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The Poems of Alexander Montgomerie

Edited by James Cranstoun

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 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
XXII. [IN THROU THE WINDOES OF MYN EES.]
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
 XXIX. 
 XXX. 
 XXXI. 
 XXXII. 
 XXXIII. 
 XXXIV. 
 XXXV. 
 XXXVI. 
 XXXVII. 
 XXXVIII. 
 XXXIX. 
 XL. 
 XLI. 
 XLII. 
 XLIII. 
 XLIV. 
 XLV. 
 XLVI. 
 XLVII. 
 XLVIII. 
 XLIX. 
 L. 
 LI. 
 LII. 
 LIII. 
 LIV. 
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XXII. [IN THROU THE WINDOES OF MYN EES.]

In throu the windoes of myn ees—
A perrillous and open pairt—
Hes Cupid hurt my hevy hairt,
Quhilk daylie duyns, bot nevir dees,
Throu poyson of his deidly dairt.
I bad him bot to sey ane shot;
I smyld to se that suckling shute:
“Boy, with thy bou do vhat thou dou,”
Quod I, “I cair the not a cute.”

162

“Fell peart,” quod Cupid, “thou appeirs;”
Syn to his bou he maid a braid,
And shot me soon be I had said;
Quhill all my laughter turnd to teirs.
“Now gesse,” quod he, “if thou be glaid;
Nou laugh at Love, that pastym prove:
Am I ane archer nou or nocht?”
His skorne and skaith, I baid them baith,
And got it sikker that I socht.
Fra hand I freiȝd in flamis of fyre;
I brint agane als soon in yce:
My dolour wes my auin devyce;
Displesur wes my auin desyre.
All thir by natur nou ar nyce;
Bot Natur nou, I wot not how
Sho meins to metamorphose me,
In sik a shappe as hes no happe
To further weill, nor ȝit to flie.
Quhen I wes frie, I micht haif fled;
I culd not let this love allane:
Nou, out of tym, vhen I am tane,
I seik some shift that we may shed,
Becaus it byts me to the bane.
Bot, pruif is plane, I work in vane,
It war bot mouis thairat to mint:
Fra I be fast, that pairt is past;
My tym and travell war baith tint.
Micht I my Ariadne move,
To lend hir Theseus a threed,
Hir leilest lover for to leed
Out of the laberinth of love;
Then wer I out of dout of deed.

163

Bot sho, alace! knauis not my cace;
Hou can I then the better be?
Quhill I stand au, my self to shau,
The Minotaur does murdr[e me.]
Go once, my longsome looks, reveill
My secrete to my lady sueet;
Go, sighs and teirs, for me intreet,
That sho, by sympathie, may feill
Pairt of the passionis of my spreet.
Than, if hir grace givis pitie place,
Ineugh; or, covets sho to [kill,]
Let death dispetch my lyf, puir wretch!
I wold not live aganst hi[r will.]