University of Virginia Library


151

XVI. A REGRATE OF HARD LUCK IN LOVE.

O vhat a martyrd man am I!
I freat—I fry—
I wreist—I wry—
I wrassill with the wind;
Of duill and dolour so I dry,
And wot not vhy
This grit invy
Of Fortun nou I find;
Bot at this tym hir spyt I spy:
O vhat a martyrd man am I!
Quhat pen or paper can expres
The grit distres
And hevynes,
Quhilk I haif at my hairt?
My comfort ay grouis les and les;
My cairs incres
With sik excess,
I sigh, I sobbe, I smarte;
So that I am compeld to cry,
O vhat a martyrd man am I!
With weping ees my verse I wryt,
Of comfort quyt:
Adeu delyt!
My hairt is lyk the lead.
Of all my sorou and my syte
The Weirds I wyt,
That span with spyt
My thrauart fatall threid.
God wat that barrat deir I buy:
O vhat a martyrd man am I!

152

Of ill befor I vnderstude,
It had bene gude
Into my cude,
Bereiving me my breath,
Nou to haif bene of noy denude,
Quhilk boyllis my blude:
Come ȝit conclude
My dolour, gentle Death;
And lat me not in langour ly:
O vhat a martyrd man am I!