ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE.
Reading edition
Towards the close of the sixteenth century, while the pages of English poetry were receiving their richest contributions from the pens of Spenser, Shakespeare, and their comrade Elizabethans, the most famous, almost the sole singer left in the north was the author of “The Cherrie and the Slae.” Amid the moroseness and ecclesiastic strife which shadowed those closing years while James the Sixth still ruled at Holyrood, this voice still sang sweetly of love and laughter, of dewy nights and the lark’s morning song.
Alexander Montgomerie was a younger son of Montgomerie of Hazelhead, in Ayrshire, a scion of the noble house of Eglinton. The date of his birth remains uncertain; beyond that it was, as he himself says, “on Eister day at morne;” but he is believed to have first seen the light at Hazelhead Castle about 1545. According to references in his works, it appears that he was educated somewhere in Argyleshire. In any case it is certain that he was a man of culture and refined tastes. Of good social position, related by intermarriage with the Mures of Rowallan and the Semples of Castle Semple, he was the professed admirer of Lady Margaret Montgomerie, eldest daughter of Hugh, third Earl of Eglinton, to whom he addressed several compositions in the “despairing lover” tone fashionable in his time. He is recorded to have held some place at Court, first under the Regent Morton, and afterwards under James VI., from which, and not from military or naval rank, he appears to have derived the title of Captain. For a time he stood high in favour with the king, for whose Essayes of a Prentise in the Divine Art of Poesie, he wrote a commendatory sonnet by way of preface. James, moreover, in his Rewlis and Cautelis of Poesie, quotes several of Montgomerie’s verses as patterns, and is recorded to have been greatly diverted by the recitation of the “Flyting betwixt Montgomerie and Polwart.” Later, however, the poet shared the fate of other courtiers, and for some unknown reason fell into disgrace. Nor does any authority exist for the supposition that he regained the royal favour and accompanied the king to England. More probability attends the belief that he settled at Compton Castle, near Kirkcudbright, in Galloway, close by which, at the junction of the Dee and the Tarffe, tradition points out the scene of his chief poem, “The Cherrie and the Slae.”
In Montgomerie there appears a curious reflection, though in fainter colours, of the fate and character of Dunbar. Like the great makar of James the Fourth’s time, he was the scion of a noble house. In his verse appear the same eager efforts to secure favour at Court, the same bitterness at disappointment, and the same succeeding rancour against rivals and enemies. Here is the same oppression under insufficient means, and the same eager and thirsty heart continually mocked by “wicked weirds” and “thrauard fates.” Even his pension of 500 marks a year, chargeable on certain rents of the archbishopric of Glasgow, was withheld for a time, and only regained, by writ of privy seal, in 1588, after a vexatious law-suit. And on undertaking a foreign tour, for which he received royal leave of absence in 1586, he found himself for a time, upon what charge is unknown, thrown into prison. In one of his sonnets he records his sorrows—
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.
Like Dunbar, Montgomerie appears to have become serious in his later years, “the productions of which,” to quote his latest editor, “breathe a tender melancholy and unaffected piety, inspired with hopes of a fairer future, in strange contrast to some of his earlier work.” To the spirit of these years must also be attributed a metrical version of Psalms, fifteen in number, apparently part of a complete metrical paraphrase which he, in conjunction with some other writers, offered to execute for the public free of charge.
It is gathered from the anonymous publication of this collection of Psalms, entitled “The Mindes Melodie,” and from his series of epitaphs, that the poet was still alive in the year 1605; but he was dead before 1615, according to the title-page of a new edition of “The Cherrie and the Slae,” printed by Andro Hart in that year.
According to his own poetic statement, he was small of stature, fairly good-looking, and afflicted with the painful disease of gravel.
Most of Montgomerie’s poems have been preserved respectively in the Drummond, the Maitland, and the Bannatyne MSS. After many separate editions of the chief pieces, the whole of the poems were for the first time collected into one volume (Edinburgh, 1821) by David Laing, with a biographical notice by Dr. Irving, the historian of Scottish poetry. The only other complete edition is that by Dr. James Cranstoun (Scottish Text Society, 1885–87). The latter, in the present volume, is regarded as the standard text.
“The Cherrie and the Slae,” Montgomerie’s chief effort, has ever since its composition been one of the most popular of Scottish poems, no fewer than twenty-three editions of it having been printed since 1597. The intention of the allegory, according to Pinkerton, was to show that moderate pleasures are better than high ones. But Dempster, who translated it into Latin, considered it to be, first, a love allegory, picturing a young man’s choice between a humble and a high-born mistress, and afterwards the pourtrayal of a struggle between virtue and vice. Most readers are likely to agree with Dr. Cranstoun in considering Dempster’s solution correct, believing with him that “what the poet began as an amatory lay he ended as a moral poem; what he meant for a song turned out a sermon.” Thus, probably, it comes about that the allegory is of small account, the chief value and charm of the poem lying in its passages of description, its freshness of imagery, and its mother-wit. The opening stanzas present by far the best part of the composition. The remainder possesses but secondary interest, notwithstanding the many pithy sayings introduced; and no climax is reached even when the cherry is attained at the end of the piece.
Of the poet’s other works the longest extant is “The Flyting betwixt Montgomerie and Polwart,” a tournament of Rabelaisian humour in the style of the famous “Flyting of Dunbar and Kennedie.” Its chief interest, for poetic qualities it has none, is as a specimen of a class of composition—the mock duel of vituperation between good friends—which was in those times considered an amusing literary performance. His sonnets, “characterised by great poetic skill and singular felicity of diction,” furnish no mean contribution to the stores of a verse-form then greatly cultivated, while his miscellaneous poems, nearly all amatory, exhibit mastery of a great variety of measures. Sometimes, however, the tone of these appears affected to a modern ear, and their imagery apt to descend into conceits.
There remains, preserved by the Maitland MS., another poem, “The Bankis of Helicon,” a love lyric of great charm, which long enjoyed the reputation of being the earliest piece written in the stanza of “The Cherrie and the Slae.” Laing thought it possible that Montgomerie might be the author of this, and Dr. Cranstoun establishes the opinion with a fair amount of certainty, considering it one of the series of compositions addressed by the poet to his kinswoman, Lady Margaret Montgomerie, and pointing out the frequency with which sets of expressions and even whole lines from the other pieces of the series are repeated in it. Even if ascertained beyond doubt, however, the authorship of “The Bankis of Helicon” would add nothing to Montgomerie’s reputation, which is likely to live and die with the reputation of his greatest work, the lyrical allegory of “The Cherrie and the Slae.”
Greater in manner than in matter, Montgomerie’s verse owes its charm to finish and grace rather than to vigour and imagination, affording rather a late reflection of the early glories of the century than the glow of a new inspiration; nevertheless it has remained constantly popular, a surprising number of its lines having become household words in the shape of proverbs; it claims the credit, along with Dunbar’s work, of furnishing models both to Allan Ramsay and to Burns; and, beyond all its Scottish contemporaries, it possesses intrinsic qualities which assure it an enduring fame.
THE CHERRIE AND THE SLAE.
About ane bank, quhair birdis on bewis[1347] Ten thusand tymis thair notis renewis Ilke[1348] houre into the day, The merle and maueis[1349] micht be sene, The progne and the phelomene[1350], Quhilk caussit me to stay. I lay and leynit me to ane bus To heir the birdis beir[1351]; Thair mirth was sa melodius Throw nature of the yeir: Sum singing, sum springing With wingis into the sky; So trimlie and nimlie Thir birdis they flew me by. I saw the hurcheon[1352] and the hair, Quha fed amangis the flowris fair, Wer happing to and fro. I saw the cunning[1353] and the cat, Quhais downis with the dew was wat, With mony beisties mo. The hart, the hynd, the dae, the rae, The fowmart[1354], and the foxe War skowping[1355] all fra brae to brae, Amang the water broxe; Sum feiding, sum dreiding In cais of suddain snairis: With skipping and tripping Thay hantit[1356] all in pairis. The air was sa attemperate, But ony myst immaculate, Bot purefeit and cleir; The flowris fair wer flurischit, As Nature had them nurischit Baith delicate and deir[1357]; And euery blome on branche and bewch[1358] So prettily wer spred, And hang their heidis out-ouir the hewch[1359] In Mayis colour cled; Sum knopping[1360], sum dropping Of balmie liquor sweit, Distelling and smelling Throw Phœbus hailsum heit. The cukkow and the cuschet[1361] cryde, The turtle, on the vther syde, Na plesure had to play; So schil[1362] in sorrow was her sang That, throw hyr voice, the roches rang; For Eccho answerit ay, Lamenting sair Narcissus’ cace, Quha staruit[1363] at the well; Quha with the schaddow of his face For lufe did slay himsell.[1364] Quhylis weiping and creiping About the well he baid; Quhylis lying, quhylis crying, Bot it na answere maid. The dew as diamondis did hing Vpon the tender twistis[1365] and ying, Owir-twinkling all the treis; And ay quhair flowris flourischit faire Thair suddainly I saw repaire In swarmes the sounding beis. Sum sweitly hes the hony socht, Quhil[1366] they war cloggit soir: Sum willingly the waxe hes wrocht, To heip it vp in stoir. So heiping with keiping, Into thair hyuis they hyde it, Precyselie and wyselie For winter they prouyde it. To pen the pleasures of that park, How euery blossome, branche, and bark, Agaynst the sun did schyne, I leif to poetis to compyle In staitlie verse and lofty style: It passis my ingyne. Bot as I mussit myne allane, I saw an river rin Out-ouir ane craggie rok of stane, Syne lichtit in ane lin[1367], With tumbling and rumbling Amang the rochis round, Dewalling[1368] and falling Into that pit profound. To heir thae startling stremis cleir Me-thocht it musique to the eir, Quhat deskant did abound With trible sweit, an tenor iust, And ay the echo repercust Hir diapason sound, Set with the Ci-sol-fa-uth cleife,[1369] Thairby to knaw the note; Thair soundit a michtie semibreif Out of the elphis throte[1370]. Discreitlie, mair sweetlie Nor craftie Amphion, Or Musis that vsis[1371] At fountaine Helicon. Quha wald haue tyrit to heir that tune, Quhilk birdis corroborate ay abune[1372], Throw schowting of the larkis? Sum flies sa high into the skies, Quhill Cupid walkinnes[1373] with the cryis Of Nature’s chappell clarkis, Quha, leving all the hevins aboue Alighted in the eird[1374]. Lo, how that little God of Loue Befoir me thair apperid! So myld-lyke and chyld-lyke, With bow thrie quarteris scant, So moylie and coylie[1375], He lukit like ane sant. Ane cleinlie crisp[1376] hang ouir his eyis His quauer by his naked thyis Hang in ane siluer lace. Of gold, betwix his schoulders, grew Twa pretty wingis quhairwith he flew; On his left arme ane brace[1377]. This god aff all his geir he schuik And laid it on the grund. I ran als busie for to luik Quhair ferleis[1378] micht be fund. Amasit I gasit To see that geir sa gay Persawing my hawing[1379] He countit me his pray. His youth and stature made me stout; Of doubleness I had na doubt, Bot bourded[1380] with my boy. Quod I, “How call they thee, my chyld?” “Cupido, Sir,” quod he, and smyld: “Please you me to imploy; For I can serve you in your suite, If you please to impyre[1381], With wingis to flie, and schafts to schute, Or flamis to set on fyre. Mak choice then out of those then, Or of a thousand things; Bot craue them, and haue them.” With that I wowed[1382] his wings. “Quhat wald thou giue, my friend,” quod he, “To haf thae prettie wingis to flie, To sport thee for a quhyle? Or quhat, gif I suld len thee heir My bow and all my shuting geir, Sum bodie to begyle?” “That geir,” quod I, “can not be bocht, Yet I wald haif it faine[1383].” “Quhat gif,” quod he, “it coist thee nocht Bot randring it againe?” His wingis than he bringis than, And band them on my back: “Go flie now,” quod he now, “And so my leif I tak.” I sprang vp on Cupidoes wingis, Quha bow and quauir baith resingis[1384] To lend me for ane day. As Icarus with borrowit flicht I mountit hichar nor[1385] I micht; Ouir perrelous ane play. Than furth I drew that deadlie dairt Quhilk sumtyme schot his mother, Quhair-with I hurt my wanton heart, In hope to hurt ane-vther. It hurt me, it burt[1386] me, The ofter I it handill. Cum se now, in me now, The butter-flie and candill. As scho delytis into the low[1387], Sa was I browdin in[1388] my bow, Als ignorant as scho; And als scho flies quhill sche be fyrit, Sa, with the dart that I desyrit, My hand hes hurt me to. As fulisch Phaëton, be sute[1389], His fatheris cart obteind, I langt in Luiffis bow to shute, Bot weist not what it meind. Mair wilfull than skilfull To flie I was so fond, Desyring, impyring, And sa was sene vpond[1390]. To late I knaw, quha hewis to hie[1391], The spail[1392] sall fall into his eie; To late I went to scuillis. To late I heard the swallow preiche,[1393] To late Experience dois teiche— The skuill-maister of fuillis. To late to fynde the nest I seik, Quhen all the birdis are flowin; To late the stabill dore I steik[1394], Quhen all the steids are stowin[1395]. To lait ay their stait ay All fulische folke espye; Behynd so, they fynd so Remeid, and so do I. Gif I had rypelie bene aduysit I had not rashlie enterprysit To soir with borrowit pennis, Nor yit had saied the archer craft, Nor schot myself with sik a schaft As resoun quite miskennis[1396]. Fra[1397] wilfulnes gaue me my wound I had na force to flie, Then came I granand[1398] to the ground: “Freind, welcome hame!” quod he. “Quhair flew ye, quhome slew ye, Or quha bringis hame the buiting[1399]? I sie now,” quod he now, “Ye haif bene at the schuting.” As skorne cummis commonlie with skaith[1400] Sa I behuifit to byde them baith: O quhat an stakkering stait[1401]! For vnder cure I gat sik chek[1402] Quhilk I micht nocht remuif nor nek[1403], Bot eyther stail or mait[1404]. My agonie was sa extreme I swelt and soundt[1405] for feir; Bot, or I walkynnit of[1406] my dreme He spulyied[1407] me of my geir. With flicht than on hicht than Sprang Cupid in the skyis, Foryetting and setting At nocht my cairfull cryis. Sa lang with sicht I followit him Quhill baith my feiblit eyis grew dim With staruing on the starnis[1408]; Quhilk flew sa thick befoir my ein, Sum reid, sum yellow, blew, and grein, Sa trublit all my harnis[1409]; Quhill euery-thing apperit two To my barbuilyiet[1410] braine, Bot lang micht I lye luiking so Or Cupid come againe; Quhais thundring, with wondring I hard vp throw the air; Throw cluddis so he thuddis so And flew I wist not quhair. Fra that I saw that god was gane, And I in langour left allane, And sair tormentit, to, Sum-tyme I sicht quhill[1411] I was sad, Sum-tyme I musit and maist gane mad, I wist not quhat to do. Sum-tyme I ravit, halfe in a rage, As ane into dispaire; To be opprest with sic ane page[1412] Lord! gif my heart was saire! Like Dido, Cupido I widill and [I] warye[1413], Quha reft me, and left me In sik a feirie-farye[1414]. Then felt I Curage and Desyre Inflame my heart with vncouth[1415] fyre, To me befoir vnknawin; Bot now na blud in me remaines Vnbrunt and boyld[1416] within my vaines, By luffis bellies blawin[1417]. To quench it, or I was deuorit, With siches I went about; Bot ay the mair I schape to smor it[1418] The baulder it brak out: Ay preising but ceising[1419] Quhill it may breik the boundis. My hew so furth schew so The dolour of my woundis. With deidlie visage, paill and wan, Mair like ane atomie[1420] nor man, I widderit[1421] cleine away. As wax befoir the fyre, I felt My hart within my bosome melt And pece and pece decay. My vaines with brangling[1422] like to brek— My punsis lap[1423] with pith— Sa feruently did me infek That I was vext thairwith. My hart ay did start ay The fyrie flamis to flie, Ay houping, throu louping, To win[1424] to liberty. Bot O! alace! byde it behuissit[1425], Within my cairfull corpis incluissit[1426], In presoun of my breist; With sichis sa sowpit and ouirset[1427], Like to an fische fast in the net, In deid-thraw vndeceist[1428], Quha, thocht[1429] in vaine, dois striue for strenth For to pull out hir heid, Quhilk profitis nathing at the lenth Bot haistes hir to hir deid[1430]. With wristing and thristing[1431] The faster still is scho; Thair I so did lye so, My death advancing to. The mair I wrestlit with the wynd The faschter[1432] still myself I fynd; Na mirth my mynd micht mease[1433]. Mair noy[1434], nor I, had neuer nane, I was sa alterit and ouirgane[1435] Throw drowth[1436] of my disease. Than weakly, as I micht, I rayis; My sicht grewe dim and dark; I stakkerit at the windilstrayis[1437], Na takin[1438] I was stark. Baith sichtles and michtles, I grew almaist at ainis[1439]; In angwische I langwische With mony grievous grainis[1440]. With sober pace I did approche Hard to the riuer and the roche Quhairof I spak befoir; Quhais running sic a murmure maid, That to the sey it softlie slaid; The craig was high and schoir[1441]. Than pleasur did me so prouok Perforce thair to repaire, Betuix the riuer and the rok, Quhair Hope grew with Dispaire. A trie than I sie than Of Cherries in the braes. Belaw, to, I saw, to, Ane buss of bitter Slaes[1442]. The Cherries hang abune my heid, Like twinkland rubies round and reid, So hich vp in the hewch[1443], Quhais schaddowis in the riuer schew, Als graithlie[1444] glansing, as they grewe, On trimbling twistis tewch[1445], Quhilk bowed throu burding of thair birth[1446], Inclining downe thair toppis, Reflex of Phœbus of the firth[1447] Newe colourit all thair knoppis[1448], With dansing and glansing In tirles dornik champ[1449], Ay streimand and gleimand Throw brichtnes of that lamp. With earnest eye quhil I espye The fruit betuixt me and the skye, Halfe-gaite[1450], almaist, to hevin, The craig sa cumbersume to clim, The trie sa hich of growth, and trim As ony arrowe evin, I cald to mind how Daphne did Within the laurell schrink, Quhen from Apollo scho hir hid.[1451] A thousand times I think That trie then to me then, As he his laurell thocht; Aspyring but tyring[1452] To get that fruit I socht. To clime the craige it was na buit[1453] Lat be to presse[1454] to pull the fruit In top of all the trie. I saw na way quhairby to cum Be ony craft to get it clum, Appeirandly to me. The craige was vgly, stay, and dreich[1455], The trie heich, lang, and smal[1456]; I was affrayd to mount sa hich For feir to get ane fall. Affrayit to say it[1457], I luikit vp on loft; Quhiles minting, quhiles stinting[1458], My purpose changit oft. Then Dreid, with Danger and Dispaire, Forbad my minting anie mair To raxe aboue my reiche[1459]. “Quhat, tusche!” quod Curage, “man, go to, He is bot daft that hes ado[1460], And spairis for euery speiche. For I haue oft hard wise men say, And we may see our-sellis, That fortune helps the hardie ay, And pultrones plaine repellis. Than feir not, nor heir not Dreid, Danger, or Dispaire; To fazarts hard hazarts[1461] Is deid or[1462] they cum thair. “Quha speidis bot sic as heich aspyris? Quha triumphis nocht bot sic as tyris To win a nobill name? Of schrinking quhat bot schame succeidis? Than do as thou wald haif thy deidis In register of fame. I put the cais, thou nocht preuaild, Sa thou with honour die, Thy life, bot not thy courage, faild, Sall poetis pen of thee. Thy name than from Fame than Sall neuir be cut aff: Thy graif ay sall haif ay That honest epitaff. “Quhat can thou loose, quhen honour lyuis? Renowne thy vertew ay reuyuis Gif valiauntlie thou end.” Quod Danger, “Hulie[1463], friend, tak heid! Vntymous spurring spillis the steid. Tak tent[1464] quhat ye pretend. Thocht Courage counsell thee to clim, Bewar thou kep na skaith[1465]. Haif thou na help bot Hope and him, They may beguyle thé baith. Thy-sell now can tell now The counsell of thae clarkis, Quhairthrow yit, I trow yit, Thy breist dois beir the markis. “Brunt bairn with fyre the danger dreidis; Sa I beleif thy bosome bleidis Sen last that fyre thou felt. Besydis this, seindell tymis thé seis[1466] That euer Curage keipis the keyis Of knawledge at his belt. Thocht he bid fordwart with the gunnis, Small powder he prouydis. Be nocht ane novice of the nunnis That saw nocht baith the sydis. Fuil-haist[1467] ay almaist ay Ouirsylis[1468] the sicht of sum Quha huikis not[1469], nor luikis not Quhat eftirward may cum. “Yit Wisdome wischis thé to wey This figour of philosophey— A lessoun worth to leir[1470]— Quhilk is, in tyme for to tak tent, And not, when tyme is past, repent, And buy repentance deir. Is thair na honoure efter lyfe Except them slay thy-sell? Quhairfoir hes Attropus[1471] that knyfe? I trow thou cannot tell, That, but it, wald cut it That Clotho[1472] skairse hes spun, Distroying thy joying Befoire it be begun. “All ouirs are repuit to be vyce[1473]— Ore hich, ore law, ore rasche, ore nyce, Ore heit, or yit ore cauld. Thou seemes vnconstant be thy sings[1474]; Thy thocht is on ane thousand things; Thou wattis[1475] not quhat thou wald. Let Fame hir pittie on thé powre Quhan all thy banis ar brokin: Yone Slae, suppose[1476] you think it soure, May satisfie to slokkin[1477] Thy drouth[1478] now, O youth now, Quhilk drownis thee with desyre. Aswage than thy rage, man, Foull water quenches fyre. “Quhat fule art thou to die of thirst, And now may quench it, gif thou list, So easily, but paine! Maire honor is to vanquisch ane Nor feicht with tensum[1479] and be tane, And outhir hurt or slane. The prattick[1480] is, to bring to passe, And not to enterprise; And als guid drinking out of glas As gold, in ony wise. I leuir[1481] haue euer Ane foule in hand, or tway, Nor seand ten fleand About me all the day.”
[The argument is taken up by Hope, Will, Reason, Experience, and other allegorical qualities, who each urge their view of the enterprise. Finally, by all in company, the ascent is essayed, and the Cherrie secured.]
THE NIGHT IS NEIR GONE.[1482]
Hay! nou the day dauis[1483]; The jolie Cok crauis; Nou shroudis the shauis[1484] Throu Natur anone. The thissell-cok[1485] cryis On louers vha lyis: Nou skaillis[1486] the skyis: The nicht is neir gone. The feildis ouerflouis With gouans[1487] that grouis, Quhair lilies lyk lou[1488] is, Als rid as the rone[1489]. The turtill that treu is With nots that reneuis Hir pairtie[1490] perseuis; The night is neir gone. Nou hairtis with hyndis Conforme to thair kyndis Hie tursis thair tyndis[1491] On grund vhair they grone. Nou hurchonis[1492] with hairis Ay passis in pairis; Quhilk deuly declairis The night is neir gone. The sesone excellis Thrugh sueetnes that smellis; Nou Cupid compellis Our hairtis echone[1493] On Venus vha vaikis[1494], To muse on our maikis[1495], Syn sing for thair saikis— The night is neir gone. All curageous knichtis Aganis the day dichtis[1496] The breist-plate that bright is To feght with thair fone[1497]. The stoned steed[1498] stampis Throu curage, and crampis[1499], Syn on the land lampis[1500]. The night is neir gone. The freikis[1501] on feildis, That wight wapins[1502] weildis, With shyning bright sheildis, [As] Titan in trone[1503]; 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[1504] On grund vhill they grone. Syn groomis[1505] that gay is On blonkis that brayis[1506] With suordis assayis: The night is neir gone.
AN ADMONITIOUN TO YOUNG LASSIS.
A bony “No,” with smyling looks agane, I wald ye leirnd, sen they so comely ar. As touching “Yes,” if ye suld speik so plane, I might reprove you to haif said so far. Noght that your grant in ony wayis micht gar[1507] Me loth the fruit that curage ocht to chuse; Bot I wald only haif you seme to skar[1508], And let me tak it, fenzeing[1509] to refuse; And warsill[1510], as it war against your will, Appeiring angrie, thoght ye haif no yre: For haif[1511], ye heir, is haldin half a fill. I speik not this as trouing for to tyre; Bot as the forger[1512], vhen he feeds his fyre, With sparks of water maks it burne more bald[1513]; So sueet denyall doubillis bot desyr, And quickins curage fra becomming cald. Wald ye be made of, ye man[1514] mak it nyce; For dainties heir ar delicat and deir, Bot plentie[1515] things ar prysde to litill pryce. Then, thoght ye hearken, let no wit ye heir, Bot look auay, and len thame ay your eir. For, folou love, they say, and it will flie. Wald ye be lovd, this lessone mon ye leir[1516]; Flie vhylome[1517] love, and it will folou thee.
TO HIS MAISTRES.
Bright amorous ee vhare Love in ambush [lyes]— Cleir cristall tear distilde at our depairt[1518] Sueet secreit sigh more peircing nor a dairt— Inchanting voce, beuitcher of the wyse— Quhyt ivory hand vhilk thrust my finger[s pryse]— I challenge you, the causers of my smarte, As homiceids and murtherers of my harte, In Resone’s 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 comm[and]. 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.
TO HIS MAISTRES.
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[1519] from thee my spirit wald neuer shed[1520]. To folou thee it from my body fled, And left my corps als cold as ony kie[1521]. Bot vhen the danger of my death I dred[1522], To seik my spreit I sent my harte to thee; Bot it wes so 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.
TO THÉ FOR ME.
Suete Nichtingale in holene[1523] grene that han[ts] To sport thy-self, and speciall in the spring, Thy chivring chirlis[1524], vhilks changinglie thou [chants,] Maks all the roches round about thé ring; Vhilk slaiks my sorou, so to heir thé sing, And lights my louing langour at the leist; Yit, thoght[1525] thou sees not, sillie, saikles[1526] thing! The piercing pykis brods[1527] at thy bony breist[1528]. Euin so am I, by plesur lykuyis preist[1529], In gritest danger vhair I most delyte. Bot since thy song for shoring[1530] hes not ceist Suld feble I for feir my conqueis quyt[1531]? Na, na,—I love thé, freshest Phœnix fair! In beuty, birth, in bounty but compair[1532].
William Hodge & Co., Printers, Glasgow