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

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!