trauell, quhairinto I did confide,
Is brocht to nocht, but ony finell end,
My cair hes lost, the hail support and ayd,
Of the awin cair, quhairon it did attend:
No nicht nor day, sall succour to me send,
Nor grant me rest, my helth for to restore,
I catif man, am troublit to the end,
With lufe innane, quhilk me molestis maist sore.

Anus speakis to Pamphilus.

Oft times, gret dolour cesis and grows les,
Intill ane schort time, as apeirs maist plane,
Gret blastis of wind, dois minisch and decres,
Be vertew of ane sobur schour of rane:
Ane fair day is excepit to remane,
Efter scharp schours, and blaistis that be so rud,
And helth is als, exceptabill agane,

Efter sore sicknes, and gret egritude.

Ane wantoun curage, thou neidest now resaue,
All dolour and anger, far fra you mot bide,
Gret mirth and ioy, in mind thou sall consaue,
Quhilk mot remoue thy sadnes all aside:
In Galathae, this mutch thou may confyd,
Thy haill desire, sche na wais will gainstand,
Sche hes giuin ouer hirselfe to me to gyd,
Sche is so subiect vnto my command.

Pamphilus answers to Anus.

As louing mothers, with gret craft and skeill,
Makis false promits, with flatring wourds & fair
Admonising thair children to be still,
And not to greit, nor for to murne na mair:
Perchance, the counterpane, ye wald prepair,
With feinit comfort, me to feid and feist,
That dolour micht remaine with me na mair,
Bot suld depart out of my cairfull breist.

Anus answers Pamphilus.

Ane sillie foul, that hes escapit neir,
From the halkis clukis, that gredy is but grace,
This foul heirefter ay remainis in feir,
Dreding, that he suld hant in euery place,
Nocht hes me mouid, my tail for to disgrace,
To lie to you, in ony kind of kew,
That quhilk I haif declaird into this cace,
Sall ay be found, baith vpright, trest and trew.

Pamphilus speakis to Anus.

Gif that ye tell, the veritie to me,
And that sche likwais, sic things did confar,

The dolour quhilk I presently do drie,
Out of my mynd sall be remouid rycht far:
Oftimes the end of maters, stikis a star,
And fallous not, the awin begining frake,
Fortune I say, so kittill is and skar,
The wark begun, sche hynders and putis bake.

Anus answers to Pamphilus

Na mynd of man, is abill to intent,
The fatall cours of destaine to foreschaw,
It proper is to God omnipotent,
The future things, for till declair and schaw:
For to dispair, gret hurt, it dois ondraw,
Botident labor, gettis the haill desire,
Ane walkrife craft, with diligence ye knaw,
Prouidis mutch ritchis, with gret welth and hire.

Pamphilus speakis to Anus.

Hope, vnder doutfull schance, dois fleit and flow,
Vnder the same, all thingis we do resaue,
Yit not the les, hope dois acres and grow,
Vnder ane gud beginning, I persaue:
Can ye not ken, nor na cognoscens haue,
Quhither that sche dois lufe me ill or weill,
Lufe, scarse can hide, or quietly behaue,
The inwart hart, the quhilk it suld conseill.

Anus speakis to Pamphilus.

Qvhen vnto hir of you report I mak,
Hir mynd and will, I find to be discreit,
Vnto my talk, sche dois attendence tak,
In modrat maner, quhilk apeiris maist sweit:
With tender wourds, sche dois me ay intreit,
And me imbraces, round about the neck,

Requeisting me, for to tell and repeit,
Those wourdis, the quhilk ye till hir did derect,

Quhen that occasioun, can it self present,
To nominat your name, in ony sort,
Sche standis into ane gret astonisment,
Quhen of the samyn, sche dois heir report:
And quhen of you, we chance to speik or sport,
Quhillis sche growis rid, quhilis pail, as sche wer seik,
Quhen I keip silence, sche will me exort,
And me command, that I againe suld speik.

Be thir conditiouns, I consider best,
And kens hir lufe, how that it is menteind,
To me sche hes baith grantit, and confest,
That sche to you, is ane maist faythful frend.

Pamphilus speakis to Anus.

My hope and esperance, now persauis and seis,
By you, that my gud fortoun did befall,
My hapines growis vp, and fructifeis,
By your assistance, and suport withall:
Maist doutsum actis, that be both gret and tall,
By labour gret, ar stop and stayd we se,
Ane Idil craft, makis bot ane wantage small,
And bringis bot in, ane clane commoditie.

Haist and auance, in so far as thou may,
The wark begun, quhilk yet in hasert stikis,
That na sueir tarie, thy turne stop or stay,
Quhilk may delay, or yet the same prolix.

Anus answers Pamphilus.

As I beleiue, behauld before the strecht,
Your hail desier, quhilk is prepard I mene,
Bot yet the thing, quhilk ye vnto me hecht,

Remains in dout, gif it I sall obtene:
Oft tymes our myndis, ganestands, & contrairs clene,
That quhilk we speik, and plainly dois expres,
We fallow not our deids, as may be sene,
Conforme vnto the promeis we profes.

Fals promissis, begillis the gyft and hyer,
Of work quhilk suld be sauld, and changit sine,
Quhen ye grow ritche, and gettis your haill desier,
Perchance with na thing, ye will me propyne.

Pamphilus answers to Anus

To ane ritch man, it is ane falt maist vile,
To trumpe ane pure man, of his gift and clame,
Gif of your salire, I suld you begile,
To be vnhonnest, I suld win ane name:
The wourdis quhilk I, out of my mouth did frame,
You nor na vther, na tyme hes disauid,
Quhen that ye pleis, to speir my brute and fame,
Into the same, na spote sall be persauid.

My faith is constant, still for til indure,
And als my promeis, vpricht and senceir,
Quhilk faith anexis, and makis those thingis sure,
Quhilk to be vnperformd, ye dreid and feir.

Anus speakis to Pamphilus.

The common pepill feirs, be the ingins,
Of michtie men, orecumid and tane to be,
The pure mans richt, oftimes fallis doun and tins,
Throw small support, and wanting of supplie:
Faith in all pairts, is spoild as ye se,
Of hir fair hew, and colour of pleasant price,
Quhilk couert is, with mony craftis so slie,
All subiect vnto wickidnes and vice.

Na chance or fortoun, may gainstand or weir,
Agains the fatall destain from aboue,
Oft times the Sea, puts mony folkis in feir,
Yit not the les, na danger will thame moue:
I will commit, to fortunis a win behoue,
That gift the quhilk, ye did vnto me grant,
Gif I haife promisd ony gift, forsuth,
Yit not the les, the same, ye sall not want.

It me behouis, from hence for to reteir,
For till intise the las vnto this fact,
Gif that it be hir plesour to cum heir,
Ane quhile with you, for to confer and crak:
Gif that the paine and trauell, quhilk I tak,
Assembill you togither, se that than,
As time may serue, and ye may moyen mak,
Luke that ye do the dewtie of a man.

The mindis of lufers, are ay out of rime,
And bydis vnconstant presen till espier,
Ane schort hour, or occasioun at ane time,
May giue the that, the quhilk thou dois desire.

Anus speakis to Galathea.

Ane michty fire, can not remoue aside,
The licht, quhilk from the flamis dois gleme & sprout,
Nather can Venvs occultat or hide,
The awin desire, bot it behouis brek out:
The ordour of your maters round about,
To me are patent, as thame selfes apeirs,
Of quhilk things, quhen in mind I think or dout,
I scarcely can contene my selfe from teirs.

I knaw perfitly, as it war perqueir,
That ye twa lufis, not wisely nor derect,
The maters selfe, makis manifest and cleir,

The awin daft, and fulisch vaine effect:
The visage pale, declairs as I collect,
The quiet lufe, quhairwith the hart is greuid,
Baith hyd and hew, will alter and infect,
Without the same, with labour be releuid,

Pure Pamphilvs remains maist catif now,
In that estait, all hours abidis he so,
With ansers hard, his hart is persit throw,
That he molestit is, with greif and wo:
Baith nicht and day, vnwisely he dois go,
Wirken in wane, with labour all forlorne,
Hard manurid land, deliuers not it fro,
Gret store of seid, efter the same be schorne.

Quha bot a mad man, of a wode degre,
Will seminat his seid, into the sand,
Wark vsis, mair acceptabill to be,
Quhilk bringis the gift, with the reward in hand:
Your bewtie first desaiuid him, quhilk he fand,
And secondly, your toung so smooth and ticht,
Stark lufe, hes woundit him, with Cupids brand,
To wit, your lufe bot, and your bewtie bricht.

Your helpe on him, ye promisd to bestow,
Bot yit his maladie, ye did not meis,
Quhairof, oft times sensine, on him did flow,
The greter dolor, and the mair diseis:
His sicknes wantis support, as all men seis,
And paine augmentis, without remorse or rufe,
Thocht ye your selfe, keip silence with gret eis,
Yit are ye hurt, with firie flamis of lufe.

Lufe quhilk is keipit secreit, and conceild,
Bringis dolent deith, and als ane deidly hort,
And lufe I mene, quhilk na wais is reueild,
To baith your persouns, perrill dois import:

Consider than, with mind delibrat schort,
Quhat is your will, your mind for to content,
That this your speich, quhilk to me ye report,
May be ane takin, of your haill intent.

Galathea answers to Anus.

Oftimes, dame Venvs, thristis my corps maist pure
With firie wapins, quhilk are maist seueir,
And sche with strenth, prouidis me euer sure,
Commanding me in lufe, to perseueir:
Bot be the contrair, schamfastnes and feir,
Bids me behaife me honestlie and weill.
I being mouid, with thir twa things inteir,
Of my awin counsall, I can haife na feill.

Anus speakis to Galathea.

Far from thy mind, lat all this feir be tane,
Thair is na caus, of feir the till offend,
Considring, that thair sall be neuer nane,
This mater to make manifest and kend:
Now Pamphilvs, dois daily him pretend,
To be your husband, gif ye wald proceid,
His cair and labour, halily is tend,
How to performe this purpose intill speid.

A thousand wais, behauiour schaws me more,
The ardent lufe, quhilk in him dois acres,
Quhen he lamentis, with murning teirs maist sore,
Thir wourdis to me he plainly dois expres:
Sche is to me, baith dolour and distres,
And als sche is remeder of my paine,
Onely sche may, me wound I will confes,
And quhen sche pleis, sche may me pance againe.

The pitie, quhilk on Pamphilvs I had,

Compeld my eis with teirs to be oprest,
Yit not the les, I was reioysd and glad,
Into my mind, with quietnes and rest:
To se all things proceiding for the best,
And as I wischit, the mater for to strike,
I knew that ye, brunt baith into wanrest,
With equall fire, inflaming you alike.

The flame ay vsis, hurtfull for to be,
Thairfoir, forse your selfis, now hereintill,
Wald God, lufe wald commit you baith to me,
Els at the leist, at my consent and will.

Galathea answers to Anus.

That quhilk ye seik, I wisch with full intent,
For in the warld, nocht deirer is to me,
Prouiding baith, my Parents wald consent,
And to the samin, condiscend and gre:
I dare not do thir things, as ye may se,
Nor yit, thay lie not in my hands alace,
Howbeid, we twa, togither wald agre,
Thair is no part conuenient for this cace.

My mother, quho consauid me in hir wame,
My keiper is, so mutch of me sche makis,
And likwais all our family at hame,
Baith nicht and day, attendence on me takis.

Anus speakis to Galathea.

Ingenious lufe, with sic a force dois cum,
It oppins ports, and clausters with a swak,
Swa ardent lufe, dois vinqueis and orecum,
All quhilk may hinder, or impeichment mak:
Lat your vaine feir, fra you be put abak,
And mend your barnly maners, maist prophane,

Sweit lufe exhortis you, iornie for to tak,
Hame to my hous, with me for to remaine.

Galathea speakis to Anus.

Ye are maid priuie, of my inwart hart,
And als my secreit thochts, ye do resaue,
Ye are the portioun, and the gretest part,
Of this my counsail, quhilk I do consaue:
I the exhort, and als of the I craue,
Thy faithfull counsail, for to giue so fre,
So that heirefter, thou na schame may haue,
In giuing consultatioun vnto me.

Before the Lord, it is a greuous sin,
For to disaue pure virgins with defame,
For be thy counsail, thou may honour win,
And be the same, thou may resaue gret schame.

Anus speakis to Galathea.

I shameles wife, sall couer and cast by,
The sclandrous brute, that hereon may ensew,
My doings sall auow, and not deny,
The counsall quhilk, I to you gaue so trew:
Gif ony man wald to me haue reskew,
Or yit agains me argument sustene,
Than lat him speik, and plainly me persew,
Gif in this mater, I haue hurtfull bene.

And lat him cum, with all his haill ingine,
With all his force, to striue agains me strang,
That being win, he may keip silence sine,
Or els away with victorie to gang:
Incontinent, gud resoun vs amang,
Mot make him sone, to me to condiscend,
Swa, that be resoun, he mot speik na wrang,

Nor in my contrair, na wais to contend.

He is baith gud, and of gret clan I say,
And very ritch, as ye may heir report,
Sweit lufe I mene, and amitie for ay,
Mot be ane part, of our helpe and support:
The fame mot be maid still for to be schort,
Togither with ill brute, quhilk bringis a blame,
This mater hes, the awin way and resort,
Without respect of oprobrie or schame.

Galathea answers to Anus.

In how faill parts, O God that sits abufe,
Are lufers mindis, transportit euer mair,
Quhilk mindis with feir and firie flamis of lufe,
Baith to and fro, are tostit heir and thair:
Thir diuers troubils, driuis me to dispair,
And nicht and day, dois put me out of tone,
That thing, quhilk lufe likis best, with earnest cair,
That thing, vaine feir, forbids for to be done.

It na wais waits, quhat it suld titest do,
Into the wrang way, wauering far agast,
It ers and wauers, and throw wauering to,
It nutrefies the wound of lufe at last:
Lufe me subdews, vnto it selfe maist fast,
Agains the same, albeid I striue and stray,
Lufe burns me vp, with mony biter blast,
The mair that I the samin disobay.

I vexit am, and with wo wereit eik,
With wark inane, quhilk dois my body greiue,
All wobegone, this meikill I will speik,
I rather die, nor in this stait to leiue:

Anus speakis to Galathea.

Like as the greter fier will adres,
And be the motioun of it selfe arise,
And as the greter anger will acres,
Venvs gainstanding to thair interprise:
Swa Venvs, hurtfull till hir awin asise,
With hir awin weir, vprises to make tene,
And nurischis the woundis, efter hir gise,
Strife, being maid agains hir selfe I mene.

Ye may not than, with weir as ye may se,
Extingueis or put out the flamis that fleis,
Your fier sall, the mutch mair meker be,
Conioynd with pece, the samin for to meis:
Obay dame Venvs, in hir haill decreis,
Quhile as ye are hir weriour keipit clos,
That all your strife and labour of waneis,
Redound not to your domage, skaith and los.

Daft woman, quhy do ye so rashly go,
To tine your life, all plesours til expell,
The hurtfull error, ocupeis you so,
Destroying baith your bodie, and your sell:
The visage of your frend ye spie and spell,
Howbeid, that he be absent out of place,
And he no les in mind, as I heir tell,
Baith nicht and day, behaulds your fragrant face.

Ilk ane of you, till vther makis a sing,
Setting your eis, ane in the vthers face,
Quhilk thing, sal deith, to baith your persouns bring
Belang delay, prolonging time and space:
I trow ye trauell lichtly, bot alace,
This cairfull mater, for to meis and mend,
Bot cruell deith, sall cum and cut this cace,

And to your strife, sall schortly put ane end.

Into thy youth, tak vp ane wantoun tred,
And all thy flechly pleasours, se thou feid,
Blythe hairtis, with blythenes aucht for to be fed,
For it becums, so for to do indeid:
Cum you allone, and play with me in speid,
Ane litill space, your spreit for to renewe,
Hame in our hous, ye sall haif meikill meid,
Quhair nutis, and apillis, ye sall get anewe.

My hous wes neuer emptie, yet of meit,
Nor yit of frute, for to gif folkis thair fill,
Quhairof ye bauldly, may injoy or eit,
At your awin plesour, apetite and will:
Quhat man is yon, that knokis so stoutlie still,
And mouis our duris, with duntis, and callis so kene,
It wes a man or ellis the wind so schill,
Bot I belief, that it sum man hes bene.

Behauld it is a man, as I consaue,
Out at ane hole, he spyis vs wondrous leil,
Now Pamphilvs, it is as I persaue,
As be his visage, I ken wondrous weill:
The lock he opins, with gret craft and skeill,
And pece and pece the same, with force dois prime,
Intill vs heir, he quyetlie can steill,
I speik na mair, now at this present tyme.

Anus speakis to Pamphilus.

O furious man, quhy ar ye bent and boun,
To brek the zettis, of thir our houses heir,
With violence, our duris quhy brek ye doun,
Quhilk with my money, I haif coft so deir:
Quhat wald ye, or quhois message do ye beir,
Or quhat comissioun, bring ye, speik it plane,

Gif ye haife ony thing to speik or speir,
Speik haistily, and you returne againe.

Pamphilus heir imbracis Galathea.

O Galathæ, aboue all things I say,
Thou art my helth, quhilk to me dois belang,
Gif me ane thousand kisses, I the pray,
Sen for thy lufe, I lukit haife so lang:
My ardent lufe, sall not decay nor gang,
Throuch kisses, that betwixt vs twa hes bene,
B[illeg.] sall grow, the starker and mair strang,
Be plesant plais, and merry mowis, I mene..

Behold I do imbrace, with stomack stout,
My haill delite, and plesour maist compleit,
And als I do complex, the corps about,
Of my trew lufe, to me maist deir and sweit:
Ane happie chance, maid me with you to meit,
Gud fortoun als, my footsteps did adres,
For quhy, this place, conteinis the thing contreit,
Quhilk I lufe best, ouer all things mair or les,

Anus speakis to Galathea.

My nichbour me incallis, as you may heir,
I will hir speik, and sine returne richt snell,
For grittumlie forsoth, I dreid and feir,
That to my hous, sche sall cum in hir sell:
I do draw neir, quhat gars you cry so fell,
I steik the dures, that I may fordwart fure,
Nane heir remains, the truth to you I tell,
Except the hous it selfe, I you assure.

The turns me stops, quhilk I am subiect to,
Tell quhat ye wald, thocht it be richt or wrang,
Sic bissines and turns, I haife ado,

Far gait with you, indeid I may not gang.

Pamphilus speakis to Galathea.

Behold how lufe so hiely dois exceid,
Young plesant plant, maist prudent and perfite,
Constraining vs to foster, and to feid,
Our hairtis with sportis, and plais of gret delyte,
Behold how wantoun Venvs, hes the wyte,
Compelling vs, hir plesours till espier,
And vs commandis, to tak our apetite,
Into that thing, quhilk lufers dois desier.

Quhy stay I now, and thairfore to be schort,
My humble sute, gif gud atendence to,
And I maist ernestlie, will you exhort,
To tak in patience, that quhilk I will do.

Pamphilus warsling with Galathea, Galathea spake thir wourdis.

Now Pamphile, hald vp your handis with speid,
In vane ye baith, molest your self and me,
For quhy, this labour, dow na thing indeid,
That quhilk thou seikis, can na wayis grantit be:
Hald vp your handis, or we wil disagre,
Your Leman ye comoue, to wrath and ier,
The auld wife will returne, I tell to the,
Thairfore halde vp thy handis, I thee desier.

Allace how litle force, now sall ye find,
In wemenkind, quhois banis ar no wayis wicht,
Behauld how lichtlie, ye do knit and bynd,
My sillie handis, quhilk hes na strenth nor micht:
Quhy trumpe ye me, with subtiltie and slicht,
And with your breist, my tender breist dois hurt,

The crime is grit, gif it wer countit richt,
That ye suld gyd, me intil sic a sort.

Ceis, or I sall caus you to be persauid,
And schaw, how ye haif drest me in this cace,
The wikit auld wife, falsely hes desauid,
Me wretchit woman, wobegone allace:
Our nix nychbour, bot fra vs litill space,
Heirs all our strife, and purpos maist prophane,
The wikit wife, that pat me in this place,
Hes me disauid, wo with her wikit trane.

I in this place, na longer will repair,
Nor yet it sal, our bodies bayth contene,
The auld wife sal not, me disaue na mair,
As sche hes done, by hir disaitful mene:
Ye wil be victor, and your will obtene,
Albeid agains you, I baith striue and stray,
Yit not the les, our lufe decay sall clene,
And broken be, betwixt vs twa for ay,

Pamphilus speikis to Galathea.

It vs behouis, from farder to decist,
And to repose heir soliter alane,
That we may draw our endis at lenth and list,
Efter the renk and iorny we haue tane:
Your angrie eis, and visage wobegane,
Quhy schaw ye me, and will on na wais meis,
Your face, quhy wesch ye, making sic a mane,
With bitter teirs distelling from your eis.

The wite and blame, of all this crime I beir,
Correct me than, as ye your selfe desire,
And lat my punishment, be mair seueir,
Nor my deseruing, dewly dois require:
I am content, for to sustene the hire,

Quhat punishment ye pleis on me to mak,
And yit this deid, I na wais did conspire,
For I wes witles of this crime and fact.

And gif ye please, lat vs passe as we can,
Before sum iudge, quhair we may iustice haue,
That I may be maid clean, or giltie than,
With richt and resoun, as the cause dois craue:
Your cristall eis, surpassing all the laue,
Your flesch so white, your fair and fragrant face,
Your wourdis so sweit, the quhilk I did resaue,
Your kisses, with the quiet priuie place.

Thir forsaid things, did nurish me maist fresh,
Vnto this fact, maist filthy and profane,
And cruell lufe, inflaming all my flesh,
Into thir things, intisd me with a traine:
The rage of lufe, so enterd in my braine,
That be thir things, I did baith burne and bruse,
Thir things intisd me, I mon speik it plaine,
Vnlesum deids, to follow and til vse.

This wickit lufe, without respect or skill,
My senses hes peruertit all inteir,
Euin be the quhilk, my fauour and gudwill,
Wes na wais hard nor enterd, in your eir:
Of things quhairof, I am accusit heir,
Vpon your selfe, the haill reproch suld fall,
Because ye war the wall and water cleir,
And of my ill, the first originall.

Gret strife and anger, with ane ill intent,
Betwixt twa lufers, aucht not to lie lang,
Bot gif it cum be chance or accident,
It suld remaine the schorter, thame amang:
To lufers it dois properly belang,
The lufers falt, for to thole willingle,

And sumtime, patiently to suffer wrang,
Of sic a falt, I mene as common be.

Quhen the auld wife, returnis bak fra hir feirs,
Your sadnes I beseik you, to comport,
That sche persaue, nor ken not be your teirs,
That we are gilty, intill ony sort.

Anus returns, saying thir words.

Ane nichbour wife, did stay me for to cum,
With nochtie wourdis, not tending to na sens,
Quha with hir wourdis, wald vinqueis and orecum,
Marcvs, that orator of eloquens:
To hurt your eis, now quhat is your pretence,
With murning teirs, your body for to deir,
How cums this colour, and gret rubigence,
Quhilk in your visage, plainly dois apeir.

Quhen I was absent, out of sicht my sell,
Quhat Pamphil did, resolue me of that dout,
Now Galathæ, I pray the for to tell,
All things in ourdour, as they are faln out.

Galathea answers to Anus.

You speir, how that my chance hes interprisd,
As gif, you knew not of my gret reuyne,
Seing this thing, is subtilly deuisd,
By your consent, and counsail of ingyne:
The tre is kend and knawin, gif it be fine,
Be the awin fruit, quhilk of it selfe outspreids,
I ken you likwais, quhilk hes done me pine,
Be all your actions and your outward deids.

Into your hous, ye ordaind me frahand,
Apils and nuts, with vther cheir beside,

Into your house, ye ordanid me frahand,
Apillis and nutis, with vther cheir besyd,
Into the mene tyme, Pamphilvs, did stand,
Befoir the zet quhair as he did abyd:
Ye fenzit that your nichbour on you cryd,
That tyme micht serue the purpos for to speid,
And that I micht be spoilzit, and depryd,
Of my virginnitie, and maidinheid.

Quhat maid you, for to tary furth with folk,
And fra your hous, for to remane so lait,
Behauld how weil, your craft can hyd and clok,
The doubill deling, and the awin desait:
Disait and craft, into their awin estait,
Hes run thair race, quhilk I may rew richt sair
I Galathae, am trapit and defait,
Into the net, and crafty subtill snair.

Anus answeris to Galathea.

I am vnjustly blamid, the treuth to tell,
Bot sic offence, mot far be put fra me,
For I sall purge and purifie my sell,
By richt and resoun, as your selfe sall se:
The name of that crime, far dois disagre,
With my auld age, quhilk may mak na releif,
My craft is not so curious, nor so he,
In wikit maters, tending to mischief.

Gif ony stryfe, or wauering wourdis of wind,
To you hes chancit, concerning sic a cace,
Quhat falt or cryme, in me than can ye find,
Quho absent wes, and out of present place:
Quhat euer it be, that dois you so disgrace,
I for my awin pairt, will my self acquite,
Your ardent lufe, with priuie tyme and space,
Hes done the deid, quhairof I haif na wyte.

Anus speakis to Pamphilus.

Tell to me Pamphil, gif it be thy will,
This mistik mater, quhilk I did not se,
Bot as to the beginning of this ill,
It is not neidfull to declair to me.

Pamphilus answers to Anus

Gif that ye knew, how for ane small commit,
Gret occusatioun, now I do resaue,
Hir anger is mair vehement and grit,
Nor my deseruing, of it selfe can craue:
Vs it behouis, maist quietly to behaue,
And lufers secreits, trewly to consceill,
Fra time that dolour pas, as we persaue,
Gret schame it is, the secreits to reueill.

It you becums, na vther gait to gang,
Bot for to meis the matter, I considder,
For it becums not, anger to last lang,
Betwixt vs twa, trew lufers baith togidder:

Galathea speakis to Pamphilus.

Declair our doings to the auld wife now,
As gif that sche, thame neuer knew nor kend,
That sche may vnderstand the maner how,
That all this matter, hes bene brocht till end:
To speir that thing at you, sche dois pretend,
Quhilk sche in counsall, did hir selfe decre,
That sche micht seme, In that sche did offend,
Into na wais, for to haue troublit me.

Ye and the wife, ambiguously but feir,
Hes trumpit me, as I the truth may tell,

The mater is maid euident and cleir,
Be the effects, and takins of it sell:
And as the fisch, efter the taking snell,
Persauis the huke, quhen sche na mair may do,
Swa seis the mind of man, the fraud so fell,
And subtill snair, quhilk he is tane into.

Quhat sall I do, to quhat part sall I ply,
I wander man, throuch all the warld astray,
My Parents iustly, may me now deny,
And at thair dur, debar me out for ay,
With wauering eis, I luke to euery way,
Quhilis heir, quhilis thair, in euery airt athort,
I se na comfort, quhairvpoun to stay,
Maist caitif woman, void of all support.

Anus answers to Galathea.

It sets not wise folkis, for so small a fact,
For to lament so sore, for sick malingis,
Seing that dolour, may na profite mak,
Nor to the maister, na reward inbrings:
Thole patiently, and als except those things,
The quhilk by craft, can na wais mendit be,
And that immodrate lufe, quhilk in the rings,
The quhilk hes giuen, intisement vnto the.

Wisedome I say, with gud discretioun eik,
Thy murning teirs, suld temper into tone,
And it becums the, counsall for to seik,
Quhat in this mater, titest suld be done:
The harts of lufers, quhilk suld be abone,
By strife are hurt, with wapins maist seueir,
For oft times, discord woundes dois nourisch sone,
Be the awin battell, and vnhappy weir.

Ilk ane with vther, leid ane quiet life,
In pece and rest, lang time, for til abide,
That ye to him, may be ane lufing wife,
And he your husband on the vther side:
Be menis and moyens, quhilk I did prouide,
Ye haue obtenid your haill desier, I say,
Be me, gud fortoun to you did betide,
Thairfoir of me, haue gud remembrance ay.

FINIS. Heir ends the Historie of Pamphilus.

BE HONOR I LEVE.