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

Tak tyme in tym, or tym will not be tane;
Thairfor tak tent hou thou this tyme suld tak:
Sho hes no hold, to hold hir by, bot ane;
A toppe befor, bot beld behind hir bak.
Let thou hir slippe, or slipperly grou slak,
Thou gettis no grippe agane fra sho be gane.
If thou wald speid, remember vhat I spak;
Tak tyme in tyme, or tym will not be tane.

For I haif hard in adagies of auld,
That tyme dois waist and weir all things auay;
Then trou the taill that treu men oft hes tauld—
A turne in tyme is ay worth other tuay.
Siklyk, I haif hard oft-tymis suith men say,
That negligence ȝit nevir furtherit nane;
Als, seindle tymis luck foloues long delayis.
Tak tyme in tyme, or tyme will not be tane.

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II. THE OPPOSITIONE OF THE COURT TO CONSCIENCE

The Court and Conscience wallis not weill;
These tua can nevir weill accord.
Quha leivis in Court and halds him leill,
Lang or that lyf mak him a lord;
And Conscience stenȝies if he steill:
So Court and Conscience walis not weill.

The Court some qualities requyrs
Quhilk Conscience can not bot accuse;
And, specially, sik as aspyris
Mon honest adulation wse;
I dar not say, and doubly deill:
Bot Court and Conscience wals not weill.

First thou mon preis thy Prince to pleis,
Thought contrare Conscience he commands,
With Mercuris mouth, and Argos eis,
And with Briarius hundreth hands;
And seme vhatsoever he sayis to seill.
So Court and Conscience wallis not weill.

Syn evirie minioun thou man mak
To gar thame think that thou art thairs,
Houbeit thou be behind thair bak
No furtherer of thair effairs,
Bot mett thame moonshyn ay for meill.
So Court and Conscience wallis not weill.

To pleis men vhen thou art imployde,
Give glorifluikims in thair face;
Quhilks wald be cunningly convoyde,
To gar thame haif the griter grace,
To mak thame fonde that hes no feill.
So Court and Conscience walis not weill.

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III. ANE INVECTIONE AGAINST FORTUN;

Conteining ane Admonitione to his Friends at Court.

Not Clio nor Calliope I chuse;
Megera, thou must be my mirthles Muse,
For to inspyre my spreit with thy despyte,
And with thy fervent furie me infuse,
Quhat epithets or arguments till vse,
With fals and feinȝed Fortun for to flyte.
Both wey my words and waill my verse to wry[te,]
That curst inconstant cative till accuse,
Quhais variance of all my wois I wyt.

Sho is mair mobile mekle nor the mone:
It keeps a course, and changis not so sone,
Bot in ane ordour waxis ay and wanis;
Sing sho tua notis, the one is out of tone,
As B acre lau and B moll far abone:
In mesur not a moment sho remanes.
Sho givis by gesse; sho weyis no gold by granes.
Hir doings all ar vndiscreitly done,
Without respect of persons or of pains.

For men of merit sho no mater maks:
Bot vhen a toy intill hir heid sho taks,
But ryme or reson or respect to richt,
The worthiest and valiantest sho wraks,
And honours out-waills for wnworthie acts;
As of a kitchin knaive to mak a knicht.
That witch, that warlok, that vnworthie wic[ht]
Turnis ay the best men tittest on thair bakis;
Syn settis vp sik as somtym war bot slycht.

130

Quhen with a quhisk sho quhirlis about hir quheill,
Rude is that rattill running with a reill,
Quhill top ouer tail goes honest men atains.
Then spurgald sporters they begin to speill;
The cadger clims, neu cleikit from the creill;
And ladds vploips to lordships all thair lains:
Doun goes the bravest, brecking al their banis.
Sho works hir will; God wot if it be weill.
Sho stottis at strais, syn stumbillis not at stanis.

How sho suld hurt or help sho neuer huiks.
Luk as it lyks, sho laughis and neuer luiks,
Bot wavers lyk the widdircok in wind.
Sho counts not kings nor caȝards mair nor cuiks.
Reid bot hou scho hes bleckit Bocas buiks:
Thairin the fall of princes sall ȝe find.
That bloodie bitch, that buskit belly blind
Dings dounuards ay the duchtiest lyk duiks:
Quha hopped highest oft tyms comes behind.

I neid not nou to nominat thair names
Quhom sho hes shent, and dayly shifts and shames;
That longsome labour wold be ouer prolixt:
Ȝour selfis may sie, I think, a thousand thames
Quhilks poets, as hir pursevants, proclames.
Hir fickle freindship is not firmely fixt:
Quhair ane is nou his nichtbour may be nixt.
Sho causles culȝies, and but falt defames;
Hir mirrines with missheif ay is mixt.

Thairfor, my freinds vha nevir feirs to fall,
Resaiv my eirnest admonition all.
Quhillis ȝe ar weill I wish ȝou to be war.
Remember, shirs, that somtym ȝe war small;
And may be ȝit: I will not say ȝe sall;

131

For, I confes, that war a fut too far.
Houbeit ȝe think my harrand something har,
Quhen ȝe leist wein, ȝour baks may to the wall.
Things byds not ay in ordour as they ar.

Tak tyme in tyme, and to my taill tak tent;
Let ȝe it pass, perhaps, ȝe may repent,
And wish it war, vhen ȝe may want ȝour will.
Had Cæsar sene the cedul that wes sent,
Ȝe wat he had not with the wicked went,
Quha war concludit causles him to kill:
Bot in his bosome he put vp that bill;
The vhilk at last, thoght lait, maid him repent:
His vnadvertence only did him ill.

Judge of ȝour self by Julius, my joyes,
Quhais fenȝeid freinds wer worse then open foes,
If that ȝe stand not in a stagring stait.
Think ȝe that sho will thole ȝou more nor those
Quha war ȝour auin companȝons, I suppose,
Quhom sho gart slyde, or ȝe sat on thair seat?
Some got a blind, vho thoght they war not bleat.
Chuse or refuse my counsel; tak ȝour chose.
Fairweill, my freinds, I bot with fortun fleat.

IV. THE POETS COMPLAINT OF HIS NATIVITIE.

Since that the Hevins are hinderers of my hap,
And all the starris so strange against me stand,
Quhy kild not Jove me with his thunder clap,
Hou soon the midwyfe held me in hir hand?
Quhy wald not Mercure with his wrethin wand
Depryve me baith of senses, wit, and shape,
Since that the Hevins ar hinderers of my hap?

132

Quhy thoild my mothers bouels me to breath?
Quhy wes hir belly not my bureall bed?
Quhy wes not hir delyverie my death?
Quhy suelt I not, so soon as we wer shed?
Quhy come the Muses and my cradle cled?
Quhat movit these Vestal Virgins me to wrap,
Since that the Hevins ar hinderers of my hap?

Quhy wes my mother blyth vhen I wes borne?
Quhy heght the Weirds my weilfair to advance?
Quhy wes my birth on Eister day at morne?
Quhy did Apollo then appeir to dance?
Quhy gaiv he me good morou with a glance?
Quhy leugh he in his golden chair and lap,
Since that the Hevins ar hinderers of my hap?

Quhy had he me to Helicon to heive?
Quhy wes I novece to the Nobles nyne?
Quhy did the gods for godbarne-gift me geive
Ambrosian bread and hevinly nectar wyn,
To quintessence a goldin grave ingyne,
Both for invention and for uttrance apt,
Since that the Hevins ar hinderers of my hap?

Quhy wes I nurisht with the noble Nymphs?
Quhy wes I fostred for to flie with fame?
For drinking of these Ladyis hallouit lymphs,
Extold among ye rare men wes my name.
Quhy did Apollo Poet me proclame,
To cleith my heid with his grene laurell cap,
Since that the Hevins ar hinderers of my hap?

Quhat helpeth me, thought Maia or Minerve
With hevinly fury haif my spreit infusde?
Quhat do these sacred ceremonies serve,
Quhilks they haif on thair auin adoptit wsde?
Quhat profits me vhom fortun hes refusde,

133

Thoght with my king in credit once I crap,
Since that the Hevins ar hinderers of my hap?

Quhy wes my will to vertue mair then vyce?
Quhy wes I faithfull, and refusde to fane?
Quhy soght I aye warme water vnder yce,
Quhair wylis availls and veritie is vane?
Forgive me this, and if I do it agane,
Then tak me with the foxis taill a flap,
Since that the Hevins are hinderers of my hap.

V. THE POETS COMPLANTE AGAINST THE WNKYNDNES OF HIS COMPANIONS VHEN HE WES IN PRISONE.

No wonder thoght I waill and weip,
That womplit am in woes;
I sigh, I sobbe, vhen I suld sleep;
My spreit can not repose.
My persone is in prisone pynit,
And my companions so vnkind,
Melancholie mischeivis my mind,
That I can not rejose.

So long I lookit for releif,
Vhill trewlie nou I tyre;
My guttis ar grippit so with grief,
It eitis me vp in yre.
The fremmitnes that I haif felt,
For syte and sorrou garris me suelt,
And maks my hairt within me melt
Lyk waxe befor the fyre.

Quhen men or wemen visitis me,
My dolour I disguyse;
By outuard sight that nane may sie
Quhair inward langour lyis.

134

Als patient as my pairt appeirs,
With hevy hairt, vhen no man heirs,
For baill then burst I out in teirs,
Alane with cairfull cryis.

All day I wot not vhat to do,
I loth to sie the licht;
At evin then I am trublit, to;
So noysum is the nicht.
Quhen Natur most requyrs to rest,
With pansing so I am opprest,
So mony things my mynd molest,
My sleiping is bot slicht.

Remembring me vhair I haif bene
Both lykit and belovt,
And nou sensyne vhat I haif sene,
My mynd may be commovt.
If any of my dolour dout,
Let ilkane sey thair tym about:
Perhaps vhois stomok is most stout,
Its patience may be provt.

I sie, and namely nou a dayis,
All is not gold that gleitis;
Nor to be seald that ilkane sayis;
Nor water all that weitis.
Sen fristed goods ar not forgivin,
Quhen cuppe is full, then hold it evin;
For man may meit at unsetstevin,
Thoght montanis nevir meitis.

Then do as ȝee wald be done to,
Belouit brethren all;
For, out of doubt, quhat so ȝe do,
Resaiv the lyk ȝe sall.

135

And with quhat mesur ȝe do mett,
Prepair again the lyk to gett.
Ȝour feet ar not so sicker sett,
Bot fortun ȝe may fall.

VI. A LATE REGRATE OF LEIRNING TO LOVE.

Quhat mightie motione so my mynd mischeivis?
Quhat vncouth cairs throu all my corps do creep?
Quhat restles rage my resone so bereivis?
Quhat maks me loth of meit, of drink, of sleep?
I knou not nou vhat countenance to keep
For to expell a poysone that I prove.
Alace! alace! that evir I leirnd to love.

A frentick fevir thrugh my flesh I feill;
I feill a passione can not be exprest;
I feill a byll within my bosum beill;
No cataplasme can weill impesh that pest.
I feill my self with seiknes so possest,
A madnes maks my mirth from me remove.
Alace! alace! that evir I learnd to love.

My hopeles hairt, vnhappiest of hairts,
Is hoild and hurt with Cupids huikit heeds,
And thirlit throu with deidly poysond dairts,
That inwardly within my breist it bleids.
Ȝit fantasie my fond affection feeds
To run that race but ather rest or rove.
Alace! alace! that evir I leirnd to love.

Nou sie I that I nevir sau afore;
Nou knou I that, vhill nou, I nevir kneu;
Nou sie I weill that servitude is sore:
Bot vhat remeid? It is no tym to reu;

136

Quhair Love is Lord, all libertie adeu.
My baill is bred by destinies above.
Alace! alace! that evir I leirnd to love.

All gladnes nocht bot aggravats my grief;
All mirrines my murning bot augments.
Lamenting toons best lyks me for relief,
My sicknes soir to sorou so consents;
For cair the cairfull commounly contents;
Sik harmony is best for thair behove.
Alace! alace! that evir I leirnd to love.

I felt, fra anis I entred in that airt,
A grit delyte that leson for to leir,
Quhill I become a prentise ouer expert;
For, but a book, I cund it soon perqueir.
My doctours wage and deuty will be deir,
I grant, except I get hir jelous glove.
Alace! alace! that evir I leirnd to love.

VII. A COUNSELL AGANST DISPAIR IN LOVE.

Drie furth the inch as thou hes done the span,
My gentle hairt, and die not in dispair.
I sheu the first vhen thou to love began,
It wes no moues to mell with Loves lair.
Thou wald not ceis till thou wes in that snair:
Think of it nou as thou thoght of it than:
With patience thou mayst thy self prepair
To drie the inch as thou hes done the span.

Quhat meins thou nou fra thou be in hir waird?
Thy libertie, alace! it is to lait.
Except hir grace thou hes no other gaird.
Thair is no chose, for nou thou art chekmait.

137

Thair is no draught that dou mak the debait.
Thou art inclosde, for all the craft thou can.
With patience persaiv thy auin estait:
Drie furth the inch as thou hes done the span.

The mair thou grudgis, the griter is thy grief.
The mair thou sighis, the mair thou art ouirsett.
The mair thou loipis, the les is thy relief.
The mair thou flings, the faster is the net.
The mair thou feghts, the mair thou art defett.
The mair behind, the faster that thou ran.
Tak patience, sen dolour peyis no dett:
Drie furth the inch as thou hes done the span.

Ȝit werie not, thoght of thy will thou want.
I am assuird that shortly thou sall sie
Thy Love and Lady grace vnto the grant,
Sa far as may stand with hir honestie—
Hir gentlenes and hir humanitie
War advocats till thou thy proces wan—
Provyding aluayis thou suld stedfastly
Drie furth the inch as thou hes done the span.

Then mak thy self als mirrie as thou may;
The tyme may come thou longis for so fast.
Rome wes not biggit all vpon ane day,
And ȝit it wes compleitit at the last.
Of all thy pains account the perrils past;
For vhy? sho is not come of Cresseids clan.
Be glade, thairfor, and be no more agast:
Drie furth the inch as thou hes done the span.

O noblest nymph of Naturs nurishing!
O most excellent only A per se!
O fairest flour in firmnes florishing!
O treuest turtle, root of constancie!

138

O worthie wicht both wyse and womanlie!
O myn but mo! shau mercy to thy man,
To plesur him vho dois so patiently
Drie furth the inch as he hes done the span.

VIII. ECHO.

To the, Echo, and thou to me agane,
In the deserts among the wods and wells,
Quhair destinie hes bund [the] to remane,
But company within the firths and fells,
Let vs complein, with wofull ȝouts and ȝells,
On shaft and shooter that our hairts hes slane:
To the, Echo, and thou to me agane.

Thy pairt to mine may justlie be compaird
In mony poynts, vhilk both we may repent,
Thou hes no hope, and I am clene dispaird;
Thou tholis but caus, I suffer innocent;
Thou does bewaill, and I do still lament;
Thou murns for nocht, I shed my teirs in vane:
To the, Echo, and thou to me agane.

Thou pleins Narcissus, I my love also;
He did the hurt, bot I am kild by myne;
He fled from the, myne is my mortall fo,
Without offence, and crueller nor thyne.
The Weirds vs baith predestinat to pyne,
Continually to others to complane:
To the, Echo, and thou to me agane.

Thou hyds thyself; I list not to be sene;
Thou banisht art, and I am in exyle—
By Juno thou, and I by Venus Quene.
Thy love wes fals, and myn did me begyle;

139

Thou hoped once, so wes I glaid a vhyle;
Ȝit lost our tyme in love, I will not lane:
To the, Echo, and thou to me agane.

Thy elrish skirlis do penetrat the roks;
The roches rings, and rendirs me my cryis.
Our saikles plaints to pitie thame provoks,
Quhill they compell our sounds to pierce the skyis.
All thing bot love to plesur vs applyis,
Quhais end, alace! I say is bot disdane:
To the, Echo, and thou to me agane.

Som thing, Echo, thou hes for to rejose,
Suppose Narcissus some tyme the forsook.
First he is dead, syne changed in a rose,
Quhom thou nor nane hes pouer for to brook.
Bot, be the contrair, evirie day I look
To sie my love attraptit in a trane
From me, Echo, and nevir come agane.

Nou welcome, Echo, patience perforce.
Anes eviry day, with murning, let vs meet.
Thy love nor myne in mynds haif no remorse;
We taist the sour that nevir felt the sueet.
As I demand, then ansueir and repeit.
Let teirs aboundant ouir our visage rane:
To the, Echo, and thou to me agane.

Quhat lovers, Echo, maks sik querimony? Mony.
Quhat kynd of fyre doth kindle thair curage? Rage.
Quhat medicine, (O Echo! knouis thou ony?) Ony?
Is best to stay this Love of his passage? Age.
Quhat merit thay that culd our sigh assuage? Wage.
Quhat wer we first in this our love profane? Fane.
Quhair is our joy? O Echo! tell agane. Gane!

140

IX. [ADDRESS TO LOVE.]

Blind Love! if euer thou made bitter sueet,
Or turnd the sugar to the taist of gall,
Or ȝit dissolvit a frostie hairt with heet;
If on thyn altar sacrifice I sall,
As to the Lord of Love vho may do all,
Vhois pouer maks the stoutest stomoks ȝeeld,
And waikest somtyme for to win the feeld;

If thou can brek ane allabaster breist,
Or if no sheeld be shotfrie vhare thou shoots,
Let not thy lau be lichtleit, at the leist,
Bot tak revenge vhen rebels thee reboots.
If thou be he of vhom so mony moots,
Quha maks the hardiest flintie harts to melt,
And beirs thame ay about the lyk a belt;

Or if thou be that archer so renound,
That vhair thou mints thou missis not the mark,
Bot, lyk a king, is for thy conqueis cround,
To vhom all stoupis, thoght they war neuer so s[tark;]
If of thy fyr be resting ȝit a spark,
I pray thee, nou, thy cunning for to kyth,
And burne hir breist that of my baill is blyth.

X. A DESCRIPTIONE OF VANE LOVERS.

Nane lovis bot fools vnolvd agane,
Quha tyns thair tyme and comis no speid.
Mak this a maxime to remane,
That Love beirs nane bot fools at feid;

141

And they get ay a good goosheid
In recompense of all thair pane.
So of necessitie mon succeid,
Nane lovis bot fools, vnlovd agane.

Ȝe wot a wyse man will be war,
And will not ventur but advyse.
Greit fuills, for me, I think they ar,
That seeks warme water vnder yce.
Ȝit some mair wilfull ar nor wyse,
That for thair lovis saik wold be slane.
Buy on repentance of that pryce:
Nane lovis bot fools, vnlovd agane.

Thoght some we sie, in evry age,
Lyk glaikit fools, gang gooked gaits,
Quhair reson gets no place for rage,
They love best them vhilk thame bot haits,
Syne of thair folies wyts the Faits,
As Destinie did thame disdane;
Quhilks are bot cappit vane conceats:
Nane loves bot fools, vnlovd agane.

Some by ane proverbe fane wald prove,
Quha skantly nevir sau the scuills,
That love with resone is no love,
Nor constance, vhare occasion cools.
Thair they confes, lyk frantick fools,
That wilfully thay will be vane.
But resone what ar men bot mulis?
Nane lovis bot fools, vnlovd agane.

They speik not leirnd-lyk, at the leist,
That rage, in steid of reson, ruisis:
Vhat better ar they nor a beist,
Fra tym that reson thame refuisis?

142

Some beistlily thamselfis abusis,
As constancie did them constrane;
Quhilks ar bot ignorant excusis:
Nane lovis bot fools, vnlovd agane.

For ding a dog, and he will byte,
And fan on him vha givis him fude;
And can as caus requyrs acquyt,
As ill with ill, and good with good.
Than love nane bot vhare thou art lude,
And vhar thou finds tham faynd refrane;
Tak this my counsell: I conclude,
Nane lovis bot fools, vnlovd agane.

XI. THE WELL OF LOVE.

Among the gods that sittis above,
And ruleth in the skyis,
That blindit boy, the god of love,
All creatur espyis.
Vha may withstand his stroke, I say,
Quhen he list for to shute?
For to reveill I minted ay;
Bot yet it was no bute.

Fra tym that winged god did sie
That I did love disdane,
He took a shaft and shot at me
And peirsit evirie vane.
The head so deeply in me sank,
That all my body brist;
Then of the well of Love I drank,
To quench my burning thrist.

143

So soon as I thairof did taist,
My breist began to burne;
Then to the gods of love, in haist,
My visage did I turne,
With trimbling teirs, vpon my knees,
My pains for to deploir;
Then they did open vp my ees,
Quhilk long wer shut before.

Quhen that my dimmit sight greu cleir,
Incontinent I sau
A palice stand before me neir;
And thidder did I drau
For to refresh my werynes,
Quhilk I susteind before:
Bot then my pains they did incres,
And vexd me more and more.

Into that place I sau repair
Of nymphis mony a one;
Lyk burning gold thair glistering hair
Thair shulders hang vpon.
Amongst thame one I sau appeir,
Quhilk did excell thame all;
Lyk Venus with hir smyling cheir
That wan the goldin ball.

Hir deasie colour, rid and vhyte,
Lyk lilies on the laik;
Hir glistring hair, of grit delyte,
Behind hir nek did shaik.
Of diamonds hir ees were maid,
That in hir heid did stand;
With armis long, and shulders braid,
And middle small as wand.

144

Fra I beheld hir beuty bright,
I had no strenth to steir;
I wes so woundit with that sight,
That I micht not reteir.
The gods of love reliev my pain,
And caus hir for to reu!
For nou the fyre of love agane
Is in me kindlit neu.

O happie war that man indeid,
Quha micht hir love obtene!
For hir my thirlit hairt does bleid;
Sair vexit is my splene.
Sen I haif lost my libertie,
In bondage for to duell,
God give hir grace to reu on me,
And meit me at the well!

XII. OF THE SAME WELL.

To the, O Cupid! king of love,
We pray, whair thou does duell,
That, but respect, thou wold remove
All rebells from thy well:
And if to drink they haif desyre
This water; then, thou turne
Into the element of fyre,
With baill thair breist to burne.

And let thame, with Apollo, prove
The fury of thy fyre;
And let them haif no luk in love,
Bot droun thame with desyre.

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Bot vnto vs that subjects ar
To Love, and to his lauis,
Mair mercifull I wald thou war,
Nor ȝit thy self thou shauis.

As we do serve thy Celsitude,
In hope to haif reuaird;
Let thame, vhom we haif so long lude,
Our service once regaird.

XIII. THE COMMENDATIONE OF LOVE.

I rather far be fast nor frie,
Albeit I micht my mynd remove;
My maistres hes a man of me,
That lothis of euery thing bot love.
Quhat can a man desyre,
Quhat can a man requyre,
Bot tym sall caus him tyre,
And let it be,
Except that fervent fyre
Of burning love impyre?
Hope heghts me sik a hyre,
I rather far be fast nor frie.

But love—vhat wer bot sturt or stryfe?
But love—vhat kyndnes culd indure?
But love—hou lothsum war our lyfe!
But love—vhairof suld we be sure?
But love—vhar wer delyt?
But love—vhat bot despyt?
But love—vhat wer perfyt?
Sure suld we sie.

146

But love—vhat war to wryt?
But love—vha culd indyt?
No—nothing worth a myte:
I rather far be fast nor frie.

Love maks men glaȝard in thair geir;
Love maks a man a martial mynd;
Love maks a man no fortun feir;
Love changes natur contrare kynd.
Love maks a couard kene;
Love maks the clubbit clene;
Love maks the niggard bene;
That—vho bot he?
Love maks a man, I mene,
Mair semely to be sene;
Love keeps ay curage grene:
I rather far be fast nor frie.

Love can not be, bot from above,
Quhilk halds the hairt so quik in heit.
Fy on that freik that can not love!
He hes not worth a sponk of spreit.
Remember ony man,
In chronikle, ȝe can,
That ever worship wan,
But love, let sie,
And once that rink he ran.
Sen this is treu—vhy than,
I end as I began:
I rather far be fast nor frie.

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.

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.

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:

148

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.

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.

XV. [THE SOLSEQUIUM.]

Lyk as the dum
Solsequium,
With cair ouercum,
And sorou, vhen the sun goes out of sight,
Hings doun his head,
And droups as dead,
And will not spread,
Bot louks his leavis throu langour of the nicht,

149

Till folish Phaeton ryse,
With vhip in hand,
To cleir the cristall skyis,
And light the land:
Birds in thair bour
Luiks for that hour,
And to thair prince ane glaid good-morou givis;
Fra thyn, that flour
List not to lour,
Bot laughis on Phœbus lousing out his leivis:

So fairis with me,
Except I be
Vhair I may se
My lamp of licht, my Lady and my Love.
Fra scho depairts,
Ten thousand dairts,
In syndrie airts,
Thirlis throu my hevy hart, but rest or rove;
My countenance declairs
My inward grief;
Good hope almaist dispairs
To find relief.
I die—I duyn—
Play does me pyn—
I loth on euiry thing I look—alace!
Till Titan myne
Vpon me shyne,
That I revive throu favour of hir face.

Fra she appeir
[Into hir spheir,]
Begins to cleir

150

The dauing of my long desyrit day:
Then Curage cryis
On Hope to ryse,
Fra he espyis
My noysome nicht of absence worne auay.
No wo, vhen I aualk,
May me impesh;
Bot, on my staitly stalk,
I florish fresh.
I spring—I sprout—
My leivis ly out—
My colour changes in ane hartsum heu.
No more I lout,
Bot stands vp stout,
As glade of hir, for vhom I only greu.

O happie day!
Go not auay.
Apollo! stay
Thy chair from going doun into the west:
Of me thou mak
Thy zodiak,
That I may tak
My plesur, to behold vhom I love best.
Thy presence me restores
To lyf from d[eath;]
Thy absence also shores
To cut my breath.
I wish, in vane,
Thee to remane,
Sen primum moblie sayis aluayis nay;
At leist thy wane
Turn soon agane.
[Fareweill, with patience perforce, till day.]

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!

XVII. [ANE EXAMPLE FOR HIS LADY.]

Quhen first Apollo Python sleu,
Sa glorious that god he greu,
Till he presumit to perseu
The blindit archer boy;
Quhais Turkie bou and quaver bleu,
Quharin appeirit noks aneu,
He bad him ȝeild to him, as deu,
Quha best culd thame imploy.
Quod Cupid: “Shortly sall thou reu,
That euer thou sik cunning kneu;”
Syne to Parnassus fast he fleu,
His shaft for to convoy.
Thair he ane deidly dairt outdreu,
At proud Apollo he it threu,
Syn him a sight of Daphne sheu,
Quhose beutie wroght him noy.

Ȝit crabit Cupid, not content,
Apollois anger to augment,
Did nok agane incontinent,
[OMITTED]

153

With fethers rugh, and all too rent,
At Daphne slaulie doun he sent,
Quhais frostie head, vhair so it went,
Bedeaȝit evry vane.
That winged archer insolent
Did wound thame baith, bot different;
Apollois harte to love he bent,
Bot Daphnes to disdane.
To lait Apollo did repent
That he with Cupid wes acquent,
Quha wilfullie did ay invent
Hou to augment his pane.

His hurt wes with the goldin heid,
Quhilk inward in his hair did bleid;
No medicin micht him remeid
From Cupids angrie yre:
Hirs with the blunted bolt of leid,
Ane hevy mettall cauld and deid,
Repelling love, as yce may reid,
And quencher of desyre.
His pain wes lyk the pyralide,
A beist in birning that does breid,
And in the fyry flammis dois feid,
And fosters of the fyre.
Cupido bare him so at feid,
That in his love he come no speid:
Both his persute and Daphnes dreid,
To tell, my tongue suld tyre.

About Penneus, did repair
This noble nymph, of beuty rare;
Quhais comely clothing to declare,
My author does indyt.

154

Most from the belt vp scho wes bair;
Behind hir hang hir hevinly hair,
Vnkamed hovring in the air,
Shed from hir visage vhyt;
With blinkis dulce and debonair
Lyk beuties freshest florish, fair,
Exemed clene from Loves lair,
To work Apollo spyt.
Hir countenance did move him mair,
Quhen throu hir garments, heir and thair,
Appeirit hir lustie limis square,
As sho ran by him quyt.

Quhen as he sau that Virgin flie,
He folloude in a frenesie,
And cryde: “O Daphne! deir to me,
“Why does thou take the chace?
“Go slau, and sie vha folouis thee—
“Thy lover, and no enemie;
“Nixt michtie Jove, into degrie,
“I bruik the cheifest place;
“And I sall stay my course,” quod he,
“Leist thou resave some hurt from me:
“Thou sees, thair is no remedie,
“Bot thou must lose the race.”
Sho prayd the gods hir helpers be,
To saif hir pure virginitie;
Quha shupe hir in a laurell trie,
As he did hir embrace.

Nou, lovesome lady, let vs leir
Exemple of these ladyis heir;
Sen Daphne boght hir love so deir,
Hir fortun suld effray ȝou.

155

Bot I haif no sik caus to feir,
That obstinat ȝe perseveir;
On Lovis book, my self I sueir,
Ȝour bundman, til obey ȝou.
Then lyk Penelope appeir,
Quha wes so constant tuenty ȝeir:
Quhen ȝour Vlysses is not neir,
Tentation may assay ȝou;
Ȝit vary not, I ȝou requeir,
And I sall stoppe Vlysses eir.
Fairweill, my Love and Lady cleir;
Be permanent, I pray ȝou.

Finis.

XVIII. NATUR PASSIS NURITURE.

As Natur passis Nuriture,
Of Natur all things hes a strynd;
So evrie leving creature
Ay covets comounly thair kynd:
As buk the dae—the harte the hynd:
Lyk drauis to lyk, we sie this sure;
So I am aluayis of that mynd,
That Natur passis Nuriture.

Thoght Nuriture be of that strenth,
To war the Natur vhylis a wie;
Ȝit Natur ay prevailis at lenth,
As by experience we sie;
Except throu destinie it be
In some; vhilk does not long indure.
Vhat fortun will, may no man flie;
Bot Natur passis Nuritur

156

To prove this proverbe to be true,
Difficultie, I think, is nane,
By ald examplis past aneu,
Quharof I mycht haif tuentie tane.
Nou I will vse bot only ane,
Quhilk lang within my breist I bure,
And let the lave nou all alane;
Hou Natur passis Nuriture.

Thair wes a gentle girking gay,
Of plesand plume, and fair of flicht,
Quha wes so proud, vhen he wald pray,
That he outsprang all halks for hight.
He wes so lordly, for to light,
He wald not look vpon a lure;
Bot fleu, ay soaring, out of sight,
As Natur passis Nuriture.

The falconis folouit vhair he fleu;
To fang his friendship they war fane
Quharof so glorious he greu,
That he thair offers did disdane;
Quhilks vhen they sau they wroght in vane,
The formels fair auay they fure.
Ingratitude gets sik agane,
As Natur passis Nuriture.

This girking pearkit in a place,
Quharin ouer long he did delyt;
Quhill, at the last, throu love, alace!
He come acquantit with a kyt,
And quat his auld acquentance quyt.
Of his oun kynd he took no cure:
Wo worth the Weirds that had the wyt
That Natur ȝeildt to Nuriture!

157

Fra once hir company he vsit,
He greu so goked with that gled;
Blind love his reson so abvsit,
He suore that they suld neuer shed.
Fra sho with fedrit flesh wes fed,
Quhilk prayd befor on poddoks pure,
With tym sho tystit him to tred:
Thair Natur ȝeildt to Nuriture.

Hir meit of modeuarts and myce,
He changed in partridge, and in pout.
Ȝit Natur, nottheles, is nyce:
Thair brald a bissat neir about,
Quhilk vsd hir, vhen the halk fleu out,
Suppose they held it long obscure.
Do vhat ȝe dou, thair is no doubt
Bot Natur passis Nuriture.

Thair companie [it] wes not quyet,
Bot or they wist they wer beuryde;
And that throu pearking of a pyet
Besyde thame, vhilk thair palks espyde.
To tell the halk, in haist sho hyde,
The kyt wes palȝard and perjure.
The tersel troude not, vhill he tryde,
That Natur passis Nuriture.

XIX. [ADDRESS TO THE SUN.]

Quhill as with vhyt and nimble hand,
My maistres gathring flours doth stand,
Amidst the florisht meid;
Of lilies vhyt, and violets,
A garland properly sho plets,
To set vpon hir heid.

158

O Sun! that shynis so bright above,
If euer thou the fyre of love
Hes felt, as poets fayne—
If it be sik—as sik it semes,
Of courtessie withdrau thy bemes,
Leist thou hir colour stayne.

She, if thou not hir beutie burne,
Sall quyt thee with a better turne,
To close hir cristall ees—
A brightnes far surmounting thyne,
Leist thou, thairby ashamd, suld tyne
Thy credit in the skyis.

XX. [EVEN DEAD BEHOLD I BREATH.]

Evin dead behold I breath!
My breath procures my pane;
Els dolour, eftir death,
Suld slaik, vhen I war slane:
Bot destinies disdane
So span my fatall threid,
But mercy, to remane
A martyr, quik and deid.
O fatall deidly feid!
O rigour but remorse!
Since thair is no remeid,
Come patience, perforce.

My hairt, but rest or rove,
Reuth, reson, or respect,
With fortun, death, and love,
Is keipit under check;

159

That nou thair is no nek,
Nor draught to mak debate,
Bot let it brist or brek;
For love must haif it mait.
Relief, alace! is lait,
Quhen I am bund to flie:
I stand in strange estate;
I duyn and dou not die.

The Faits—the thrauard Faitis,
The wicked Weirds hes wroght
My state, of all estates,
Vnhappiest to be thoght.
Had I offendit oght,
Or wroght aganst thair will,
But mercy, than they moght
Conclvde my corps to kill:
Bot, as they haif no skill
Of gude, nor ȝit regard,
The innocent, with ill,
Ressaves the lyk reuard.

Ȝit tyme sall try my treuth,
And panefull patient pairt.
Thoght love suld rage but reuth,
And death with deidly dairt
Suld sey to caus me smart;
Nor fortuns fickill vheill—
All suld not change my hairt,
Quhilk is als true as steill.
I am not lyk ane eill;
To slippe, nor ȝet to slyde.
Love, fortun, death, fairueill,
For I am bound to byd.

160

XXI. [LOVE, IF THOU LIST.]

Love, if thou list, I pray the let me leiv;
Devoir me not, withdrau thy deidly dairt.
Quhat right or resone hes thou to bereiv
Me, wofull wretch, of my vnhappie hairt?
Thy fyre, through yre,
My bailfull bosome burnis.
Quhat gloir the moir
Vnto thy trophee turnis?
To prove on me thy pith,
Ane innocent, but ill,
That ȝoldin am in will,
If thou thy captive kill,
I dou not do thairwith.

O Reson! thou regards not to be reft;
Weill I persaiv thy pairt is to reprove:
Quhy hes thou me alone in langour left?
Delyvring me vnto this lokman Love,
Vhose strenth at lenth
Sall shuff the by the skaith;
That I deir buy
And thou be banisht baith;
Quhilk sore we may repent.
Fra thou be in exyle,
That boy will me beguyll.
O! waryit be the vhyle
That euer we wer acquent!

Quhen I wes lous, at libertie I lap;
I leugh vhen ladyis spak to me of love;
To hald me sa, alace! I had no hap,
Bot purposly I wald gang pastym prove.

161

I thoght I moght,
But perrell, pas the tym;
Fra hand, I fand
My fethers in the lyme.
Quhair I took leist regaird,
And lothest wes to look,
Bot seimd that I forsook,
Sho had me on hir hook:
O! welcome, just reuard!

My pane is bot hir pastyme and hir play.
As fyr I burne—lyk yce scho is als cauld:
I sie, the man wha will not vhen he may,
The tym sall come, he sall not vhen he wald.
I sie in me
This proverbe to be true;
Quha wald not hald
Me frie, vhilk I may reu;
Bot proudly wald presume,
And haȝard to come speid.
Quhen gone is all remeid,
Dispair will be my deid:
I sie nane other dome.

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.]

XXIII. [IF FAITHFULNES SULD FRIENDSHIP FIND.]

If faithfulnes suld friendship find—
If patience suld purches pitie place—
If resone love with bands micht bind—
If service gude suld guerdond be with grace—
If loving all for ane—
If loving hir allane
Suld recompence resave;
Sen tym hes tryde my treuth,
If rigour reiv not reuth,
[OMITTED]

Quhat neids thou, Cupid, all thir dairts,
Me to ouirthrou, that els am cum thy thrall?
Thought I had had ane hundreth hairts,
Long syne my lady had bereft thame all.
Since that a hairtles man
Mak na resistance can,

164

Quhat worship can ȝe win?
To slay me ouer agane,
That am alredy slane!
That war baith shame and sin.

To vhom suld I preis to appeill,
To seik redres, if thou wold wark me wrong?
It is too dangerous to deall,
Or stryve with ane vhom I persave too strong.
Far rather had I ȝeild,
Nor feght and tyn the feild.
Vnequal is that match,
Ane captive with a king;
If euir I thoght sik thing,
Forgive me wofull wretch!

Quhair I haif recklest, I recant;
In tyms to cum, I promise to be true.
Laith wes I to begin, I grant,
To love; bot nou my reklesnes I rue.
Ouir rashly I rebeld,
Quhill Cupid me compeld,
Quhais force I find thairfor.
Will he my ȝongnes ȝit
With mercy once remit,
I trou to faill no more.

XXIV. [LYK AS AGLAUROS.]

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.

XXV. THE SACRIFICE OF CUPID.

Hou oft throu compass of the christall skyis—
Hou oft throu voyd and watrie vaults of air—
Hou oft throu cluds vhair exhalations lyis—
Hou oft, Cupido, vnto thyn auin repair,
For sacrifice, haif I sent sighing sair,
Accompanied with sharpe and bitter teirs?
Hou oft haif I—thou knauis hou, vhen, and vhair—
Causd my complante ascend into thy eirs?
Suppose thou sees not, ȝit I hope thou heirs,
Or otherwyse, but dout, I suld dispair.
Releiv my breist, that sik a burthen beirs,
And thou sall be my maister evermair;

And I sall be thy seruand, in sik sort
To merit thy mantenance, if I may.
My pen thy princely pussance sall report:
Ȝea, I sall on thyn alter, evrie day,
Tua turtle dous, for ane oblatione, lay;
A pair of pigeons, vhyt as ony flour;
A harte of wax; a branch of myrhe; and ay
The blood of sparouis thairon sprinkle and pour.
Ȝea, I sall, for thyn honour, evrie hour,
In songs and sonets sueetly sing and say,
Tuyse or atanes, “Vive, vive l'amour!”
And sa my voues I promise for to pay.

168

Triumphantly thy trophee sall I trim;
Quhair I sall brave and gallant buitings bring,
And wryt thairon: “Behold the spoills of him
Quha, for his conqueis, may be calde a king.”
My happy harte thair highest sall I hing,
In signe that thou by victorie it wan;
A rubie rich, within a royal ring,
Quhilk first I got vhen I to love began.
Als willing nou, as I ressavt it than,
To thee my self, with service, I resigne.
Quhat wald a maister wish mair of his man,
Then till obey his thoght in evry thing?

Bot, oh! as one that in a rageing ravis,
Bereft of baith his resone and his rest,
Compeld to cry, bot knauis not vhat he craivis,
Impatient throu poysone of his pest:
So do I nou, mair painfully opprest,
Hope help at him, vhais help culd nevir heall,
Bot, be the contrair, martyr and molest.
Forgive me, Cupid, I confess I faill,
To crave the thing that may me not availl;
Ȝit, to the end I may my grief digest,
Anis burne hir breist, that first begouth my baill,
That sho may sey vhat sicknes me possest.

XXVI. THE SECREIT PRAIS OF LOVE.

As evirie object to the outuard ee,
Dissaivis the sight, and semis as it is sene,
Quhen not bot shap and cullour ȝit we se,
For no thing els is subject to the ene;
As stains and trees appeiring gray and grene,
Quhais quantities vpon the sight depends;
Bot qualities the cunning [sense transcends.]

169

Euen sa, vha sayis they sie me as I am—
I mene—a man, suppose they sie me move,
Of ignorance they do tham selfis condam.
By syllogisme, this properly I prove:
Quha sees, by look, my loyaltie in love—
Quhat hurt in hairt, vhat hope or hap I haiv?
Quhilk ressone movis the senses to consaiv.

Imaginatione is the outuard ee,
To spy the richt anatomie of mynd;
Quhilk, by some secreit sympathie, may see
The force of love vhilk can not be defynd.
Quharthrou the hairt, according to his kynd,
Compassionat, as it appeiris plane,
Participats of plesur or of pane.

Of hevins or earth, some simlitude or shape,
By cunning craftismen, to the ees appeir;
Bot vho is he can counterfutt the ape,
Or paint a passion palpable, I speir,
Quhilk enters by the organ of the eir,
And bot vhen it is pithilie exprest?
And ȝit I grant the gritest pairt is gest.

Suppose the heuins be huge for to behold,
Contening all within thair compas wyde,
The starris be tyme, thoght tedious, may be told;
Becaus within a certan bounds they byd:
The carde the earth from waters may devyde:
Bot vho is he can limit love, I wene,
Quhom nather carde nor compas can contene?

Quhat force is this, subdeuing all and sum?
Quhat force is this that maks the tygris tame?
Quhat force is this that na man can ouircum?
Quhat force is this, that rightlie nane can name?
Quhat force is this, that careis sik a fame?

170

A vehemency that words can not reveill,
Quhilk I conclude to suffer and conceill.

XXVII. [THE POETS LEGACIE.]

Ressave this harte, vhois constancie wes sik,
Quhill it wes quick, I wot ȝe never kneu
A harte more treu within a stomok stik,
Till tym the prik of jelousie it sleu;
Lyk as my heu, by deidly signis, furthsheu,
Suppose that feu persavd my secreit smart.
Lo, heir the hairt that ȝe ȝour self ouirthreu:
Fairweill! adeu! sen death mon vs depart.

Bot, lo! hou first my legacy I leiv:
To God I give my spirit in heuin so hie;
My poesie I leave my prince to preiv;
No richt can reiv him of my rhetorie:
My bains to be bot bureit vhair I die;
I leiv to thee the hairt wes nevir fals,
About thy hals to hing, vhare thou may sie:
Let thyn to me, then, be so constant als.

Remember vhair I said, once eftirnone,
Or March wer done, that thou thy cheeks suld weet,
And for me greet, or endit war that mone:
I sie, ouer soon, my prophesie compleit.
O Lady sueet, I feir we neuer meet;
I feill my spreet is summond from above
For to remove: nou welcome windin sheet!
Death givis decreet that thou must lose thy love.

This sentence som thing I persaiv too sair,
To meit na mair with thee, my love, alace!
God give the grace, that na vnkyndlie cair
Do the dispair, nor thy gude fame deface!

171

Give patience place—considder weill the cace;
This is the race that euery man must rin,
Thoght I begin, vha had no langer space.—
Thee to imbrace once, God! if I micht win!

Sen for thy saik, Death with his darte me shot,
That I am bot a carioun of clay,
Quha quhylome lay about thy snauie throt,—
Nou I must rot, vha some tym stoud so stay.
Quhat sall I say? This warld will auay.
Anis on a day, I seimd a semely sight.
Thou wants the wight that neuer said the nay:
Adeu for ay! This is a lang guid nicht!

XXVIII. [MELANCIIOLIE, GRIT DEPUT OF DISPAIR.]

Melancholie, grit deput of Dispair,
With painfull pansing comis apace,
Acompanyde with Cair,
Quhais artalȝie is Angvish shooting sair,
Of purpose to perseu the place
Vhair Plesvr maid repair.
Presuming to prevaill,
A muster grit they mak.
Amids thair battell, bitter Bail
Displayis his baner blak,
Quhais colours do declair
To signifie bot smart;
Quharin is painted cold Dispair,
Quha wrings a hop[les harte;]
Quhilk armes on far so vglie ar,
And ay convoyd with Dolovr and with Dvil,
That Hope micht skar, if they come nar,
And fray ane hairt perhaps out of his huill.

172

For sighis and sobbis of shooting hes not ceist,
Quhill they haif brasht the buluark of my bre[ist],
And cryis, “Go to, the hous is win.
Melancholie! cum in.”
Thoght Rigovr then be rekles rash,
Ȝit Curage bydis the brash;
And then the hairt vhilk never ȝeild,
Of Constancie hes maid his sheild,
Quharon thair shaftis and sharpest shottis,
Lyk hailstanes aff ane studie stottis.
Ȝit pairties proudlie baith pretend
The victorie in end;
And so the tyme, but treuis, they spe[nd,]
To assaill and to defend.

The rendring reid, vhilk bouis with euerie blas[t,]
In stormis bot stoupis, vhen strongest treis
[Ar to the ground down-cast;]
Bot ȝit the rok, vhilk firmer is and fast
Amidst the rage of roring seas,
He nevir grouis agast:
The busteous blast he byds,
With watring wauis and huge,
Quhilk ramping ouer his rigging ryds,
Bot can not caus him budge.
Quhat reks then of the reid?
Or of the trees vhat reks?
The rok remanes a rok indeid,
Quhilk nather bouis nor breks;
So sall my harte, with patient parte,
Remane a rok all rigour to resist,
And sall not start to suffer smart
For ane, quhom to obey, I count me blist.
Ȝea, thoght I had a hundreth thousand hairts,
And euiry hairt peirc't with als mony dairts,

173

And euirie dairt thairof also
Als mony shafts and mo,
And eviry shaft thairof must needs
To haif als mony heeds,
And euirie head als mony huikis,
And evirie huik als mony fluiks,
And evirie fluik in me war fast,
So long as breath of lyf micht last,
I suld not seme for shame to shrink,
For hir, of death to drink;
Quhais angels ees micht ay, I think,
Revive me with a wink.

XXIX. [THAT HIS HAIRT IS WOUNDIT.]

The cruell pane and grevous smart,
That I endure, baith day and nicht,
Hes so bereft my woundit hairt,
That I am lyk nane other wight.
With pansing sair I am opprest,
In absence of hir I love best.

Sometym I buir ane hert wes frie,
Quhilk nevir will be so agane;
Thoght Cupid markit oft at me,
He wastit monie a shot in vane:
Ȝit Fortun broght me in that place,
Quhare I might sie hir plesand face.

A burning darte of hot desyre,
That bearne buir aluayis at his belt,
Quhairwith he set my breist on fyre,
And maid my woundit hairt to melt.
Fra I the force thairof did feild,
I wes constraned for to ȝeeld

174

To hir, the lustiest on lyve
That euer was, or euer will be;
Quhais beutie does with Venus stryve,
And, in the end, gettis victorie.
Hir colour does exceid, als far
As Phœbus does the morning star.

Hir hair above hir forheid grouis,
By Natur curling bright and shene;
Hir brouis they are lyk bendit bouis,
Hir ees lyk pearcing arroues kene;
Quharuith sho hes me woundit so,
I want a harte—and she hes tuo.

It is a thing most evident,
Quhilk Natur dois to all men give;
It folouis also, consequent,
No man without a harte can live.
Sen ȝe posses my hairt all hours,
Ȝe bruik it weill, an len me ȝours.

Then freshest Phœnix, freind and fo,
Both fremmd and freindly, nou fair weill.
Quhen I sall be full far the fro,
My verse before thy feet sall kneill,
To caus thee tak this hairt to thee,
Quhilk wald no more remane with me.

XXX. [THE POET COMPLENES ON LOVE AND FORTUN.]

On Love and Fortun I complene,
On ȝou, and on my hairt also;
Bot, most of all, on my tuo ene,
The gritest workers of my wo:
All vhilks hes causit so my smart,
That I must live without a hairt.

175

First, to the eyis committit war,
The keepers of the hairt to be,
To spy and to persaiv on far
The coming of the enemie:
Bot they that had this watch to keep,
In Beuties bosum fell on sleep.

Then, fra the pairty adversar
Persavit the fortres but defence,
They clam the buluark, soft and fair,
Quharas the hart maid residence.
Bot ȝit I wyt the harte be sake
It ȝeildt to Love without a strake.

The blindit Archer als I blame,
Beginner of my grevous grains;
Quhilk shameles shooter thoght no shame
To smyll, and shute me, baith at ains.
Bot, sen he took me vnder trest,
He band me bundman to the best,

To wit, vnto ȝour womanheid;
Quhilk worst I wyt of all my woes:
Quhais beutie, be it homicide,
I feir it most of all my foes;
Quhilk Natur set so far above
The rest, vhill that it vanquisht Love.

I wyt Dame Fortun, not that sho
Hes set ȝou highest in degrie,
Bot rather, that sho wald not do
The lyk, in all respects, to me.
Had our estates bene weill compaird,
I had no vterlie dispaird.

176

XXXI. [THE PERVERSITIE OF HIS INCLINATIONES THROU LOVE.]

My fansie feeds vpon the sugred gall;
Against my will, my weill does work my wo;
My cairfull chose does chuse to keep me thrall;
My frantik folie fannis vpon my fo:
My lust alluirs my licorous lippis to taist
The bait vharin the suttle hook is plaic't.

My hungry hope doth heap my hevy hap;
My syndrie sutes procuris the mair disdane;
My stedfast steppis ȝit slydis into the trap;
My tryed treuth intanglis me in trane:
I spy the snair, and will not bakuards go;
My resone ȝeelds, and ȝit sayis na thairto.

In plesand path I tred vpon the snaik;
My flamming thrist I quench with venemous wyne;
In daintie dish I do the poyson tak;
My langour bids me rather eit nor pyne:
I sau, I sett—no flour nor fruit I find;
I prik my hand, ȝit leavis the rose behind.

XXXII. [THE POET REASONS WITH HIS MAISTRES.]

Ȝong tender plante! in spring tym of ȝour ȝeirs,
Quhais fame mot floorish fresh and never faid,
Clene polisht pearle! vnspottit as appeirs,
On vhom my Love is, if ȝe lyk it, laid;
Not that I grene ȝour honour to degraid,
Bot rather wald ȝour weilfair ay advance;
Ȝit I must say, as sooth men oft hes said:
Love maks the choyce, bot Fortun maks the cha[nce.]

177

Quhare Weirds will work, vha may withstand thair [will?]
Nane dou reduce the Destinies decreit;
Bot vhat they ordane, ather gude or ill,
Force is to suffer, ather sour or sueit.
Quhat they determe, no sentence can retreit;
Not as men wald, bot as they will, they vote.
Thoght some hold fortun for a fekles freit,
Luk as it lyks, I look bot for my lote.

Quhair I haif chosen I culd be content,
If that my luk war vhair I love to light.
If I come speid, I think my tyme weill spent;
And if I mis to mend it as I micht,
I can reteir vhan resone thinks it richt.
Thair is no match bot vhair tuo mutuall [meits;]
Men mettall tryis by sey, and not by slight;
For ȝe mon grant, all is not gold that gleits.

Some flours may shoot, suppose they haif no seed,
Als trees may floorish, and bring furth feu fruit.
Not that in ȝou sik doublenes I dreid,
Suppose ȝe seme to shift me vhen I suit.
I can forbeir, if once I get rebuit;
I will not bind, bot vhair I bound to byde.
At syndrie marks, if that ȝe shaip to shoot,
Ȝe may shoot short, or sometym far asyde.

Dreigh river marks, with hights and hidden houis,
Ar perrillous, and not as they appeir;
Beguyling bairnis that shoots with brissall bouis,
And dou not drau thair arrouis to thair eir.
Short butts ar better, vhair thair bouis may beir.
Far foullis hes ay fair fethers, sum will say:
Quhen ȝe haif lost, it is too lait to leir:
A turne in tyme is ay worth other tuay.

178

Tak tym in tyme, vhill tyme is to be tane,
Or ȝe may wish, and want it vhen ȝe wald:
Ȝe get no grippe agane, if it be gane;
Then, vhill ȝe haif it, best is for to hald.
Thoght ȝe be ȝong, ȝit once ȝe may be ald:
Tyd will not tarie; speid or it be spent.
To prophesie, I dar not be so bald,
Bot tyn ȝe tyme—perhaps ȝe may repent.

Houbeit ȝour beuty far on breid be blaune,
I thank my God I shame not of my shap;
If ȝe be guid, the better is ȝour auin,
And he that getis ȝou hes the better hap.
I wald not sik men in ȝour credit crap,
Quha heght ȝou fairer nor I feir ȝe find;
Thairfor, I wald ȝe lookit or ȝe lap,
And waver not, lyk widdercok in wind.

If ȝe be constant, I sall neuer change;
If ȝe be fickle, I am forc't to flitt;
If ȝe be stedfast, I sall not be strange;
If ȝe be wylie, I wald leirne a wit.
Ay as ȝe wse ȝou, I agrie with it.
Be doing on, I dout not ȝe ar wyse.
Baith heft and blead ar in ȝour hand, as ȝit;
Then barlacheis or barlachois advyse.

Can ȝe not play at “nevie nevie nak”?
A pretty play, whilk children often wse,
Quhair tentles bairnis may to their tinsall tak
The neiv with na thing, and the full refuse.
I will not skar ȝou, sen ȝe mynd to chuse,
Bot put ȝour hand by haȝard in the creill;
Ȝit men hes mater vharvpon to muse,
For they must drau ane adder or ane eill.

179

Thoght ȝe be, as I mon confes ȝou, fair,
I wald not wish that fra ȝour friends ȝe r[an.]
Houbeit ȝe think me to ȝou no compair,
I haif the moyan, lyk ane other man.
I neid not waist it that my elders wan;
I hope to help it, if I had my helth.
Gar ȝe me gang from ȝou, whair I began,
If I wald vant, I wot of griter welth.

Ȝit I am not so covetous of kynd,
Bot I prefer my plesur in a pairt;
Thoght I be laich, I beir a michtie mynd;
I count me rich, can I content my hairt.
Ȝit, or I enter in ane other airt,
Ȝour vter ansueir courteously I crave,
Quhom ȝe will keep, or vhom ȝe will decairt:
Sa fair ȝe weill, vhill I the same resave.

XXXIII. [THE POETS DREME.]

Quhen folish Phaeton had his course outrun,
And plung'd the fyrie Phlægon in the sea,
And bright [Diana] had bot neu begun
Vpon the grund to cast hir watrie ee;
Quhat tyme the bluid vnto the hairt does flie,
As sojouris sure thair capitan to keep,
At that tyme Morpheus sent to summond me;
Quhom I obeyde, and sa I fell asleep.

Quhair, in my dreme, I sau anone appeir
A naiked boy, vha bure a Turkish bou;
He nokt ane arrou longer nor a speir,
The heid wes gold, vhilk brint lyk ony lou.

180

His countenance begouth ay for to grou
Mair vncouthlyk, vharof I wox afrayde:
Quod he, “Defend thee, gallant, if thou dou,
For thou sall be no longer vnassayit.”

With that he shot and hat me on the breist;
The sheirand shaft soon slippit to my hairt;
Syne bad me cum to ȝou, and mak requeist
Quhair I suld find the salue to heall my smar[t.]
Vpon my feet incontinent I start,
And stagring stood, astonisht with the straik:
Haiv pitie thairfor on my painfull harte,
And saif the man that suffers for ȝour sa[ik.]

My harte wes ay at libertie till nou
That I did sie ȝour cumly cristall ene,
Quhais luifsum looks so peirc't my body th[rou,]
That, ay sen syne, ȝour bondman I haif be[ne.]
I pray thairfor, with sighing from my splen[e,]
Ȝour womanheid for to be treu and k[ynd.]
This paper, in my absence, sall obtene
To hold me aluay present in ȝour mynd.

Fra I be gane, I knau thair are aneu
Quha wald be glade ȝour favour to pro[cure:]
Be permanent, houbeit they perseu;
Let not sik louns with leasings ȝou allure;
Sua our twa loves for evir sall indure,
Conjoynd in ane, as fyr is in the flint.
Found ay ȝour bigging vhair the grund is sur[e;]
Sa nather tyme nor travel sall be tint.

Tak heid thairto, I hairtlie ȝou exhort,
And keep in mynd the counsel I ȝou give;
If that perchance some ȝonkiers cum athort
With facund words, and preissis ȝou to prieve,

181

Luik this my letter; it sall ȝou relieve
In absence, alsueil as I war in sight.
I will not stand with mo words ȝou to deiv,
Bot, for this tyme, I bid ȝou haif “Guid nicht.”

XXXIV. [TO HIS MAISTRES.]

O cleir, most deir, give eir unto my cry.
Sueit thing, bening and ȝing, of ȝeiris grene,
But sleuth, haiv reuth: my treuth the tym sall try.
Remeid with speid, or deid I must sustene;
For thoght hes wroght and broght me to dispair;
Becaus no signe is shaune
That ȝe held me ȝour aune,
That I micht it haif knaune,
To comfort me of cair.

My hairt inwart does smart within my briest;
My mynd most kynd is pynd but recompence
Of ȝou, I trou, wha nou regardeth leist
My wo, but ho to slo me, but offence,
That am ane lam; the same ȝe may persaive,
For I am innocent
And eik obedient.
If I be permanent,
Some pruif thairof I haif.

Ȝour ee may se, in me is no deceit;
Ȝour eir perqueir may heir my constance als.
Espye if I applye ane vther geat,
Or oght hes soght quhilk moght be to ȝou fals.

182

Bot ay I stay aluay vpon ȝour grace.
In esperance I byd,
And firmely do confyd
That Fortun sall provyd
For us baith tym and p[lace,]

Secreit to meit, my spreit to recreat,
And pleis myn eis, quhilks deis for laik of sight,
And kisse with blisse; for this may mitigat
My quent torment. Consent, sent it is richt,
And do thairto as sho that may alone
My persone saiv or spill.
To grant me lyf, or kill—
All lyes into ȝour will,
As ȝe list to dispone.

Restore thairfore to glore precordiall
My lif from stryf or knyf of Atropus.
With noy destroy my joy terrestriall,
To blame ȝour name with fame most odious,
If ȝe sall be to me without respect
So strange to let me sterv,
Except ȝe sie me suerv;
Then do as I deserv,
Bot causles not correct.

For that, ȝe wat, may lat a man to love,
And hald him cauld vha wald to ȝou obey.
Be war ouir far ȝe gar me not remove;
Bot give me leiv, and greiv me not, I pray:
For out of doubt about vs ar aneu
Quha deadly hatred haith
That we love other baith.
God keep vs from thair skaith!
Fair weill, my Lady treu.

183

XXXV. [IN PRAIS OF HIS MAISTRES.]

Quhy bene ȝe, Musis, all so long
On sleep this mony a day?
Let not ȝour harmony and song
In silence thus decay.
Distill by influence
Ȝour stremis of eloquence,
That, throu ȝour heuinlie liquor sueit,
My pen in rhetoric may fleit,
For till expres
The comlines
Of my Maistres,
With joy repleit.

To kythe hir cunning, Natur wald
Indeu hir with sik grace,
My spreit rejosis to behald
Her smyling angels face,
Lyk Phœbus in the south,
To skorne the rest of ȝouth.
Hir curling loks, lyk golden rings,
About hir hevinly haffats hings,
Quhilks do decore
Hir body more,
Quhom I adore
Above all things.

Hir brouis ar brent: lyk golden threeds
Hir siluer shyning brees.
The bony blinks my courage feeds
Of hir tua christall ees,
Tuinkling illuminous,
With beamis amourous;

184

Quhairin tua naikit boyis resorts,
Quhais countenance good hope reports;
For they appeir
Vith smyling cheir,
As they wald speir
At me some sports.

Hir comelie cheeks of vive colour,
Of rid and vhyt ymixt,
Ar lyk the sanguene jonet flour
Into the lillie fixt.
Hir mouth mellifluous,
Hir breathing savorous,
Hir rosie lippis most eminent,
Hir teeth lyk pearle of orient,
Hir halse more vhyt
Nor I can wryt;
With that perfyt
And sapient.

Hir vestall breist of ivorie,
Quhairon ar fixit fast
Tua tuins of clene virginitie,
Lyk boullis of alabast.
Out throu hir snauie skin,
Maist cleirlie kythes within
Hir saphir veins, lyk threids of silk,
Or violets in vhytest milk.
If Natur sheu
Hir hevinly heu
In vhyt and bleu—
It wes that ilk.

Hir armes ar long, hir shulders braid,
Hir middill gent and small:
The mold is lost, vharin wes maid
This A per se of all.

185

The gods ar in debait
Concerning hir estait;
Diana keeps this Margarit,
Bot Hymen heghts to match hir meit:
Deserve let sie
Amount from thrie.
Go merie she,
That is so sueet.

Quhat can both shoot and open loks
As can the only kie?
Persaiv this pithie paradox,
And mark it weill in me.
Quhais beutie hes me burt?
Quhais beutie healls my hurt?
Quhais beutie blythnes me bereivis?
Quhais beutie gladnes to me givis?
Quhais beutie, lo,
Does me vndo?
Quhais beutie, to,
My spreit revivis?

XXXVI. [SEN FORTUN IS MY FO.]

O lovesome Lady, lamp of light!
Freshest of flouris fair!
Thy beutie and thy bemes bright
Maks me to sigh full sair.
My noy reneueth evirie nicht,
And kendlis all my cair;
[And so]
I sigh suppose I may na mair,
Sen Fortun is my fo.

186

Sometyme I had gude confidence
That plesur suld succeid,
Quhill in the tyme of our absence
Good fortun did me leid;
But nou I find my esperance
Almaist ouercome with dreid:
Also
I feill the fatal Nymphis threid,
Sen Fortun is my fo.

Is this ȝour lau? ȝe gods of love!
Or do ȝee so consent,
Into ȝour counsels from above,
All lovers to torment?
Better it war for our behove
We had not bene acquent,
Nor go
To love, and na way be content,
Sen Fortun is our fo.

I put no doubt bot ȝe wald do
Ȝour pouer me to saive,
Bot tym will not consent thairto,
So grit vnhap we haif;
Ȝit be ȝe sure, that ȝe ar scho
Quhome-to my harte I gaive,
But mo.
Grant me some kyndnes vhen I crave,
Thoght Fortun be our fo.

Let not my treuth and constancie
For euer be forȝet,
Nor tak no plesur for to sie
Me fettrit in ȝour net;

187

Bot grant me als grit libertie,
As first vhen we tua mett,
My jo.
I greue, for it I can not gett,
Sen Fortun is my fo.

Alace! these golden houris ar gone,
Quhen nane did vs debar;
That nou sik licience haif we none—
Skantlie to speik afar:
Ȝit wicked peple will suppone
We do the thing we dar,
Both tuo.
My curage prikis me to ryd nar,
Thoght Fortun be my fo.

XXXVII. [TO HIS MAISTRES.]

O plesand plant, passing in pulchritude!
O lillie, lude of all the Muses nyne!
I laik ingyne to shau thy celsitude;
A tearie fluid does blind thir ees of myne.
Thyn eirs inclyne vnto my cairfull cry:
Sen nane bot I hes for thy person pyne,
Let me not tyn, whom thou intends to try.

Tak tym in tym, for tym will not remane,
Nor come agane, if that it once be lost.
Sen we ar voced, whairfor suld we refrane,
To suffer pain for ony bodies bost?
My vexit ghost, quhilk rageing love dois roste,
Is brint almost, thrugh heit of my desyr;
Then quench this fyre, quhilk runneth ay the poste
Out throu my cost, consuming bain and lyre.

188

Nou if this heit descend into my levir,
A fervent fevir sall soon my harte infect;
Thairfor correct this humor nou or nevir,
Or we dissevir, suppose we be suspect.
Go to—vhat rek? and gar the bealing brek;
For, fra it lek, I hald the danger done.
Then speid ȝou soon, that we no tym neglect
To tak effect in waning of the mone.

XXXVIII. [HE REJOISES, AS DID FORMERLY THE GREEKS.]

Before the Greeks durst enterpryse
In armes to Troy toun to go,
They set a Counsell sage and wyse,
Apollos ansueir for to kno
Hou they suld speid, and haif succes
In that so grit a busines.

Then did they send the wysest Grekis
To Delphos, vhare Apollo stode;
Quha, with the teiris vpon thair cheeks,
And with the fyrie flammis of wod,
And all such rites as wes the guyse,
They made that grit god sacrifyce.

Quhen they had endit thair requests,
And solemnely thair service done,
And drunke the vyne, and kild the beists,
Apollo made them ansueir soon
Hou Troy and Trojans haiv they suld,
To vse them hailly as they wold.

189

Quhilk ansueir maid thame not so glad,
That thus the victors they suld be,
As evin the ansuer that I had
Did gritly joy and comfort me,
Quhen, lo! thus spak Apollo myne:
All that thou seeks, it sall be thyne.

XXXIX. [HE BIDS ADEU TO HIS MAISTRES.]

Adeu, O desie of delyt;
Adeu, most plesand and perfyt;
Adeu, and haif gude nicht:
Adeu, thou lustiest on lyve;
Adeu, suete thing superlatyve;
Adeu, my lamp of licht!
Lyk as the lyssard does indeid
Leiv by the manis face,
Thy beutie lykuyse suld me feid,
If we had tyme and space.
Adeu nou; be treu nou,
Sen that we must depairt.
Forȝet not, and set not
At licht my constant hairt.

Albeit my body be absent,
My faithfull hairt is vigilent
To do ȝou service true;
Bot, vhen I hant into the place
Quhair I wes wont to sie that face,
My dolour does reneu.
Then all my plesur is bot pane,
My cairis they do incres;
Vntill I sie your face agane,
I live in hevynes.

190

Sair weeping, but sleeping,
The nichts I ouerdryve;
Quhylis murning, vhylis turning,
With thoghtis pensityve.

Somtym Good Hope did me comfort,
Saying, the tym suld be bot short
Of absence to endure.
Then Curage quickins so my spreit,
Quhen I think on my lady sueet,
I hald my service sure.
I can not plaint of my estait,
I thank the gods above;
For I am first in hir consait,
Quhom both I serve and love.
Hir freindis ay weindis
To caus hir to revok;
Sho bydis, and slydis
No more then does a rok.

O lady, for thy constancie,
A faithfull servand sall I be,
Thyn honour to defend;
And I sall surelie, for thy saik,
As doth the turtle for her maik,
Love to my lyfis end.
No pene nor travell, feir nor dreid,
Sall caus me to desist.
Then, ay vhen ȝe this letter reid,
Remember hou we kist;
Embracing, with lacing,
With others teiris sueet.
Sik blissing in kissing
I quyt till we tua meit.

191

XL. [HE BEWAILES HIS WOFULL ESTAIT.]

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.

XLI. [THE NIGHT IS NEIR GONE.]

Hay! nou the day dauis;
The jolie Cok crauis;
Nou shroudis the shauis,
Throu Natur anone.
The thissell-cok cryis
On louers vha lyis.
Nou skaillis the skyis:
The nicht is neir gone.

The feildis ouerflouis
With gouans that grouis,
Quhair lilies lyk lou is,
Als rid as the rone.
The turtill that treu is,
With nots that reneuis,
Hir pairtie perseuis:
The night is neir gone.

Nou Hairtis with Hyndis,
Conforme to thair kyndis,
Hie tursis thair tyndis,
On grund vhair they grone.
Nou Hurchonis, with Hairis,
Ay passis in pairis;
Quhilk deuly declaris
The night is neir gone.

194

The sesone excellis
Thrugh sueetnes that smellis;
Nou Cupid compellis
Our hairtis echone
On Venus vha valkis,
To muse on our maikis,
Syn sing, for thair saikis:—
The night is neir gone.

All curageous knichtis
Agains the day dichtis
The breist plate that bright is,
To feght with thair fone.
The stoned steed stampis
Throu curage and crampis,
Syn on the land lampis:
The night is neir gone.

The freikis on feildis
That wight wapins weildis
With shyning bright shieldis
[As] Titan in trone:
Stiff speiris in reistis,
Ouer cursoris cristis,
Ar brok on thair breistis:
The night is neir gone.

So hard ar thair hittis,
Some sueyis, some sittis,
And some perforce flittis
On grund vhill they grone.
Syn groomis that gay is,
On blonkis that brayis,
With suordis assayis:
The night is neir gone.

195

XLII. [AN ADMONITIOUN TO ȜOUNG LASSIS.]

A bony “No,” with smyling looks agane,
I wald ȝe leirnd, sen they so comely ar.
As touching “ȝes,” if ȝe suld speik so plane,
I might reprove ȝou to haif said so far.
Noght that ȝour grant, in ony wayis, micht gar
Me loth the fruit that curage ocht to chuse;
Bot I wald only haif ȝou seme to skar,
And let me tak it, fenȝeing to refuse;

And warsill, as it war against ȝour will,
Appeiring angrie, thoght ȝe haif no yre:
For haif, ȝe heir, is haldin half a fill.
I speik not this, as trouing for to tyre:
Bot, as the forger, vhen he feeds his fyre,
With sparks of water maks it burne more bald;
So, sueet denyall doubillis bot desyr,
And quickins curage fra becomming cald.

Wald ȝe be made of, ȝe man mak it nyce;
For dainties heir ar delicat and deir,
Bot plentie things ar prysde to lytill pryce;
Then thought ȝe hearken, let no wit ȝe heir,
Bot look auay, and len thame ay ȝour eir:
For, folou love, they say, and it will flie.
Wald ȝe be lovd, this lessone mon ȝe leir;
Flie vhylome love, and it will folou thee.

196

XLIII. [MONTGOMERIES WELCOME TO LORD SEMPLE, ON HIS RETURNE FROM FRANCE.]

Aualk, Montgomeries Muse,
And sey vhat thou can say:
Thy long and just excuse
Maecenas taks auay;
Quhais high heroique actis
His name immortall maks.

Then welcome hame, my lord;
Suete Semple, welcome hame;
Quhais vertues wan the word
That formest flies with Fame;
Quha-of all cuntreyis crakis,
And [the immortall maks.]

Thou wan the flour in France,
With eviry kynd of armes,
As dager, suord, and lance,
In pastyme and alarmes.
Thy leiving no man laks,
Bot the immortall maks.

Thy body, mynd, and spreit,
Disposd, resolvd, and quik;
Thy hairt, thy hands, thy feit,
Magnanime, strong, and sik
As curage all contracts:
Quhilk the immortall maks.

Thy meeknes into moues,
And aufulnes in yre,
From sik a fontan floues
As springs for till aspyre.

197

Sik frute thy travell taks,
And the immortal maks.

Thy cuntrie, king, and kin,
Thy qualities decoird.
All pairts vhair thou wes in,
Thinks long for thee, my lord:
So wyd thy word does waxe,
That the immortall maks.

Sen poets maist profound
Thy praysis do proclame,
My trompet, to, sall sound
The famphar of thy fame,
Quod he vhom siknes wraks,
And the immortall maks.

Then happy travell tane,
Sen thou hes boght the best;
Thoght pairt of gold be gane,
Thy honour is increst.
Men weill imployes thair paks,
That thame immortall maks.

XLIV. [HE PRAYIS TO HIS MAISTRES FOR PITIE.]

Remember rightly, vhen ȝe reid,
The woe and dreid, but hope to speid,
I drie into dispair.
My hairt within my breist does bleid
Vnto the deid, vithout remeid;
I'm hurt, I wot not vhair.
Alace! vhat is the caus, think I,
But grace that I in langour ly?

198

The more I drink, more I desyr:
As I aspyre, the fervent fyre
My cairfull corps consume.
Me to torment, no tym ȝe tyre,
Baith bane and [lyre,] throu Cupids yre,
To dead, but ony dome.
I burne, I freiȝe in yce also;
I turne, for freindship, to my fo.

In prison sen ȝe hald my hairt,
Releiv my smart; drau out this darte
Furth of my bailfull breist.
Haif pitie on my painfull parte.
As by the carte men knoues the arte,
Both south, north, west, and eist,
Ȝe may persave my wounds ar grene,
I say, and look bot to my ene,

Quhais longsum looks my lyf beuryis.
Wo to the spyis first did suppryis
My hairt within ȝour hald!
Quhilk fast into ȝour fetters lyis,
In dout vhat wyse that feirfull syse
Pronunce thair sentence wald.
I quake for feir—my puncis lope—
I shake betuixt dispair and hope.

To crueltie if ȝe consent,
I am content, as patient,
Ȝour plesur to fulfill;
Or, pleis ȝour pitie to prevent
My grit torment, or I be shent,
Chuse ȝou to spair or kill.
I stand of death no vhitt affrayde:
Command, and ȝe sall be obeyde.

199

XLV. [HE CALLIS ON DEATH TO RELIEVE HIM.]

The wofull working of my woundit hairt,
Quhilk danger hes neir drivin in dispair,
Is sorer to sustene then is the darte
Of Death, vhilk suld dissolve my cruell cair.
[OMITTED]
Thrugh fortun frail; vhais vnfelicitie
Hes wroght in me sik caus of sighing sair,
That death suld be no lothsum thing to me.

Come, gentill Death, and that with suddentie,
And mak dispatch of this puir hairt of myne.
Thy sterving straik with force thou let out flie,
And light on me, to end my peirles pyne.
Sen sho vhom I do serve will not inclyne,
Nor grant me grace, my pains for to deploir,
Bot will, for want of pitie sie me tyne,
Come, gentle Death, and let me die thairfor.

Alace! that euer sik perfyte beutie
As is in ȝou, my lovesome Lady deir,
Suld haif bene plac't thair, vhair as Pietie
Might not most frelie in hir place appeir!
Alace! that Danger, with hir deidly cheir,
Such lordship had [vhair we maist treuly love!]
Alace! that ever a ȝoldin prisoneir
Suld feill the peirles painis that I nou prove!

Alace! suld I for hairtie love be hated?
Or suld I find, for friendly favour, fead?
Alace! suld my treu service thus be quated
With hir that is the chose of womanheid?

200

Alace! suld sho that suld, of right, remeid
The deidly dolour daylie I sustene,
Be merciles!—Then wish I to be deid,
And so be quyt of all my cairis clene.

XLVI. [DISPLEASUR, WITH HIS DEADLY DAIRT.]

Displesur, with his deadly dairt
So horriblie hes hurt my hairt,
With sik ane heid
That no remeid,
Save only deid,
Can cure my smart.
The poysond poynt me priks,
Quhilk in my stomok stiks
Profound;
Quhais venom rains
Thrugh al my vains:
No salue can mak me sound.

I count not of my lyf a cute.
My hairt hes biddin sik rebute,
That it wald evin,
God knauis in hevin,
Wish to be revin
[Out by the rute.]
It is so crost with cair,
That it may nevir mair
Revive.
Cum thairfor, Death,
And cut my breath:
I list not longer live.

201

The Destinies my lyf despytis,
And bitter baill my bouells bytis;
These thrauard Thrie—
Curst mot they be
To martyr me!—
Laughis and delyts;
For they haif wroght my weird
Vnhappiest on eird,
And ay
Continues still
To work my ill,
With all mishief they may.

Hes hevins—hes erth—hes God—hes air,
Determinat that I dispair?
Hes all in ane
My contrare tane?
For me allane,
They ar too sair.
Sen thair is no remorce,
My patience perforce
Hes bene.
Of ills, I wse
The leist to chuse:
I may not mend bot mene.

Might my misluk look for relief,
Or ȝit doght I digest my grief,
Then wer I wyse,
It to disguyse;
Bot lo, vhair lyis
My maist mischief!
I smore if I conceill,
I wrak if I reveill,
My hurt.

202

Judge, ȝe vha heirs,
Quhat burthene beiris
My stomok, stuft with sturt.

For, from Carybdis vhill I flie,
I slyde in Sylla, ȝe may sie;
I saill, it semes,
Tuixt tua extremis,
That danger demes
My ship sall die.
Nou, Sone, since I must smart,
Thou of my age that art
The staffe,—
Evin Mvrray myne,
Len me a lyne,
To end my epitaph.

XLVII. THE ELEGIE.

Now, since the day of our depairt appeirs,
Guid resone wald my hand to ȝou suld wr[yt]
That vhilk I can not weill expres but teirs;
Videlicet:—“Adeu! my Lady vhyt.”
Adeu, my love, my lyking, and delyt,
Till I returne; for vhilk I think so lang,
That absence els does all my bouells byt:
Sik gredie grippis I feell befor I gang.
Resave, vhill than, a harte lyk for to mang,
Quhilk freats and fryis in furious flammis of fy[re;]
Keep it in gage, bot let it haif no wrang
Of sik as may perhaps his place desyre.
This is the summe of that vhilk I requyre:
If it hes ocht offendit, let it smart;

203

If it be true, then let it haif the hyre.
Oh! wold to God ȝe might behold this harte!
Quharin a thousand things ȝe suld advert:
Thair suld ȝe sie the wound vhilk ȝe it g[ave;]
Thair suld ȝe sie the goldin deadly darte;
Thair suld ȝe sie, hou ȝe bereft it haiv;
Thair suld ȝe sie ȝour image by the laiv;
Thair suld ȝe sie ȝour hevinly angels face;
Thair suld ȝe soon my permanence persaiv;
Thair suld ȝe sie ȝour name haif only p[lace;]
Thair suld ȝe sie my languishing, alace!
For our depairt: bot since ȝe knou my painis,
I hope, if ȝe considder weill the case,
And spyis the teirs vhilks ouer my visage rains,
If in ȝour breist sik sympathie remanis,
Then sall ȝe suffer som thing for my saik.
Quhair constant love is aluay, it constranis,
In weill or wo, coequall pairt to take;
Lyk as my members all begins to quake,
That of ȝour duill the half I do indure,
Quhilk I suppone ȝe for my absence mak.
Then haif no dout that ony creature
Can dispossesse ȝou of my hairt, be sure,
Nor ȝit remove from ȝou my constant mynd.
Since I am ȝours, quhom love culd not allure,
Sen I wes borne, till nou that I enclynd
To ȝou allone, for whom my hairt is pynd.
Of lovis fyr, before, I nevir kneu,
Nor ȝit acquent with Cupid in this kynd;
Bot look! hou soon gude fortun to me sheu
Ȝour sueet behaviour and ȝour hevinly heu,
As A per se, that evir Natur wroght,
Then vncouth cairs in me began aneu,
Both in my spreit and in my trublit thoght:
My libertie vhilk I in bondage broght,
Sa that my frank and frie desyre, or than,

204

Ane hunder places for my plesur soght,
And ay sall do, whill I am leving man.
Sall ȝe then, efter our depairt, forȝet
That vhilk is ȝours, and change on na wyse can?
Hou soon myn ee no sight of ȝours culd get,
It weeping said:—“O deidly corps, defet!
Quhair bene these lamps of light, these crista[ll ees,]
Quhilks maid ws ay so mirrie vhen we mett?”
Quod I agane, with sighing voce:—“Thou sees,
Thoght thou for dolour vnder shadou dees.
Be not abaisd, suppose thou haif no sight.
Thy sun is hid, and keeps no more degre[es;]
Bot, for thy sake, goes to at none, for night:
That is to say—that hevinly visage bright,
Quharon thou wont thy fantasie to feid,
Is far fra the; vhair throu thou laikis th[y sight.”]
So, lustie Lady, well of womanheid!
Myne ee and I but comfort ar indeed,
And do bewaill thy wofull absence ay.
Regrating ȝou, my woundit hairt does bleed;
And than I think, vhen I am far auay,
Leist that, mein tym, blind Love suld thus a[ssay]
All meins he micht, by craft or ȝit ingyne,
To open vp his blindit ees, that they
Might clerelie see these gratious ees of thyn;
And so, beholding sik a sight divyn,
His mynd, to love the, shortly suld be movd;
And caus me, at ane instant, for to tyne
The thing quhilk I sa lang and leall haiff lovd.
Be ȝe not constant, vhen ȝe sall be provd,
Love sall ouercome ȝour honest ansueirs all;
That ȝe sall think, to ȝeild, it ȝou behovd:
Love is so slie; vhais fairdit language sall
Peirce and get entrie throu a stony wall.
I wish ȝou, thairfor, with him to be war:
His mouth is hony, bot his hairt is gall.

205

On kitlest huiks the sliest baits they ar.
If he the heght, or slielie drau the nar,
Thou ansueir him:—“Go, Love, reteir the hence;
For I love one vho hes my hairt so far,
He merits not to tyne him, but offence.”

XLVIII. THE NAVIGATIOVN.

Haill! bravest burgeoun brekking to the rose,
The deu of grace thy leivis mot vnclose;
The stalk of treuth mot grant the nurishing;
The air of faith support thy florishing;
Thy noble counsell, lyk trees about thy grace,
Mot plantit be, ilk ane into his place;
Quhais ruiting sure and toppis reaching he
Mot brek the storme, befor it come to the.
They of thy bluid mot grou about thy bordour,
To hold thy hedge into ane perfyt ordour,
As fragrant flouris of ane helthsome smell,
All venemous beistis from the to expell.
The preachers treu mot ay thy gardners b[e]
To clense thy root from weeds of heresie.
Thy gardene wall mak the Neu Testament;
So sall thou grou without impediment;
All lands about sall feir thy Excellence,
And come fra far to do thee reverence:
As I myself and all the rest ȝe se
From Turkie, Egypt, and from Arabie.

As for my self, I am ane German borne,
Quha ay this fasion, vhilk ȝe se, hes worne;
Quhilk lenth of tym culd nevir caus me change,
Thoght I haiv bene in mony cuntrey strange;
Thrugh all Europe, Afrik, and Asia,
And throu the neu fund out America.

206

All thair conditiouns I do vnderstand,
Baith of the peple, and also of the land;
Quhais trim attyre wer tedious to tell:
Something ȝour grace sall shortly sie ȝour sell:
In contrair clething, ȝour Excellence sall ke[n]
The Turk, the More, and the Egyptien.

Nou sall I shau vnto ȝour Majestie
Hou they and I fell first in company.

Constantinopil, sometym of Christendome,
Pertening to ane Empreour of Rome,
Quho, as we reid, wes callit Constantyn:
Eftir his name he callit the citie syn,
Becaus he lovit it best of tounis all.
Euen thair he sat into his tribunall,
As in the Metropolitan of Grece;
Quhilk his successours bruikit lang in peace,
Till tym that they, throu thair iniquitie,
Were givin ouer vnto the enemie,
As for ane prey, al hail to be devoird.
Thair ȝong men slayn, thair virgins war deflorde;
Thair tender babis, ȝit on the nurish knee,
Tane by the feet and cast into the see.
Let vther lands a mirrour of this mak,
And, by thair nichtbours, example let thame tak.
I will not judge vhairfor that God so did,
Becaus his secreits ar to all men hid:
Bot weill I wot the Lord did so permit;
For vhy? the Turk does bruik this citie ȝit,
And much of Grece he hes into his hands.
Bot for to tell ȝou hou the citie stands
Hard by the syde of the auld Pontus sea,
Fornent it lyis the land of Natalie.
Quha in these pairtis pleisis for to hant,
The Turkis pasport neids not for to want;
Sa I myself, as ane among the laiv,
Requyrit ane, vhilk he me glaidly gaiv,

207

That I micht come and sie this noble toun,
Quharof befor I hard so grit renoun.
Quhilk vhen I come, my fortun wes to be
Ludgit perchance with this same companie;
Soupit togither; in ane chalmer lay,
Crackand ouer heid, whill it wes neir hand [day.]
I speird at thame vhair that they last com[e fra,]
And eftirward, vhair they myndit to ga.
“We duell,” say they, “vnder the star Antart[ic:]
Nou wald we sie the Vrses and Pole Arti[c.]
We shaip to saill neir the Septentrion,
Touards the North, and helthsome regione
Nou callit Scotland, as we haif hard repor[t]
Of wandring fame, vhilk fleeth ay athort.
Quhair presently beginneth for to ring
So sapient a ȝing and godly King,
A Salomon for richt and judgiment:
In eviry langage he is eloquent.
All lands about do beir of him record,
He is the chosen vessell of the Lord.
To sie this King nou glaidly wald we go;
And, if ȝe pleis to tak ane pairt also,
Ȝe ar bothe welcome, and richt necessar,
Vnto his Grace our comming to declair;
Far ȝe haif travellit throu mony lands,
And eviry language also vnderstands.”—
“Content,” quod I; and so we wer agreit:
Fraughtit our ship, and syne our anker weyde.

Phœbus nou rysing, with his laughing grace
Smylit on Neptuns still and calmit face.
Vp uent our saillis, tauntit to the huins;
The trumpets soundit tuentie mirrie tuins.
Vp went our boyis to the toppis abone,
And ouer the bordour shook our topsaill soon.
Some went before for to shaik out the blind.
Wp went our bonnets; our missens vp behind.

208

Some, to the gueit fattis for to bedeu the saills,
Bothe foir and eft, our taikle drauis and haillis.
Our bottismen our geir perfytlie neits.
Fair wes the wind, and roum betuene tua sheits.
Maisters and pilots, cunning in that arte,
Went to the compas for to prik the carte,
For to persaiv the dangers vhair they lay:
We passingers went to the chesse to play;
For in that airt we nothing vnderstude,
Thairfor we did thame nather ill nor good.

Our ship wes clene and saillit very fast.
Of Hellespont or we the straits had past,
We struik at Cestus, and at Abydon;
Quhair passing ships are rypit, euery one,
To sie if they haif goods that ar forbiddin;
So from thair presence ȝe may haif no thing hiddin;
For these tua Castells ar the only kees
Of all Turkie, and do divyde the sees—
Pontus Euxinus from the Mediterran.
On Asia syd, appeiris ȝit most plane
The walis of the old and famous Troy,
Quhilks long ago the Greekis did destroy.
The poets wryts that in that place also
Leander died, suimming to Hero.
Sik Pleonasmus figurs I refuse:
I shape a shorter syncopa till vse.
And, to my purpose quicklie for to cum,
We entred nixt in Mediterraneum.
Vnto the Rhods we saild the redy way;
Quhilk wes shortsyne of Christendome, they say.
To Creta nixt our course directit we,
Quhair that they mak this noble Malmesie.
Betuixt the Malt and Cicill lay our rout.
The wind come skant: we docht not double [out.]
Fra that we sau thair micht no better be,
We plungit vp the coast of Calabrie.

209

Our Maister soon his lyttil vhissell cheir[d;]
His mariners incontinent compeird;
And eviry man did by his taikling stand,
To haill and drau, as he gaiv them command.

“To saill vp Sigeum, mates, we ar assuir[d;]
Thairfor tak on ȝour babert luif abuird.
Out with ȝour boulings. The wind is south south west.
Wp with ȝour sheats, and haill them to the bes[t.]
Come no lauer, bot luif a lytill we;
For ȝon is Sicill with his headis thrie;
Quhais shape, ȝe sie, is lyk to Cerberus;
And, for to deall with, no les dangerous.
Ȝon is Mount Ætna whair the fyre comis out;
ȝon is Charybdis that vhirlis ay about;
And ȝon is Sylla, on the other shore,
Resisting Neptun, making him to rore.
Steir studdie, mate, fra ȝe ȝour self hes sene thame:
Thair is bot dead, or we mon throu betuene thame.”

Fra that we come this gredy gulph within,
We micht not heir ane other for the din.
On baburd syde, the vhirling of the sand;
On steirbuird syd, the roks lay off the land.
Betuixt the tua we tuik sik taillȝeweis,
At hank and buick we skippit syndrie seis.
As ane is done, another neu begins.
Quhill we war past our hair stude widdershins.
God saifd our ship, and ruled our noble ruther,
And helpt vs throu, as he hes mony vther.
Fra we wer past, I wot if we were fane.
We will not grene to gang that gait agane.

We entrit next in the Tyrrhenum sea,
And sailit to tua ylis in Italie—
Sardinia, not far from Corsica.
We wat ane anchor evin betuixt they tua.
We weyde fra thyn, and peyde our anchor custum,
And entrit nixt into the sea Liguscum,

210

By Minork and Majork, in the Mediterran;
And so alongis all the coast of Spane.
Gebraltars straits, at length, syn passit we,
And entred in the wyd and ocean sea;
Quhais moving maks, as writis Plutarc[hus,]
Into the mone ane face appeir to vs.
I will not dippe into Astronomie,
For feir I fall, in cace I clim so hie:
It is the arte that I did nevir leirne.
Belyve we left all Aragon asterne.

Be we had saillit four and tuentie hours,
The lift begouth for to ouercast with shours.
The cludis blak ouerquhelmit all the skyis.
Neptunus ryders begouth also to ryis;
The bouand dolphin, tumbland lik a vhele:
Quharby our maister vnderstude right wei[ll]
That Eolus wes kindling vp in yre.
The heuins all vox rid as ony fyre.
The cludis rave in shours of grit hailstanis.
Doun, with a clappe, come all our saillis at an[is.]
From the northeist thair come an vgly blas[t.]
Maid vp our takill, and ouer buird went our [mast.]
The storme increst, four dayis, mair and ma[ir;]
Our maister also begouth for to dispair;
Quhill the fifth day, that it began to cleir:
Then, as we micht, we mendit vp our ge[ir;]
Quharof the leist pairt wes remanit haill;
Ȝit at the last we come to Portingaill.
Glaid wes our fellouis, fra that they sau the sho[re,]
And bettir hairted nor they wer before.
They tuik some curage, and begouth to crak.
First, the Egyptian, he began and spak:
“Wes it not heir vhair Pharaos dochter landit,
First of the Scots, as we do vnderstand it?”
The Turk alledgit Gathelus wes a Greke.
So everie man did his opinione speke.

211

Ȝit baith thair menings wes, I vnderstude,
Ȝour grace wes cumming of thair ancient blude:
Quhilk wes the caus that they so willinglie
Had cum so far, to se ȝour Majestie.
Thus cracking on, we did the way ouerdryve,
Quhill we, at lenth, in Ireland did aryve;
Quhilk wes begun, they said, be thair forbears.
Some held thame treu, and others held them lears;
Some wald say ȝea, and others some said nay.
With Pro and Contra, so shortnit we the way.

Of Osshane syne we passit soon the yle,
In Jarsay and Grinisay, within a pretie vhyle,
Alongst Ingland, within the Yle of Wight;
In at the Nedles our pilot tuke vs right;
Furth at Sanct Ilands; and entrit in pace
Then to the Douns, vhair that we raid a space.
Fra they persaivd the hillis hgih of calk,
One to another they begouth to talk:
“Thir ar the hillis, surely we suppone,
Quharthrou this land is callit Albion.”
They daskand farther:—What if the Quene war de[id?]
Quha suld be nixt, or to the croun succeid?
They follouit furth this argument so far;
Syndrie wes sibbe, bot ay ȝour Grace wes nar.
“Quha wat,” quod they, “bot his Grace may prete[nd?]
The thing is ȝit far of that God may send.
Becaus heirin we na thing vnderstand,
We will not haȝard for to go a land,
Leist they perchance micht find some falt in [vs;]
As Inglishmen ar very captious.
We weyd from thyn, and wald no langer b[yde,]
Bot saild alongst the Inglish haill cost sy[de;]
The vhilk to vs appeired very fair,
Thoght notwithstanding all wes ind and bair;
Ȝet fertill baith for bestiall and corne,
Houbeit, or than, that all wes win and shorn[e.]

212

Quharas no rare thing in our way we fand,
Quhill we aryvit hard heir at the hand;
Quhar that we sau, evin standing in the see,
The strongest craig, we thoght, in Christentie;
Baith high and stay, when we wer to it come;
Thair wes no way vharby it might be clum:
And als it stude tua mylis of from the land.
Euen thair perchance ane fisher boat we fa[nd;]
We speirit at them vhat kind of craig it w[es:]
They ansueird vs, that it wes cald The Basse.
They sheu us als, vha wes thairof the lord;
And hou that men went vp it in a corde;
And als, hou tua might keep it weil aneugh.
We said na mair, bot come our way, and leugh.
“Ȝe sall,” quod they, “sie mony stranger thing,
If that ȝe chance to trauell with our King.”

Then we come sailing to the Porte of Leith.
To come right in we thoght it very eith;
For other shippis, ather sax or sevin,
Had come befor ws thair, in to the hevin.
Becaus that we wer nevir thair afore,
We tuke the ludging nerest to the shore.
I haif bene far, bot ȝit in all my lyfe
I neuer sau a mirrier hartsum wyfe:
“Be blyth,” quod sho, “for ȝe sall se our King;
God blisse his Grace, and mak him long to ring!”
Becaus she saw that it wes groune lait,
Sho gart hir boyis come with vs all the gait;
Quho broght vs heir, vnto ȝour Highnes ȝett,
Quharas the court with torches all wes sett,
To shau the way vnto ȝour Graces hall,
That, eftir supper, we might sie the ball.
My fellouis comes nou:—I mon mak auay.
God blisse ȝour Grace! I haif no more to say.

213

XLIX. A CARTELL OF THE THRE VENTROUS KNICHTS.

As Ydilnes is mother of all vyce,
And Sluggishnes the very sone of shame,
So Honour is that only pearle of pryce
That leivis to men ane everlasting name,
Quhen they ar dead, to live agane by fame,
Quharof the gredy Curage evir gloirs.
Quhilk wes the caus, we come so far from ha[me,]
To knau this Court, vhilk all the world de[coirs;]
Quhilk for to sie, we saild by syndry shoirs,
And past the perillous gredy gulfe of Perse,
And levir sees that syndry shippis devoirs;
Quhare is no fish, bot monsters fell and feir[se;]
Quhais vgly shappis wer tyrsum to reherse;
And mairatour, we come not to that end,
To wery ȝou, and wast the day in verse,
Quhilk otheruyse we purpose for to spend;
As pairtly by our clething may be kend,
And vncouth armes, that errant knichts we [ar,]
Of forrein lands, vhom Fortun heir hes send,
To find thy grace, vhom we haif soght so [far.]
Than grant thou vs, befor that we come n[ar,]
Thy saiv sure conduct, that we may be frie
To prove thy knights. We dout not bot they d[ar,]
In play or ernest, be bold to brek a tre.
And so, I trou, dar ony of ȝon thrie:
Bot they are not come heir for sik a thing;
Bot rather, for thair Ladyes sake, to se
Quha fairest runis, and oftest taks the ring.
Go to than, shirs, and let vs streik a sting.
Cast crosse or pyle, vha sall begin the play;
And let the luifsume Ladyis and the King
Decerne, as judges, vha dois best, this day.

214

So, for my pairt, I haif no more to say.
God speid ȝou weill, and keip the timber haill!
Wait on ȝour fortun, vhill sho say ȝou nay.
I wish ȝou weill, if Fortun may availl.

L. SANG ON THE LADY MARGARET MONTGOMERIE.

Luiffaris, leif of to loif so hie
Ȝour ladyes; and thame styell no mair,
But peir, the erthlie A per se,
And flour of feminine maist fair:
Sen thair is ane without compair,
Sic tytillis in ȝour sanges deleit;
And prays the pereles [perle] preclair,
Montgomrie, maikles Margareit.

Quhose port, and pereles pulchritud,
Fair forme, and face angelicall,
Sua meik, and full of mansuetud,
With vertew supernaturall,
Makdome, and proper memberis all,
Sa perfyte, and with joy repleit,
Pruiffis hir, but peir or peregall,
Of maidis the maikles Margareit.

Sa wyse in ȝouth, and verteous;
Sic ressounis for to reull the rest,
As in greit age wer mervelous;
Sua manerlie, myld, and modest;
Sa grave, sa gracious, and digest;
And in all doingis sa discreit;
The maist bening, and boniest,
Mirrour of madinis, Margareit.

215

Pigmaleon, that ane portratour,
Be painting craft, did sa decoir,
Himself thairwith in paramour
Fell suddanlie, and smert thairfoir;—
Wer he alyve, he wald deploir
His folie, and his love forleit,
This fairer patrone to adoir
Of maidis the maikles Margareit.

Or had this nymphe bene in these dayis
Quhen Paris judgit in Helicon,
Venus had not obtenit sic prayis:
Scho, and the goddessis ilk one,
Wald have preferrit this paragon,
As marrowit, but matche, most meit
The goldin ball to bruik alone;
Merveling in this Margareit.

Quhose nobill birth, and royall bluid,
Hir better nature dois exeid.
Hir native giftes, and graces gud,
Sua bonteouslie declarris indeid
As waill, and wit of womanheid,
That sa with vertew dois ouerfleit,
Happie is he that sall posseid
In marriage this Margareit!

Helpe, and graunt hap, gud Hemene!
Lat not thy pairt in hir inlaik;
Nor lat not doulful destanie,
Mishap, or fortoun, worke hir wraik,
Grant lyik vnto hirself ane maik!
That will hir honour, luif, and treit;
And I sall serve him for hir saik.
Fairweill, my Maistres Margareit.

A. M.

216

LI. A POEME ON THE SAME LADY.

Ȝe hevinis abone, with heavinlie ornamentis,
Extend ȝour courtingis of ye cristall air!
To asuir colour turne ȝour elements,
And soft yis seasoun, quhilk hes bene schairp and sair:
Command the cluddis that thay dissolve na mair,
Nor us molest with mistie vapouris weit;
For now scho cummis, the fairest of all fair,
The mundane mirrour, maikles Margareit.

The myildest may; the mekest, and modest;
Tho fairest flour, the freschest flourisching;
The lamp of licht; of ȝouth the lustiest;
The blythest bird, of bewtie maist bening;
Groundit with grace, and godlie governing,
As A per se, abone all elevat;
To quhome comparit is na erthlie thing,
Nor with the goddis so heichlie estimat.

The goddes Diana, in hir hevinlie throne,
Evin at the full of all hir maiestie,
Quhen scho belevit that dainger was thair none,
Bot in hir sphere ascending vp maist hie,
Vpon this nymph fra that scho casit hir ei,
Blusching for schame, out of hir schyne scho slippis;
Thinking scho had bene Phœbus verelie,
At quhose depairt scho fell into the eclipis.

The asters cleir, and torchis of the nicht,
Quhilk in the sterrie firmament wer fixit,
Fra thay persavit dame Phœbes lost hir licht,
Lyik diamontis with cristall perlis mixit,

217

They did discend, to schyne this nymph annixit,
Vpon hir schoulderis twinkling everie on;
Quhilk to depaint it wald be ouer prolixit,
How thay in ordour glisteris on hir goun.

Gif she had bene into the dayis auld,
Quhen Jupiter the schap of bull did tak,
Befoir Europe quhen he his feit did fauld,
Quhill scho throw courage clam vpon his bak;
Sum greater mayck, I wait, he had gart mak,
Hir to haue stollin be his slichtis quent;
For to have past abone the zodiak,
As quein and goddes of the firmament.

With goldin schours, as he did Clemene,
He wald this virgine furteouslie desave;
Bot I houp in the goddes Hemene,
Quhilk to hir brother so happie fortoun gave,
That scho sallbe exaltit by the laif,
Baith for hir bewtie and hir nobill bluid;
And of my self ane servand scho sall have
Vnto I die: and so I doe conclvid.

Finis quod A. Montgomerie.

LII. [A REGRATE OF HIS VNHAPPIE LUVE.]

Irkit I am with langsum luvis lair,
Oursett with inwart siching sair;
For in the presone of dispair
I ly,
Seing ilk wicht gettis sum weilfair
Bot I.

218

My hairt is pynd and persit so with panis,
Quhilk teiris over my visage ranis,
And makis the bluid within my vanis
To dry.
Quha ma sic greif resist aganis
Bot I?

My mad misfortoun dois me so comm[u]ve,
That I may nowthir rest nor ruve,
Bot wary all the goddis ab[u]ve
The sky,
That every leid obtenis thair luve
Bot I.

All nobill hairtis of nateur ar inclynd,
Quhair they find constance, to be kynd;
Thairfor to me scho sowld hir mynd
Apply,
Sen non is for hir persone pynd
Bot I.

The facultie of famenene is so,
Vnto thair freind to be his fo,
Syne menis him quhen he is ago:
For thy
Vncourtesly thus keill thay mo
Than I.

Thay covet not the man that thay may get;
For him thay hald as propper det:
On strangeris ay thair myndis ar set
To spy.
Thus mo bene fetterit with thair net
Nor I.

219

Grit fule am I to follow the delyte
Of thame that hes no faith perfyte;
Thairfoir sic cumpany I quyt
Denny.
Off all my wo hes non the wyt
Bot I.

Quhat woundir is thocht I do weip and pleid,
This fellon crewall lyfe I leid;
The quhilk but dowt wil be my deid
In hy,
For every man obtenis remeid
Bot I.

My lady hes ane hairt of stone so hard,
On me to rew scho hes no regard,
But bustously I am debard
Ay by,
And every man gettis sum reward
But I.

Finis quod Montgomery.

LIII. ANE ANSUER TO ANE INGLISS RAILAR PRAYSING HIS AWIN GENALOGY.

Ȝe, Inglische hursone! sumtyme will avant
Ȝour progeny frome Brutus to haif tane;
And sumtyme frome ane angell or ane sanctt,
As Angelus and Anglus bayth war ane:
Angellis in erth ȝit hard I few or ane,
Except ye feyndis with Lucifer yat fell.
Avant! ȝow villane of that lord allane,
Tak thy progeny frome Pluto prence of hell.

220

Becaus ȝe vse in hoillis to hyd ȝovr sell,
Angluss is cum frome Angulus in deid;
Aboive all vderis Brutus bure ye bell,
Quha slew his fader howping to succeid:
Than chus ȝow ane of thais; I rek not ader;
Tak Beelȝebub, or Brutus to ȝovr fader.

Finis.

LIV. ANE ANSWER TO ANE HELANDMANIS INVECTIUE.

Fyndlay McConnoquhy, fuf McFadȝan,
Cativilie geilȝie with ye poik-braik;
Smoir cunary takin trewis breikles McBradȝan;
Ȝeill fart fast in Baquhidder, or ye corne schaik.
Insteid of grene gynger ȝe eit gray gradȝan,
For lyce in ȝour limschoch ȝe haif na inlaik;
Mony mvntir moir in mviggis of mvre madȝan;
Sawis seindill saffroun in sawt for yair sarkis saik.
Oknewling Occonnoquhy Ochreigry McGrane
With fallisty mvnter moy,
Soy in scho sorle boy,
Callin feane aggis endoy,
Firry braldich ilkane.

Finis quod Montgumary.

221

EPITAPHS.

LV. EPITAPH OF R. SCOT.

Good Robert Scot, sen thou art gone to God,
Cheif of our souerane Colledge Justice Clerks,
Vho, vhill thou livd, for honestie wes od,
As wryt beirs witnes of thy worthy werks:
So faithfull, formall, and so frank and frie
Sall nevir vse that office eftir thee.

LVI. EPITAPH OF THE MAISTER OF WORK, [SIR ROBERT] DRUMMOND OF CARNOK, [KNIGHT.]

Stay, passinger, thy mynd, thy futt, thy ee:
Vouchsaif, a we, his epitaph to vieu,
Quha left bot feu behind him, sik as he;
Syn leirnd to de, to live agane aneu.
All knoues this treu, vho noble Carnok kneu.
This realme may reu that he is gone to grave.
All buildings brave bids Drummond nou adeu;
Quhais lyf furthsheu he lude thame by the laiv.
Quhair sall we craiv sik policie to haiv?
Quha with him straiv to polish, build, or plante?
These giftis, I grant, God lent him by the laiv;
Quha mot resaiv his saull to be a sante!
To regne with him in evirlasting glore,
Lyk as his corps his cuntrey did decore.

222

LVII. EPITAPH OF JOHNE AND PATRIK SHAUES.

If ethnik ald by superstitious stylis,
Quhilk poyson ȝit of Paganisme appeirs,
Wer stellified to rule the rolling spheirs,
As pagnisme poets and profane compylis;
Quhais senceles sences Satan so ouersylis,
By oracles illuding all thair eirs,
In double speches ansuers sik as speirs;
Quhilk godles gods the graceles Grekes begylis:
Then more praisuorthie Pelicans of Shawis
Quhais saikles bluid wes for ȝour souerane shed,
Lo, blessit brether, both in honours bed!
His sacred self ȝour trumpet bravely blauis.
By Castor and by Pollux, ȝou may boste,
Deid Shawis, ȝe live, suppose ȝour lyfis be loste.

LVIII. EPITAPH OF ROBERT, LORD BOYD.

Heir lyis that godly, noble, wyse, Lord Boyd,
Quha Kirk, the King, and Commounweill decorde;
Quhilks war, vhill they this jeuell all injoyd,
Defendit, counseld, governd be that lord.
His ancient hous, oft perreld, he restord.
Tuyse sax and saxtie ȝeirs he livd; and syne,
By death, the thrid of Januar, devord,
In anno thryse fyve hundreth auchtie nyne.

Finis.