The works of Sir William Mure of Rowallan Edited with introduction, notes, and glossary by William Tough |
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ANE LETTER TO ANE MUSICALL TUNE. |
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 | The works of Sir William Mure of Rowallan |  |
26
XI. ANE LETTER TO ANE MUSICALL TUNE.
Gaise, eyes, on nocht quhich can content ȝor sight,
Sad tragoedies behold alone!
Ears, heir no sounds quhich can afford delight,
Till sight and heiring both be gone!
Hands, forbeare to tuich
Oght ȝor tuiching can bewitch!
Ah! since scho doth disdain,
Eyes, ears, hands and heart,
Seing, heiring, feeling, smairt
All in one consort plain,
Since sche, alace!
Quhose bright angelick face
Did sett my woundit hert on fyre,
Will ȝeild no grace,
Regairdles of my cace,
Bot doth against hir awne conspyre.
Sad tragoedies behold alone!
Ears, heir no sounds quhich can afford delight,
Till sight and heiring both be gone!
Hands, forbeare to tuich
Oght ȝor tuiching can bewitch!
Ah! since scho doth disdain,
Eyes, ears, hands and heart,
Seing, heiring, feeling, smairt
All in one consort plain,
Since sche, alace!
Quhose bright angelick face
Did sett my woundit hert on fyre,
Will ȝeild no grace,
Regairdles of my cace,
Bot doth against hir awne conspyre.
Eyes, by ȝor streames of silwer trickling teares,
Regrait, since sche is butt remorce!
Ears, heir no sweits, since nothing sweit apears,
Qll thus the faits do us diworce!
Die, most haples heart!
Newer cease wt greif to smairt,
In tears and sighs consume.
Sorow, smairt and greiff,
Be only thy releiff,
Since sche hath giwin thy dome.
Oh, (sueit!) then scho
Compassioun on my woe,
Or lett no longer lyf remain.
Lyf giwes no more
To cuir my inward soare,
Bot ȝeilds the greatter sence of pain.
Regrait, since sche is butt remorce!
Ears, heir no sweits, since nothing sweit apears,
Qll thus the faits do us diworce!
Die, most haples heart!
Newer cease wt greif to smairt,
In tears and sighs consume.
Sorow, smairt and greiff,
Be only thy releiff,
Since sche hath giwin thy dome.
27
Compassioun on my woe,
Or lett no longer lyf remain.
Lyf giwes no more
To cuir my inward soare,
Bot ȝeilds the greatter sence of pain.
Hatred (alace!) for deirest loue I gain,
(Ay me!) this is my best rewaird,
And, for my paines, reaps wndeserwed disdain.
My serwice sche doth thus regaird,
Thot I plead in vain
Loue for loue of hir t'obtean,
And humbly begs remorce;
Thoght my tears doun rain,
Qch my sorowing cheiks do stain,
Such is hir bewties force
To charme my mynd,
To liue, alace, thus pynd
For hir, in such a ruefull stait,
Resoluing still
To wait wpon hir will,
And loue hir more then sche can heat.
(Ay me!) this is my best rewaird,
And, for my paines, reaps wndeserwed disdain.
My serwice sche doth thus regaird,
Thot I plead in vain
Loue for loue of hir t'obtean,
And humbly begs remorce;
Thoght my tears doun rain,
Qch my sorowing cheiks do stain,
Such is hir bewties force
To charme my mynd,
To liue, alace, thus pynd
For hir, in such a ruefull stait,
Resoluing still
To wait wpon hir will,
And loue hir more then sche can heat.
Bot as the rose, in pulling, oft impairts
The prick, before the smell be found,
Sua may my Loue now, wt disdainfull dairts
Thocht sche my hert but mercie wound.
Sche the stroak did giwe,
Only sche must me reviue,
Thocht reuthles now sche proue.
Such ane heavinly face
Can not bot giwe pitty place,
And ȝeild at lenth to loue.
Sueit! then, the more
Thou heats, I sall adore,
And serwe the qll my breath be gone.
My changles mynd
No tyme sall mak wnkynd,
Bot death my loue sall end alone.
The prick, before the smell be found,
Sua may my Loue now, wt disdainfull dairts
Thocht sche my hert but mercie wound.
Sche the stroak did giwe,
Only sche must me reviue,
Thocht reuthles now sche proue.
Such ane heavinly face
Can not bot giwe pitty place,
And ȝeild at lenth to loue.
Sueit! then, the more
Thou heats, I sall adore,
28
My changles mynd
No tyme sall mak wnkynd,
Bot death my loue sall end alone.
Finis,
S. W. M., Rowallan, Ȝoungar, 1616.
| The works of Sir William Mure of Rowallan | |