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II. Por ony Malledy, ze ken,
Except peoir Luve, or than Stark Deid. Help may be had frac Hands of Men,
Throw Medicines to mak. Remeid :
For Harms of Body, Hands or Heid, The Pottingars will purge the Pains;
But all the Members are at Feid,
To stanche his thrifty Appetyte,
The River fleis him in Dispyte;
Sae does my losty Lady qwhyte,
To hungry Men is smal Delyte
The mair I pyne, zet I persew,
Frae I behald her hearenly Hew;
Pure Piramus himself he flew, Made Saul and Body to diffaner,
He diet but anes, farwel, adiew, I daylie die, and zet dies never.
V. : Zit Jafon did enjoy Medea,
And Thefeus 'gat his Adriane, Dido disfaved was with Enea,
And Demophoy his Lady wan ;
Gif Women trowd fic Traycors than, For till enjoy the Fruits of Luve,
Quhy wald ze slay zour laikles Man, Quha never mynds for to remuve,
VI. Tkocht ferss Achil, that worthie Knicht,
Was slain for Love, the Sutbe to say, Leander on a stormy Nicht
Diet feitand on the Billous gray ;
Thocht Trayalus be langourt ay, Still waitand for his Luves Return,
Had not fic Pyne (thairs was but play) As daylie does my Body barn.
As Pol to Pylatts does appeir
Far brichtar than the Stars abgut, Sae does zour Visage shine as cleir As Rose amang the rafkal Rout;
War Paris leivand now, bot Dout, And had the Golden Ball to serve,
I wate he wald sune wait zou out, And leif Wenus and Minerue.
Now Paper pas, and at her fpeir,
Gif pleife her Prudence to imprint it? My faithfull Heart I send it heir,
In Signe of Paper I prefent it;
Wald God my Body war fornent it,
To be hir Knaif I am contentit,
Quod King HENRY STEWART..
Cupid quareld for his Tyranie.
Blindnes and Injustice.
Uhome fould I wyt for my Mischance,
But Cupid King of Variance, Thy Court, without Considerance,
Quhen Jit knew, Or evir made the Observance,
Richt fair I rew.
Thou and thy Law ar Instruments
Knawing the Quarrell,
And Saul in Percl.
QUHAT is thy Alaprent but Mischeif,
Sturt, Anger, Grunching, Yre and Greif, ** Ill Lyfe, and Langour bot Releife,
of Wounds fae wan, Displisour, Pain, and hie Repreife
Of God and Man.
Thou luves all them that loudest leis,
Of Luve express,
And hits begess.
BLIND Buk! but at the Round thou shutes,
Quilk ar thy awin,
To be misknawn.