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29. [Quhome sould I wyt of my mischance.]
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29. [Quhome sould I wyt of my mischance.]

Quhome sould I wyt of my mischance,
Bot Cupeid king of variance?
Thy court, without considerance,
Quhen I it knew,
Or evir made þe observance,
Sa far I rew.
Thow and thy law ar instrumentis
Off diuerss inconvenientis;
Thy scheruice mony soir repentis,
Knawing þe quarrell;
Quhen body, honor, & substance schentis
And saule in perrell.
Quhat is thy manrent bot mischeif,
Sturt, angir, grunching, yre, and greif,
Evill lyfe, and langour but releif,
Off woundis wan;

49

Displesour, pane, and he repreif
Off god and man!
Thow loviss thame þat lowdest leis,
And followis fastest on þame [that] fleis;
Thow lychtleis all trew properteis
Off lufe express,
And markis quhair nevir styme thow seis,
Bot hittis be gais[s].
Blynd buk, bot at þe bound thow schutis,
And þame forbeiris þat the rebutis;
Thow ryvis þair hartis ay fra þe rutis,
Quhilk ar thy awin,
And cureis þame, curis nocht thre cutis
To be misknawin.
Thow art in freyndschip with þi fo,
And fremmit to thy freynd also,
Thow flemis all faythfull men the fro
Of steidfast thocht,
Regarding non bot þame ago,
That curis the nocht.
Thow chirreiss þame þat with þe chyddis,
And baneiss þame with þe abydis:
Thow hess þi horne ay in þair sydis,
That cannocht fle;
Thay furdir werst in the confydis,
I say for me.