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

Quha wareis all the wicked weirds, bot I?
Or vha, bot I, suld curse the thrauard faits?
To vhom, bot me, does destinies deny
Some kynd of comfort to thair auin estaits?
For vhom, bot me, doth Love in ambush ly,
With hidden huiks in his beguyling baits
Of sugred sueet dissaitis?

Weill ward thou weep, O ouer audacious ee!
Sen with a sight thou wes so soon ouersyld.
I sent the forth as centinall to see;
Bot with a blink dame Beutie thee begyld:
Fra thou wes fast, and had no force to flie,
My wofull hairt auay with thee thou wyld,
Fra me to be exyld.

To follou thee, Affectioun tuk the feeld;
Fair-heghting Hope wes laith to byd behind:
Then Curage, with a stomok stoutly steeld,
Bad Will ga wave his baner with the wind.
Last, Reson rais, ay shotfrie vnder sheeld;
Bot Fantasie fast folloud him behind,
And bleu him bravelie blind.

Then lyk a neu maid mariner, in mist
Quha saillis the sea but compasse, lead or carte,
By change of wind wes wrong befor he wist,
As prentise proud, mair peirter nor expert;
Evin so did I, als ignorant, insist,
As novice neu vnvsit in that art,
Till I had hurt my harte.

192

Or I wes war, I had resauit the wound,
So dangerous, so deidly, and so deip,
The strenth vharof gart all my stomok stou[nd].
From vein to vein I felt the canker creep,
The poysound poynt had peirc't me so profou[nd,]
That, welauay! I culd bot waill and weip
And sigh, vhen I sould sleep.

Love maid my chose, bot Fortun maid my ch[ance.]
Love folloud fast, bot fenȝeid Fortun fled.
Love perseveird, in hope of recompance;
Bot Fortun fals ay shorde that we suld shed.
Love willing wes my labour to advance,
Bot Fortun ay my brydall bakuard led;
Quhilk all my bail hes bred.

Ȝit not a vheet my thraldome I forthink:
War I to chuse I wald not change my ch[ose.]
I shaip not, for no suddan shours, to shrink,
Sen peircing pyks ar kyndlie with the rose.
Houbeit mishap be in my harte a hink,
Ȝit I will on hir permanence repose,
In spyte of Fortuns nose.

The highest hillis mair thretnit ar with thunder;
And tallest trees with tempest ofter tryde
Nor hillocks small, or bramble bushis vnder:
Vnworthie things ar aluay leist invyde.
Quhat Natur works, we may not think it wonder;
Love longer lastis the derer that we by it:
This dou not be denyit.

Let Weirds rin wod; let furious Faits be fearce;
Let absence vrne; let Cupids arrou peirce;
Let Fortun froun; let Destinies despyte;
Let tratling tongues, let bablers ay bakbyte;

193

Let enemies my haples hap reheirce—
I cair not by thair malice all a myte:
In Love is my delyte.