Ay Trinall Ane,ane vndevydit Three,
Eternall Word,vha victorie hes wun
Ouir death,ouir hell,triumphing on the trie,
Forknavlege,Wysdome,and All-seing Ee,
Iehovah,Alpha and Omega,All,
Lyk vnto nane,nor nane lyk vnto Thee,
Vnmovt vha movis the rounds about the Ball,
Contener vnconteind;is,was,and sall
Be,sempiternall, mercifull, and just.
Creator vncreatit,nou I call.
Teich me Thy treuth,since vnto Thee I trust,
Incres,confirme,and strenthen from aboue
My faith,my hope,and,by the lave,my loue.
Iniquitie on eirth is so increst,
All flesh bot feu with falset is defyld,
Givin ouir of God,with gredynes beguyld;
So that the puir,but pitie,ar opprest.
God in his justice dou na mair digest
Syk sinfull suyn with symonie defyld,
Bot must revenge,thair vyces ar so vyld,
And pour doun plagues of famin,suord,and pest.
Aryse,O Lord,delyuer from the lave
Thy faithfull flock befor that it infect.
Thou sees hou Satan sharps for to dissave,
If it were able,euen thyn auin elect.
Sen conscience,love,and cheritie all laiks,
Lord,short the season,for the chosens saiks.
Huge host of hevin in restles-rolling spheers;
Firme-fixit polis whilk all the axtrie beirs;
Concordant-discords, suete harmonious sounds;
Boud Zodiak, circle-belting Phoebus bounds;
Celestiall signis, of moneths making yeers;
Bright Titan, to the tropiks that reteirs,
Quhais fyrie flammis all chaos face confounds;
Just balanced ball, amidst the hevins that hings;
All creaturs that Natur creat can,
To serve the vse of most vnthankful man;-
Admire your Maker, only King of Kings.
Prais him, O man! His mervels that remarks,
Quhais mercyis far exceids His wondrous warks.
As curious Dido AEnee did demand,
To vnderstand vha wrakt his toun, and hou
Him self got throu and come to Lybia land;
To vhom fra hand his body he did bou:
With bendit brou, and tuinkling teirs, I trou,
He said, if thou, O Quene, wald knau the cace
Of Troy, alace! it gars my body grou,
To tell it nou, so far to our disgrace;
Hou, in short space, that som tym peirles place,
Before my face, in furious flammis did burne;
Compeld to murne, and than to tak the chace,
I ran this race, bot nevir to returne:
Sa thou, lyk Dido, Maister Dauid Drummond,
Hes me to ansueir, by thy sonet, summond.
The hevinly furie that inspyrd my spreit'
Quhen sacred beughis war wont my brouis to bind,
With frostis of fashrie frozen is that heet;
My garland grene is withrit with the wind.
Ye knau Occasio hes no hair behind;
The bravest spreits hes tryde it treu, I trou;
The long forspoken proverb true I find,
"No man is man," and man is no thing nou.
The cuccou flees befor the turtle dou;
The pratling pyet matchis with the Musis;
Pan with Apollo playis, I wot not hou;
The attircops Minervas office vsis.
These be the grievis that garris Montgomry grudge
That Mydas,not Mecenas, is our judge.
Sound,Gallovay,the trompet of the Lord;
The blissit brethren sall obey thy blast;
Then thunder out the thretnings of the word
Aganst the wicked that auay ar cast.
Pray that the faithfull in the fight stand fast.
Suppose the Divill the wickeds hairts obdure,
Yit perseveir, as in thy preichins past,
For to discharge thy conscience and cure.
Quhat justice sauld! vhat pilling of the pure!
Quhat bluidy murthers ar for gold forgivin!
God is not sleipand, thoght He tholde, be sure.
Cry out, and He shall heir the from the heuin;
And wish the king his court and counsell clenge,
Or then the Lord will, in His wrath, revenge.
Shir, clenge your cuntrie of thir cruell crymis,
Adultries, witchcraftis, incests, sakeles bluid;
Delay not, bot as David did betymis,
Your company of such men soon secluid.
Out with the wicked;-garde you with the gude;
Of mercy and of judgment sey to sing.
Quhen ye suld stryk, I wald ye vnderstude;
Quhen ye suld spair, I wish ye were bening.
Chuse godly counsel, leirne to be a king.
Beir not thir burthenis longer on your bak.
Jumpe not with justice for no kynd of thing.
To just complantis gar gude attendance tak.
Thir bluidy sarks cryis alwayis in your eiris:
Prevent the plague that presently appeirs.
Support me, sacred Sisters, for to sing
His praise, vhilk passis the antartik pole,
And fand the futsteppe of the fleing fole,
And from Parnassus spyd the Pegase spring.
The hundreth saxt, by lyne, vnconqueist king,
Quhais knichtlie curage; kindling lyk a cole,
Maks couarts quaik, and hyde thame in a hole:
His brand all Brytan to obey sall bring.
Come, troup of tuinis, about his temple tuyn
Your laurell leivis with palmis perfytly plet,
Wpon his heid Caesarean to sett.
Immortalize ane nobler nor the Nyne-
A martiall monarch, with Minervas spreit,
That Prince vhilk sall the prophesie compleit.
Of Mars, Minerva, Mercure, and the Musis,
The curage, cunning, eloquence, and vain
Maks maikles Maitland mirrour to remane,
As instrument vhilk these for honour vsis,
Quhais fourfald force with furie him infusis
In battells, counsels, orisones, and brain.
It neids no proofe; experience is plane;
A cunning king a cunning chanceller chuisis.
Quhat happines the hevins on him bestoues
Hes trimlie at this trublous tyme bene tryde.
Thoght worthynes of wreches be invyde,
Yit wonted verteu ay the grener grouis.
Then, lyk his name, the gods for armis him gives
Suord, pen, and wings, in croun of laurel leives.
Bellonas sone, of Mars the chosen chyld,
Minervas wit, and Mercuris goldin tung,
Apollos lighht, that ignorance exyld,
From Jove ingendrit, and from Pallas sprung,
Thy Vranie, O second Psalmist! sung,
Triumphis ouer death, in register of fame;
Quharfor thy trophee trimlie sall be hung
With laurell grene, eternizing thy name.
Bot euen as Phoebus shyniing does ashame
Diana with hir boroude beimis and blind,
So vhen I preis thy praysis to proclame
Thy weghtie words maks myne appeir bot wind.
Yit, worthy Prince! thou wald tak in gude pairt
My will for weill; I want bot only arte.
Of Titans harp, sith thou intones the strings,
Of ambrose and of nectar so thou feeds,
Not only vther poets thou outsprings,
Bot vhylis also thy very self excedes;
Transporting thee as ravishd, vhen thou redes
Thyn auin inventione, wondering at thy wit.
Quhat mervell than, thoght our fordullit hedes
And blunter brainis be mare amaisd at it;
To sie thy yeirs and age, vhilks thou hes yit, Inferiour far to thy so grave ingyne;
Quha hazard at so high a merk, and hit,
In English, as this Vranie of thyne:
Quharfor thy name, O Prince! eternall ringis,
Quhais muse not Jove, bot grit Jehova singis.
Can goldin Titan shyning bright at morne,
For light of torches, cast a gritter shau?
Can thunder reird the higher for a horne?
Craks cannouns louder thoght a cok suld crau?
Can our waik breathis help Boreas to blau?
Can candle lou give fyr a griter heet?
Can quhytest suanis more quhyter mak the snau?
Can virgins teirs augment the winters weet?
Helps pyping Pan Apollos musik sueet?
Can fontans smal the ocean sea incres?
No: they augment the griter not a quheet,
Bot they thaim selfis appeir to grou the les:
So, peirles Prince! thy cunning maks the knoune;
Ours helps not thyn: we steinyie bot our aune.
As bright Apollo staineth euiry star
With goldin rayis, vhen he begins to ryse,
Quhais glorious glance yit stoutly skaillis the skyis,
Quhen with a wink we wonder vhair they war;
Befor his face for feir they faid so far,
And vanishis auay in such a wayis,
That in thair spheirs thay dar not interpryse
For to appeir lyk planeits, as they ar:
Or as the phoenix, with hir fedrum fair,
Excels all foulis in diverse hevinly heuis,
Quhais natur, contrare natur, sho reneuis,
As onlie but companione or compair:
So, quintessenst of kings! vhen thou compyle,
Thou stanis my versis with thy staitly style.
Help, Prince, to vhom, on vhom not, I complene,
Bot on, not to, fals fortun, ay my fo;
Quha but, not by, a resone reft me fro;
Quho did, not does, yit suld my self sustene.
Of cryms,not cairs, since I haif kept me clene,
I thole, not thanks, thame, Sir, vho servd me so;
Quha heght, not held, to me, and mony mo,
To help, not hurt, bot hes not byding bene;
Sen will, not wit, to lait vhilk I lament,
Of sight, not service, shed me from your grace.
With, not without your warrand, yit I went,
In wryt, not words; the papers ar in place:
Sen chance, not change, hes put me to this pane,
Let richt, not reif, my pensioun bring agane.
If lose of guids, if gritest grudge or grief,
If povertie, imprisonment or pane,
If for guid will ingratitude agane,
If languishing in langour but relief,
If det, if dolour, and to become deif,
If travell tint, and labour lost in vane,
Do properly to poets appertane,
Of all that craft my chance is to be chief.
With August Virgill wauntit his reuard,
And Ovids lote als lukles as the lave;
Quhill Homer livd his hap wes wery hard,
Yit, vhen he died, sevin cities for him strave:
Thoght I am not lyk one of thame in arte,
I pingle thame all perfytlie in that parte.
If I must begge, it sall be far fra hame;
If I must want, it is aganis my will;
I haif a stomok, thoght I hold me still,
To suffer smart,bot not to suffer shame.
In spyt of fortun, I shall flie with fame;
Sho may my corps, bot not my curage kill:
My hope is high, houbeit my hap be ill,
And kittle aneugh, and clau me on the kame.
Wes Bishop Betoun bot restored agane,
To my ruin reserving all the rest,
To recompence my prisoning and pane!
The worst is ill, if this be bot the best.
Is this the frute, Sir, of your first affection, My pensioun perish vnder your protection?
Adeu, my king, court, cuntrey, and my kin:
Adeu, suete Duke, vhose father held me deir:
Adeu, companiones, Constable and Keir:
Thrie treuar hairts, I trou, sall never tuin.
If byganes to revolve I suld begin,
My tragedie wald cost you mony a teir
To heir hou hardly I am handlit heir,
Considring once the honour I wes in.
Shirs, ye haif sene me griter with his Grace,
And with your vmquhyle Maister, to, and myne;
Quha thoght the Poet somtyme worth his place,
Suppose ye sie they shot him out sensyne.
Sen wryt, nor wax, nor word is not a word:
I must perforce ga seik my father'ssuord.
Quhare bene ye, brave and pregnant spirits, becum?
Quik vive inventionis, ar ye worne auay?
I am assuird by simpathie that sum
Wald never wish that cunning suld decay.
If ony be, your Lordships must be thay,
Whose spreits your weeds of verteu hes you spun;
Then mak the poet pensioner, I pray,
And byde be justice, as ye haif begun.
Sen I haif richt, vhy suld I be ouirrun?
Incurage me, and able I can carpe:
Hald evin the weyis; the victory is wun,
As I confyde in King and solid Sharpe:
Quhom I culd len a lift, your Lordships knavis,
War they in love, as I am in the lauis.
Alace! my Lords,hou long will ye delay
To put the poets pensione out of plie?
Yon shifting sophists hes no thing to say;
Their feckles flyting is not worth a flie.
Mak Bishop Betone vhat they lyk to be:
He must perforce be ather quik or deid.
If he be deid, the mater maks for me;
If he be quik, then they can cum no speid.
By consequence, it cannot but succeid,
For laik of forces they must tyn the feild;
And for the Bishope, I defy his feid;
Yok vhen we will, I hope to gar him yeild.
So, good my Lords, I crave no more of you,
Bot shift me not vhill ye haif slane my sou.
How long will ye the poets patience prove?
Shaip ye to shift him lyk a pair of cartis?
Look vp, my Lords; thair is a Lord above,
Quha seis the smallest secreit of your hairts.
He vnderstands your offices and your airts;
He recompencis,as ye play your pairts,
Once, soon or syne, your Lordships must be sure;
For he respects no princes more than pure.
Quhat evir ye do then, hald the ballance evin;
Sa to do justice, I you all conjure,
As ye will merit ather hell or hevin.
Deserv not de (before your Lordships) fames;
For I may able enternize your names.
My Lords, late lads, nou leidars of our lauis,
Except your gouns, some hes nor worth a grote.
Your colblak conscience all the cuntrey knauis;
Hou can ye live, except ye sell your vote?
Thoght ye deny, thair is aneu to note
How ye for justice jouglarie hes vsit:
Suppose ye say ye jump not in a jote,
God is not blind, He will not be abusit.
The tym sall come vhen ye sall be accu[sit,]
For mony hundreth ye haif herryit heir;
Quhare ye sall be forsakin and refusit,
And syn compeld at Plotok to appeir.
I hope in God at lenth, thoght it be late,
To sie sum sit into [derk hellis gate].
Presume not, Prestone, Stirling is no strenth;
Suppose ye come to cleik auay my King,
Beleiv me baith, ye sall be lost at lenth;
Assure your selfis, and think nane other thing.
Byde ye the brash, vhill I my battrie bring.
For all your Craig, vharin ye so confyde,
Experience will play you sik a spring,
Sall pluk your pennus, and pacifie your pryde.
I sall beseige you sa on euerie syde,
Your baggage, buluarks, sall not be na buit;
Ye sall not haif ane hoill your heids to hyde,
Fra tym ye caus my cannoun royal shuit.
Haif at your rocks and ramparts with a rattill;
Sho shuits so Sharpe, ye dou not byde a brattill.
If gentle blude ingendrit be by baggis,
Then culd I ges vho wer a gentle Johne;
If he be wysest, with the world that waggis,
Yit culd I wish you to a wittie one;
If he be all, vha thinks his nichtbours none,
Then surely I suld shau you vho wer all;
If he be Caesar, vho doth so suppone,
Then I conjecture vhom I Caesar call;
If he be sure, vho sueirs and sayis he sall,
Then certainly I wot weill vho wer sure;
If he be firme, vho neuer feirs to fall,
I doubt not then vhose dayis suld lang endure.
Sed quaeritur, vhatlau he levis at leist?
He wald not preich; he can not be a preist.
A Baxter's bird, a bluiter beggar borne,
Ane ill heud huirsone, lyk a barkit hyde,
A saulles suinger, seuintie tymes mensuorne,
A peltrie pultron poysond vp with pryde,
A treuthles tongue that turnes with eviry tyde,
A double deillar with dessait indeud,
A luiker bak vhare he wes bund to byde,
A retrospicien vhom the Lord outspeud,
A brybour baird that mekle baill hes breud,
A hypocrit, and ydill atheist als,
A scurvie skybell for to be esheud,
A faithles, feckles, fingerles, and fals,
A Turk that tint Tranent for the Tolbuith:
Quha reids this riddill he is Sharpe forsuith.
My best belouit brother of the band,
I grein to sie the sillie smiddy smeik.
This is no lyfe that I live vpaland
on rau rid herring reistit in the reik,
Syn I am subject somtyme to be seik,
And daylie deing of my auld diseis.
Eit bread, ill aill, and all things are ane eik;
This barme and blaidry buists up all my bees.
Ye knau ill guyding genders mony gees,
And specially in poets. For example,
Ye can pen out tua cuple and ye pleis;
Yourself and I, old Scot and Robert Semple.
Quhen we ar dead, that all our dayis bot daffis,
Let Christian Lyndesay wryt our epitaphis.
With mightie maters mynd I not to mell,
As copping courts, or comonwelthis, or kings,
Quhais craig yoiks fastest, let tham sey thame sell;
My thoght culd nevir think vpon sik things.
I wantonly wryt vnder Venus wings;
In Cupids court ye knau I haif bene kend,
Quhair Muses yit som of my sonets sings,
And shall do aluayis to the worlds end.
Men hes no caus my cunning to commend,
That it suld merit sik a memorie;
Yit ye haif sene his Grace oft for me send,
Quhen he took plesure into poesie.
Quhill tyme may serve, perforce I must refrane,
That pleis his Grace I come to Court agane.
I feid affectione vhen I sie his Grace,
To look on that vhairin I most delyte'
I am a lizard, fainest of his face,
And not a snaik, with poyson him to byte;
Quhais shapes alyk, thoght fashions differ quyt:
The one doth love, the other hateth still.
Vhare some taks plesur, others tak despyte:
One shap, one subject, wishis weill and ill;
Euen so will men -- bot no man judge [I will,]--
Baith loue and loth, and only bot ane thing.
I can not skan these things above my skill.
Loue vhome they lyk; for me, I loue the King,
Vhose Highnes laughed som tym for to look
Hou I chaist Polwart from the chimney [nook.]
Remembers thou in AEsope of a taill?
A louing dog wes of his maister fane;
To faun on him wes all his pastym haill.
His courteous maister clappit him agane.
By stood ane asse, a beist of blunter brane,
Perceiving this, bot looking to no freet,
To pleis hir maister with the counterpane,
Sho clambe on him with hir foull clubbit feet.
To play the messan thoght sho wes not [meit,]
Sho meinit weill, I grant; hir mynd wes guid:
Bot vhair sho troude hir maister suld hir [treit,]
They battound hir vhill that they sau hir bluid.
So stands with me, vho loues with all my [hairt]
My maister best: some taks it in ill pa[irt.]
Bot sen I sie this proverbe to be true,
"Far better hap to court, nor service good,"
Fairueill, my brother Hudsone [nou to you]
Vho first fand out of Pegase fut the flood,
And sacred hight of Parnase mytred hood;
From vhence som tyme the son of [Venus] sent
Tua seuerall shaftis vher he of Delphos stood,
With Pennevs dochter hoping to acquent.
Thy Homers style, the Petrarks high invent,
Sall vanquish death, and live eternally;
Quhais boasting bou, thoght it be aluayis bent,
Sall neuer hurt the sone of Memorie.
Thou onlie brother of the Sisters Nyne,
Shau to the King this poor complaint of myne.
Flie louer,Phoenix. Feirs thou not to fyre
Invironing the aluayis-upuard ayr?
Vhich thou must pas, before that thou come [thair]
Vharas thy sprit so spurris thee to aspyre;
To wit aboue the planetis to impyre,
Behind the compas of Apollos chayre,
And tuinkling round of burning rubies rare,
Quhair all the gods thy duelling do desyre.
Bot duilfull doom of destinies thee dammis,
Before thy blissit byding be above,
The mortal from immortall to remove,
To sacrifice thy self to Phoebus flammis.
I prophecye,vhen so sall come to pa[sse,]
We nevir sie such one come of thy [asse.]
I love the lillie as the first of flours,
Vhose staitly stalk so streight vp is and stey,
To vhome the laive ay lowly louts and [cours,]
As bund so brave a beuty to obey.
Amongs thame selfis it semes as they suld [say:]
"Sueet Lillie, as thou art our lamp of light,
Resave our homage to thy honours ay,
As kynd commands to render thee thy right.
Thy blisfull beams, with beutie burnisht bright,
So honours all the gardein vhair thou grouis,
For suetest smell and shyning to the sight;
The heuins of the sik [matchless grace bestouis,]
That vho persavis thy excellence by ours
Must love the lillie as the first of flours."
Vhom suld I warie bot my wicked weard,
Vha span my thrifles thrauard fatall threed?
I wes bot skantlie entrit in the eard,
Nor had offendit, vhill I felt hir feed.
In hir vnhappy hands sho held my heed,
And straikit bakuard wodershins my hair;
Syne prophecyed, Isuld aspyre and speed:
Quhilk double sentence wes baith suith and sair,
For I wes matchit with my match and mair;
No worldly woman neuir wes so weill;
I wes accountit Countes but compair,
Quhill fickle Fortun whirld me from hir vheell:
Rank and renoun in lytill roum sho ranged,
And Lady Lucrece in a Cressede chenged.
MELPOMENE, my mirthles murning Muse!
Wouchsaiv to help a wrechit woman weep,
Vhose chanch is cassin that sho can not chuse
Bot sigh, and sobbe, and soun, vhen sho suld sleep.
More hevynes within my hairt I heep,
Nor carive Cressede, vhair sho lipper lay.
Dispair hes dround my hapeless hope so deep,
My sorrie song is, oh and welauay!
Euen as the oul that dar not sie the day,
For feir [of foulis that then about do proull,]
So am I nou, exyld from honour ay,
Compaird to Cressede and the vgly oull.
Fy, lothsome lyfe! Fy , death, that dou not [serve me]
Bot quik and dead a bysin thow must [preserve me].
Lord, for my missis micht I mak a mends,
By putting me to penance as thou pleasd!
Good God! forgive offenders that offends,
And heall the hurt of sik as are diseasde;
Hou soon they hes said; and surely so it semes:
Suppose my silly saull with sin be redemes.
Destroy me not, that so of the estemes,
my suete Redemer; let me neuer die,
Bot blink on me euen with Thy blisful b[eames,]
And mak ane other Magdelene of me.
Forgive my gylt,sen nane bot God is gude;
So with "Peccavi Pater" I conclude.
Fane wald I speir vhat spreit doth me [inspyre.]
I haif my wish, and yit I want my will;
I covet lyfe, and yit my corps Ikill;
I vrne for anger, yit I haif no yre;
I flie the flammis, yit folouis on the [fire;]
I lyke my lote, and yit my luk is ill;
I yoldin am, and yit am stryning still;
I dreid dispair,yit hope hes heght me hyre;
My blud is brunt, and yit my breist does bleid;
I haif no hurt, and yit my hairt hes harmes;
I am ouircome, but enimie or armis:
The doctours doubtis if I be quik or deid:
If that I kneu of vhome I culd inquyre,
Fain wold I speir vhat spreit does me inspyre.
My present pain expels my plesurs past;
My languishing, alace! is lyk to last;
My greif ay groues, my gladenes wants a grane;
My bygane joyes I can not get agane,
Bot, once imbarkit, I must byde the blast.
I can not chuse; my kinsh is not to cast:
To wish it war, my wish wald be bot vane:
Yit, vhill I sey my senses to dissaive,
To pleis my thoght, I think a thousand things,
Quhilks to my breist bot boroude blythnes brings:
Anis hope I had, thoght nou dispair I haive:
A strategem, thoght strange, to stay my sturt,
By apprehensioun for to heill my hurt.
I wyt myn earis for heiring my mishap;
I wyt my senses vhilks dissavit me so;
I wyt acquentance that in credit crap;
I wyt the trane that took me with a trap;
I wyt affectione formest to the feild;
I wyt misluk that suld me so enwrap;
I wyt my youth that bot a promeis yeild;
I wyt my stomoch wes not stoutly steild;
I wyt hir looks vhilk left me not alane;
I wyt my wisdome suld haif bene my sheild;
I wyt my tongue that told vhen I wes tane:
Had I my counsell keepit vndeclairde,
I might haif dred, bot deidly not dispairde.
Bright amorous ee vhare Love in ambush lyes,
Cleir cristal tear distilde at our depairt,
Sueet secreit sigh more peircing nor a dairt,
Inchanting voce, beuitcher of the wyse,
Quhyt ivory hand, vhilk thrust my fingers pryse --
I challenge you, the causers of my smarte,
As homiceids and murtherers of my harte,
In Resones court to suffer ane assyse.
Bot, oh! I fear, yea, rather wot I weill,
To be repledgt ye plainly will appeill
To Love, whom Resone never culd command:
Bot, since I can not better myn estate,
Yit, vhill I live, at leist I sall regrate
Ane ee, a teir, a sigh, a voce, a hand.
Thyne ee the glasse vhare I beheld my hairt;
My ee the windo throu the vhilk thyn ee
May see my hairt, and thair thy self espy
In bloody colours hou thou painted art.
Thyne ee the pyle is of a murtherers dairt;
Myne ee the sicht thou taks thy levell by,
To shute my hairt, and nevir shute aury:
Myn ee thus helpis thyn ee to work my smarte.
Thyn ee consumes me lyk a flamming fyre;
Myn ee most lyke a flood of teirs do run.
Oh! that the water, in myne ee begun,
Micht quench the burning fornace of desyre!
Or then the fyr els kindlit by thyn ey,
The flouing teirs of sorrou micht mak dry!
So suete a kis yistrene fra thee I reft,
In bouing doun thy body on the bed,
That evin my lyfe within thy lippis I left;
Sensyne from thee my spirits wald neuer shed;
To folou thee it from my body fled,
And left my corps als cold as ony kie.
Bot vhen the danger of my death I dred,
To seik my spreit I sent my harte to thee;
Bot it wes no inamored with thyn ee,
With thee it myndit lykuyse to remane:
So thou hes keepit captive all the thrie,
More glaid to byde then to returne agane.
Except thy breath thare places had suppleit,
Euen in thyn armes thair doutles had I deit.
I wald se mare nor ony thing I sie;
I sie not yit the thing that I desyre;
Desyre it is that does content the ee;
The ee it is vhilk settis the hairt in fyre.
In fyre to fry, tormentit thus, I tyre;
I tyre far mair, till tyme these flammis I feid;
I feed affectione, spurring to aspyre;
Aspyre I sall, in esperance to speid;
To speed I hope, thoght danger still I dreid;
I dreid no thing bot ouer long delay:
Delay in love is dangerous indeed;
Indeid I shape the soner to assay;
Assay I sall, hap ill or weill, I vou;
I vou to ventur, to triumph I trou.
I trou your love by loving so vnsene;
Vnsene siklyk I languish for your love:
Your love is comely, constant, chaste and clene;
And clene is myne, experience sall prove;
Prove vhen ye pleis, I mynd not to remove;
Remove vho may, if Destinies decreit;
Decreit is givin by Hymen high above;
Aboue all bands that blissed band is sweet:
Sueit is that yok so mutual and meet;
And meit it war we met, if that we might:
We might perhaps our purpose then compleit:
Compleit it quickly, Reson thinks it right.
Right beiring rule, the righteous suld rejose:
Rejose in God, and on His will repose.
Treu fame we mis thy trumpet for to tune,
To blau a blast a beuty for to blaise;
A paragone vhilk poets oght to praise;
Had I that science, I suld sey it sune;
Yit, as I dar, my deutie sall be done
With more affectione nor with formall phrais.
I seme, vhill I vpon hir graces gaze,
Endymion enamord with the Mone.
My Muse, let Mercure language to me len,
With Pindar pennis, forto outspring the spheirs;
Or Petrarks pith, surpassing all my peirs,
To pingill Apelles pynsell with my pen,
And not to say, as we haif said abone,
Trew fame, we mis thy trumpet for to tone.
Sueit soull, perceive hou secreit I conceill,
Rad to reveill that peirtly I propone.
Look ony one before me loved so leill;
Examene weill; oh! oh! we seet in none.
Good love is gone, except my love alone,
Thoght gromes can grone as they wald give the ghost;
Half mangd almost, als stupefact as stone,
Lyk treuth in throne, they look as they wer lost.
They turne, they tost, they rave, they rage, they rost,
As catives crost, vhill they your favour find.
To bid you bind thair purpose, runs the post;
Bot bund they bost how.....
Yit trying tyme, the touchstone of my treuth,
As resone wold, requests you to haif reuth.
Quhat pregnant sprit the letters can espy
My ladyis name and surname that begins?
Betuixt thame (ay) in ordour, is bot I,
And only I these lovely letters tuins;
Thoght rekles redars rashly ouer this rins,
Yit sharper shuters ner the mark will shute.
Shute on; lat sie vho first my wedfie w[ins;]
For I will wed ane apple and a nute.
To brek your brains, ye bunglers, is no bute;
The mair ye muse, the mair ye misse the [mark.]
I count your cunning is not worth a cute,
That cannot kyth your self to be a c[lark.]
Or ye this find, I feir ye first be fane
For to begin your A,B,C agane.
Ha! lytill dog, in happy pairt thou crap,
If thou had skill thy happynes to spy,
That secreit in my layis armis may ly,
And sleip so sueitly in hir lovely lap.
Bot I, alace! in wretchednes me wrap,
Becaus ouer weill my misery knou I,
For that my youth to leirne I did apply;
My ouer grit skill hes maid my oune mishap.
Vhy haif I not, O God, als blunt a [braine]
As he that daylie worbleth in the wyne,
Or to mak faggots for his fuid is fane?
Lyk as I do I suld not die and duyn:
My pregnant spreit, the hunter of my harte,
Lyk as it does, suld not persave my smarte.
Sweet Philomene, with cheiping chyrris and charris,
In hauthornes vher thou hyds thy self and hants,
Beuailing thy virginitie thoy wants,
My harte to grone for very grief thou garris,
Thy mirthles mone my melody so marris;
Vhill as thy changing, chivring nots thou chants,
The peircing pyks groutes at thy gorge thou grants;
So neir is skaith, suppose thou skantly skarris.
For murning I may be thy mirthles match:
As thou art banished, so am I exyld;
AS thou art trumped, so am I begyld;
THou art vnweirdit, I a woful wrech;
Thou art ashamed to shau thy secreit smart:
My ladyis bagie beirs my bluidy hart.
Thoght peirlis give pryce, and diamonds be deir,
Or royall rubies countit rich and rare,
The MARGARIT does merit mekle mare,
As jem of jeuels, paragone but peir.
Wald God if it wer gettible for geir!
Culd it be coft, for cost I wald not care;
Both lyfe and goods, to win it, wold I [ware,]
Provyding I war worthy it to weir.
Nixt wald I wish my purpose broght to [pas,]
That I micht tak and tame the turtle DO[U,]
And set hir syne vhare that I micht sie th[rou]
Ane costly cage of cleirest cristall GLAS;
Vhilks with my jeuell micht I joyne, I gra[nt,]
I culd not wish in world [ought] that I want.
O happy star, at evning and at morne,
Vhais bright aspect my maistres first out [fand!]
O happy credle! and O happy hand
Vhich rockit hir the hour that scho wes b[orne!]
O happy pape, ye rather nectar hor[ne,]
First gaiv hir suck, in siluer suedling band!
O happy wombe consavit had beforne
So brave a beutie, honour of our land!
O happy bounds, vher dayly yit scho duells,
Vhich Inde and Egyipts happynes exells!
O happy bed vharin scho sall be laid!
O happy babe in belly scho sall breid!
Bot happyer he that hes that hap indeid,
To mak both wyfe and mother of that [maid.]
Suete Nichtingale! in holene grene that han[ts,]
To sport thy self, and speciall in the spring;
Thy chivring chirlis, vhilks changinglie thou [chants,]
Maks all the roches round about the ring;
Vhilk slaiks my sorou, so to heir the sing,
And lights my louing langour at the leist;
Yit thoght thou sees not, sillie, saikles thing!
The piercing pykis brods at thy bony breist.
Euin so am I, by plesur lykuyis preist,
In gritest danger vhair I most delyte:
Bot since thy song, for shoring, hes not ceist,
Suld feble I, for feir, my conqueis quyt?
Na, na - I love the, freshest Phoenix fair!
In beuty, birth, in bounty but compair.
Love lent me wings of hope and high desyre,
Syn bad me flie, and feir not for ane fall.
Yit tedious trauell tystit me to tyre,
Vhill Curage come, and culd me couart call.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
As Icarvs with wanton waxit wings,
Ayme at the only A per se of all;
Vhilk staynis the sun, that sacred thing of things,
And spuris my spreit, that to the heuins it springs,
Quyt ravisht throu the region of the air,
Vhair yit my hairt in hoping hazard hings,
At poynt to speid, or quickly to despair.
Yet shrink not, hairt! as simple as thou semes,
If thou be brunt, it is with beuties bemes.
Go, Pen and Paper! publish my complantis;
Waill weghtie words, because ye cannot weep;
For pitthie poemis prettilie out paintis
My secreit sighis as sorouis gritest heep,
Bred in my breist, ye rather dungeon deep,
As prisoners perpetually in pane,
Vhilk hes the credit of my harte to keep,
In martyrdome, but mercy, to remane.
Anatomeze my privie passionis plane,
That sho my smart by sympathie may [sie,]
If they deserve to get some grace agane;
Vhlik if they do not, I desyr to die.
Go, sonet, soon unto my Soveran say,
Redeme your man, or dam hin but delay.
Vhat subject, sacred Sisters, sall I sing?
Vhase praise, Apollo, sal my pen proclame?
Vhat nymph, Minerva, sall thy novice [name?]
The bravest blossome beutie can outbring,
On staitly stalk new sprouting, furth [sall spring.]
Hou sall I sound the fanphar of hir fame,
Vhais angels ees micht mak the sun thin[k shame,]
As half eclipsed, in the heuins to hing!
Bot hola, Muse! thou mints at such a ma[rk,]
Vhais merit far excedes thy slender skill;
Yit, if her grace, for weill, accept gude [will,]
Then war thou weil reuardit for thy wark:
Bot since to mount thy maistres the commands,
With hope, once hazard for to kis hir hands.
Hir brouis, tuo bouis of ebane ever bent;
Hir amorous ees the awfull arrouis ar;
The archer, Love vho shoots so sharpe and far;
My breist, the butt vhairat hir shots ar sent;
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
My lyf, the wageour, if I win the war;
My patience pleids my proces at the bar;
My bluid, the long expensis I haif spent;
My secrete sighis, solisters for my sute;
My trinkling teirs, the presents I propyne;
My constancie, hir councellors to enclyne:
Bot rigour ryvis the hairt out by the root.
Hope heghts me help, bot feir finds no refuge:
My pairties ar my javellour and my judge.
Excuse me, Plato, if I suld suppone
That vnderneth the heuinly vauted round,
Without the world, or in pairts profound
By Stix inclosd, that emptie place is none.
If watrie vauts of air be full echone,
Then vhat contenis my teirs vhich so abound
With sighis and sobbis, which to the hevins I sound,
Vhen Love delytis to let me mak my mone?
Suppose the solids subtilis ay restrantis,
Vhich is the maist, my maister, ye may mene;
Thoght all war void, yit culdthey not complaintis.
Vhair go they then? the question wald I c[rave,]
Except for ruth the hevins suld thame [ressave.]
Vha wald behold him vhom a god so grievis?
Vhom he assaild, and dantond with his [dairt,]
Of vhom he freizis and inflames the hairt,
Vhais shame siclyk him gritest honour givis?
Vha wald behald a youth that nevir [leives,]
In vain, to folou the object of his smarte?
Behold bot me, persaiv my painfull pairt,
And the archer that, but mercy, me misch[eivis.]
Thair sall he sie vhat Resone then [can do]
Against his bou, if once he mint bot to
Compell our hairts in bondage basse to be[ir,]
Yit sall he se me happiest appeir,
That in my hairt the amorous heid does [lie]
Vith poysond poynt, vhairof I glore [to die.]
Hou long sall I bot duyne, and dou not di[e?]
Hou long sall Love, but mercy, murther me?
Hou long against me sall his bou be bent?
Hou long sall pane my plesur so prevent?
Hou long sall weping blind my watrie ee?
Hou long sall baill my bed felou yit be?
Or vhen sall I with comfort be acquent?
Hou long sall hope be hindrit be mishap?
Hou long yit, Love, will thou my patience prove?
Hou long sall wo in wrechitnes me wrap?
Vp once, and my melancholie remove.
Revenge, revert, revive, revest, reveall,
My hurt, my hairt, my hope, my hap, my heall.
The burning sparkis of Helens angells ee,
But missing any, woundit eviry wicht
That come within the boushot of her sicht;
Bot Love, vhose harte compassion had to see
Sa many lovers, but redemption, dee,
Vha war attrapit with so sueet a slicht,
In murning blak he cled this handsenyie to be.
But all in vane, alace! I must confes;
For why? a thousand lovers not the les,
Thoght they persaivd that Burrio Death to bost
Within [hir] eyis, and sau him vhar he sat,
Yit feirles ran they, not withstanding that,
To see these eyis; and syn gaiv vp the ghost.
Had I a foe that hated me to dead,
For my reuenge, I wish him no more ill
Bot to behold hir eyis, vhilk euer still
Ar feirce against me with so sueet a feid.
Hir looks belyve such horrour suld him b[reid,]
His wish wold be, his cative corps to kill.
Euen Plesurs self could not content his wi[ll;]
Except the, Death, no thing culd him rem[eid.]
The vgly looks of old Medusas eyi[s,]
Compaird to hirs, ar not bot poets leyis;
For hirs exceids thame in a sharper sort:
The Gorgon bot transformit men in sta[nis,]
Bot she inflammis and freizis both at anis.
To spulyie hairt, that miniom makes hir sp[ort.]
Quhat suld I wish, if wishing war not va[ne?]
Gold? silver? stones? or precious perilis of I[nd?]
No, no; I carie not a misers mynd;
I wish no more bot to be borne agane;
Provyding that I micht a man rema[ne,]
And sho that bure me, euen of sik a kyn[d]
That in hir birth hir persone war not py[nd,]
Bot ay the plesur to exceid the pane.
Then to be borne into a bonie bark,
To saill the seyis, in sik tym of the yeir
Vhen hevy hartis it helthsum halds to he[ir]
The mirthful mav[is] and the lovesome [larke.]
In end,I wold, my voyage being maid,
I wonder of your Wisdomes, that ar wyse,
That baith miskennis my method and my Muse;
Quhen I invey, such epithets I wse,
That evin Alecto laughing at me lyis.
My trumpets tone is terribler be tuyis
Nor yon couhorne,vhereof ye me accuse;
For fra the Fureis me with fyr infuse,
Quhom Bautie byts, he deir that bargain byis;
For if I open up my anger anes,
To plunge my pen into that stinking Styx,
My tongue is lyk the lyons; vhair it liks,
It brings the flesh, lyk bryrie, fra the banes:
I think it scorne, besyd the skaith and sklander,
To euin an ape with aufull Alexander.
Quhat reckles rage hes armde thy tygirs tung,
On sueit and simple soulis to speu thy spyte?
Quhat syren suld such poysond songs haif sung?
Quhat deuill such ditties devysit to indyte?
Quhat madnes movd such venemous words to [write?]
Quhat hellish hands hes led thy bluidie pen?
Quhat furious feynd inflamde thee so to fl[yte?]
Thee - no wyse nou to numbred be with men.
Quhat euer thou be, thou art a knave, [I ken,]
So leudly on these lassis to haif leid;
And if thou pleis, appoint hou, vhair and vhen,
And I sall mak thee, Beist! not to byde be [it,]
That nather they ar sik as thou hes said,
Nor I am he these rascall raylings maid.
Sir, I am sorie that ye suld suppone
Me to be one in lucre to delyte,
Or speu despyt against hir vho is gone:
No - nevir none culd fee me so to flyte.
I war to wyt, the bureit to bakbyte,
Or to indyt hir families defame,
Though Cuningham - in conscience I am quy[te,]
By word or wryt. Aneugh nou for my n[ame.]
I sueat for shame, besyd the blot and b[lame,]
Men suld proclame it wer Montgomerie[s muse:]
Fy! I refuse sik filthie these or theam,
Houbeit at hame mair vncouthnes we wse.
I must confes, it war a feckles fead,
Quha docht do nocht bot to detract the [deid.]
Beloudit brother, I commend me to you.
Pleis you, resaiv this lytil pretie ring,
With all the rest of goodnes I may do you,
Quhan I may vaik fra service of the king.
Sen for your saik I keepit sik a thing,
I mene the pece of lether from your spur,
If I forget - in hemp, God! nor ye hing! -
Vncourtessie comes aluayis of a cur.
Bat ye sall find me byding lyk a bur,
Quhilk lichtie will not leiv the grip it gettis;
And am richt dortie to come ouir the dur,
For thame that by my kyndnes no-thing settis.
Thus haif I bene as yit, and sal be so;
Kynd to my freind, bot fremmit to my fo.
The Lesbian Lad, that weirs the wodbind w[reath,]
With Ceres and Cylenus, gled your ging.
Be blyth, KILBVRNIE, with the Bairns of BE[ATH;]
And let LOCHWINNOCK Lordie lead your ri[ng.]
Be mirrie men; feir God, and serve the K[ing;]
And cair not by Dame Fortuns fead a fl[ea;]
Syne, welcome hame, suete SEMPLE, sie ye [sing;]
Gut ouer, and let the wind shute in the [sea.]
I, Richie, Jane, and George are lyk to [dee;]
Four crabit crippilis crackand in our crouch.
Sen I am trensh-man for the other thri[e,]
Let drunken Pancrage drink to me in D[utch.]
Scol frie, al out, albeit that I suld brist
Ih wachts, hale beir, fan hairts and nych [sum] drist.
Blind brutal Boy, that with thy bou abuses
Leill leisome love by lechery and lust,
Judge, jakanapis and jougler maist vnj[ust,]
If in thy rageing resone thou refuises;
To be thy chiftanes changers ay thou chuisis
To beir thy baner, so they be robust.
Fals tratur, Turk, betrayer vnder trust,
Quhy maks thou makrels of the modest Muses?
Art thou a God? No - bot a gok disguysit;
A bluiter buskit lyk a belly blind,
With wings and quaver waving with the wind;
A plane playmear for vanitie devysit;
Thou art a stirk, for all thy staitly stylis;
And these, good geese, vhom sik a god begylis.
Stay, passinger, thy mynd, thy futt, thy ee:
Vouchsaif, a we, his epitaph to vieu,
Quha let 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.
If ethnik ald by superstitious stylis,
Quhilk poyson yit of Paganisme appeirs,
tWer 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 your souerane shed,
Lo, blessit brether, both in honours bed!
His sacred self your trumpet bravely blauis.
By Castor and by Pollux, you may boste,
Deid Shawis, ye live, suppose your lyfis be loste.
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