The Poems of Alexander Montgomerie :: :: University of Virginia Library

Lyk as Aglauros, curious to knau
Vhat Mercurie inclosit within the creell,
Suppose defendit, ceist not till sho sau
The serpent chyld, that Juno causit to steell,
Quhilk, to hir sisters willing to reveill,
Or sho wes war, evin with the word, anone
Sho wes transformit in a marble stone:—

165

Or [lyk as Psyche,] by her Mother movd
Hir sleeping Cupid secreitly to sie,
Resavd the lamp to look him vhom sho lovd;
Quhais hevenly beautie blindt hir amorous ee,
That sho forȝet to close the lamp, till he
In wrath auok, and fleu sho wist not vhair,
And left his deing lover in dispair:—

Euen so am I. O, wareit be my weird,
For wondring on a deitie divyne—
The idee of perfectione in this eird!
Quhilk sorie sight oft gart me sigh sensyne.
I sau tua sunnis in semicircle shyne,
Compelling me to play Actæons pairt,
And be transformd into a bloody hairt.

For lurking Love, vha lang had lyne in wait,
Persaving tym, he took me at a stot;
Fra he beheld me broudin on the bait,
He tuik a shaft, and suddently me shot;
Quhais fyrie heid brint in my harte so hot,
I gave a grone as I had givin the ghost;
And, with a look, my liberty I lost.

My qualities incontinent did change;
For I, that som tyme solide wes and sage,
Begouth to studie, stupefact and strange,
Bereft of resone, reaving in a rage.
No syrops sueet my sorou culd assuage;
For cruell Cupid, to revenge his wroth,
First made me love, and syn my lady loth.

Lo, I, that leugh in liberty at Love,
And thoght his furie bot a feckles freet,
Am nou compeld that pastym for to prove,

166

Quharof the sour, I sie, exceeds the sueet.
That poysond pest perplexis so my spreet,
I sitt and sighis all soliter and sad,
Half mangd in mynd, almost as I war mad.

Meit, drink, and sleip, and company I hait;
I leive most lyk ane [eremite] allone:
Bot, as the buk, vhare he is bund, mon blait,
Becaus delyverance he persaifis none;
So must I needs nou mak my mirthles mone,
And wair my words, with weiping, all in vane,
Quhair nane, bot Echo, ansueirs me agane.

Hir modest looks, with majestie so mixt,
Bad me be war, if I had not bene blind;
Hir purpose grave, more pithie nor prolixt,
Prognosticat my wrasling with the wind:
Ȝit foolish I, vhose folie nou I find,
Forcit by affectione, sau not vhat I soght;
Bot negligence, alace! excuisis nocht.

So long as I my secreit smart conceild,
It seimd I wes a gaituard in hir grace;
Bot, welauay, hou soon it wes reveild,
Then I persaivit that pitie had no place.
Hou soon sho kneu my languishing, allace!
I gat comand hir company to quyt,
And not to send hir nather word nor wryt.

O sentence sharpe! too suddan and seveir;
O bailfull bidding! bitter to obey;
O wareit orange! willed me to weir;
O wofull absence! ordande me for ay.
O duilfull dume! delyvrit but delay;
The worst is ill, if ȝe be bot the best;
I grant ȝe ar weill grevous to digest.

167

Proud ee, that looked not befor thou lap,
Distill thy teirs of murning evermair.
Proud hart! vhilk haȝardt vhair thou had no [hap,]
To drie thy penance patiently prepair.
Cast of thy comfort; cleith thy self with [cair;]
Sen thou art thrald, think thou mon thole a thr[ist:]
To plesur hir thou may be blyth to brist.