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Pamphilus speikis to Galathea.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

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.