 | The Poems of Alexander Montgomerie |  |
147
XIV. [AGAINST LOVE.]
I rather far be frie nor fast;
I hope I may remove my mynd;
Love is so licht, it can not last;
It is smal pleasur to be pynd;
Sen I haif ees tuo,
What need I blindlings go,
Ay fundring to and fro,
Quhill clods me cast?
I am not one of tho,
To work my wilfull wo;
I shaip not to do so:
I rather far be frie nor fast.
I hope I may remove my mynd;
Love is so licht, it can not last;
It is smal pleasur to be pynd;
Sen I haif ees tuo,
What need I blindlings go,
Ay fundring to and fro,
Quhill clods me cast?
I am not one of tho,
To work my wilfull wo;
I shaip not to do so:
I rather far be frie nor fast.
But libertie—what micht me meis?
But libertic—all things me grieve.
But libertie—vhat might me pleis?
But libertie—I loth to leive.
But libertie—alace!
Hou cairfull wer my case!
But libertie—my grace
And joy wer past.
Suppose I, for a space,
War captive in a place,
I reu that rekles race:
I rather far be frie nor fast.
But libertic—all things me grieve.
But libertie—vhat might me pleis?
But libertie—I loth to leive.
But libertie—alace!
Hou cairfull wer my case!
But libertie—my grace
And joy wer past.
Suppose I, for a space,
War captive in a place,
I reu that rekles race:
I rather far be frie nor fast.
Of prisone fredome brings me furth:
My fredome maks contentment kyth:
But fredome all things war no worth:
My fredome maks me glade and blyth:
My fredome maks me fain:
In mirth vhair I remain,
I pas the tym but pain,
And vnagast.
Quharas I purpose plain,
From folies to refrain,
Sen love hes syndrie slain:
I rather far be frie nor fast.
My fredome maks contentment kyth:
But fredome all things war no worth:
My fredome maks me glade and blyth:
148
In mirth vhair I remain,
I pas the tym but pain,
And vnagast.
Quharas I purpose plain,
From folies to refrain,
Sen love hes syndrie slain:
I rather far be frie nor fast.
Love can not be bot very ill,
That folk with fury so infects;
Abusing manheid, wit, and skill,
No ryme nor resone it respects,
Bot ramping in a rage,
Not sparing ony age
Of caȝard, king, nor page,
Bot byds thair blast.
Sen sik as suld be sage
Ar korpit in that cage,
I work not for sik wage:
I rather far be frie nor fast.
That folk with fury so infects;
Abusing manheid, wit, and skill,
No ryme nor resone it respects,
Bot ramping in a rage,
Not sparing ony age
Of caȝard, king, nor page,
Bot byds thair blast.
Sen sik as suld be sage
Ar korpit in that cage,
I work not for sik wage:
I rather far be frie nor fast.
| The Poems of Alexander Montgomerie | |