The Æneid of Virgil Translated Into Scottish Verse. Gawin Douglas

      Ȝour sweit myrthis ar mixt with byttyrnes;

      Quhat is ȝour drery gemme? a myrry pane;

      Ȝour wark onthrift, ȝour quyet is restles,

      Ȝour lust lykyng in langour to remane,

      Frendschip turment, ȝour traist is bot a trane:

      O luf, quhidder art thou joy or fulychnes,

      That makis folk sa glaid of thar distres?

      Salomonys wyt, Sampson thou rubbist hys fors,

      And Dauid thou byreft hys prophecy;

      Men says thou brydillyt Aristotyll as ane hors,

      And crelyt vp the flour of poetry:

      Quhat sal I of thi myghtis notyfy?

      Fair weil, quhar that thy lusty dart assalis,

      Wyt, strenth, ryches, na thyng bot grace avalis.

      Thou cheyn of luf, ha benedicite!

      Quhou hard strenys thi bandis euery wyght!

      The god abuf, from his hie maieste,

      With the ybond, law in a maid dyd lycht;

      Thou venquyst the strang gyant of gret mycht;

      Thou art mair forcy than the ded sa fell;

      Thou plenyst paradyce, and thou heryt hell.

      Thou makist febill wight, and lawyst the hie;

      Thou knyttis frendschyp quhar thar beyn na parage;

      Thou Jonathas confederat with Davy;

      Thou dantyt Alexander for all his vaslalage;

      Thou festnyt Jacob fourteyn ȝheir in bondage;

      Thou techit Hercules go lern to spyn,

      Reke Dyomeir hys mays and lyoun skyn.

      For luf Narsysus perysyt at the well;

      For luf thou stervyst most douchty Achill;

      Thesyus, for luf, hys fallow socht to hell;

      The snaw quhyte dow oft to the gray maik will.

      Allace! for luf how mony thame self dyd spill!

      Thy fury, luf, moderis taucht, for dispyte,

      Fyle handis in blude of thar ȝong chyldering lyte.

      O Lord, quhat writis myne author of thi fors,

      In hys Georgikis! quhou thyne ondantyt myght

      Constrenys so sum tyme the stonyt hors

      That, by the sent of a meyr far of syght,

      He bradis brays onon, and takis the flyght;

      Na brydill may hym dant nor bustuus dynt,

      Nowther bra, hie roch, nor brayd fludis stynt.

      The bustuus bullys oft, for the ȝong ky,

      With horn to horn wyrkis othir mony a wound,

      So rumysyng with hydduus lowand cry

      The feildis all doith of thar rowstis resound:

      The meyk hartis, in bellyng, oft ar fond

      Mak fers bargane, and rammys togyddir ryn;

      Baris twyte thar tuskis, and fret otheris skyn.

      The reuthtfull smart and lamentabill cace

      Quhilk thar he writis of Leander ȝyng,

      Quhou for thi luf, Hero, allace, allace!

      In fervent flambe of hait desyre byrnyng,

      By nychtis tyde, the hevynys lowd thundering,

      And, all with storm trublyt, the seys flude

      Bettand on the rolkis, and rowtand as it war wod;

      Set he hym not to swym our, wallaway!

      The fyrth betwix Sestos and Abydane,

      In Europe and in Asya citeis tway;

      Hys fader and moder mycht hym not call agane:

      O God, quhat harm! thar wes he drynt and slane;

      And quhen his lufe saw this myscheif, atanys

      Out our the wall scho lap, and brak hir banys.

      Lo, quhou Venus kan hir seruandis acquyte!

      Lo, quhou hir passionys onbridillis al thar wyt!

      Lo, quhou thai tyne thame self for schort delyte!

      Lo, from all grace quhou to myscheif thai flyt,

      Fra weil to sturt, fra payn to ded! and ȝyt

      Thar beyn bot few exempil takis of othir,

      Bot wilfully fallys in the fyre, leif brothir.

      Be nevir our set, myne author techis so,

      With lust of wyne nor warkis veneryane;

      Thai febill the strenth; revelys secrete bath two

      Stryfe and debait engendris, and feil hes slane;

      Honeste, prowes, dreid, schame and luk ar gane

      Quhar thai habound; attempyr thame for thy.

      Childir to engendir oys Venus, and not invane;

      Hant na surfat, drynk bot quhen thou art dry.

      Quhat? is this lufe, nys luffaris, at ȝe meyn,

      Or fals dissait fair ladeys to begile?

      Thame to defowle, and schent ȝour self betweyn,

      Is al ȝour lykyng, with mony suttel wyle.

      Is that trew lufe, gude faith and fame to fyle?

      Gyf luf be vertu, than is it lefull thing;

      Gif it be vyce, it is ȝour ondoyng.

      Lust is na lufe, thocht ledis lyke it weill;

      This furyus flambe of sensualite

      Ar nane amouris bot fantasy ȝe feill:

      Carnale plesance, but syght of honeste,

      Hatis hym self forsuyth, and luffis nocht the:

      Thare beyn twa luffis, perfyte and imperfyte,

      That ane leful, the tother fowle delyte.

      Lufe is a kyndly passioun, engendryt of heyt

      Kyndlyt in the hart, ourspredyng al the cors:

      And, as thou seys sum person waik in spreyt,

      Sum hait byrnyng as ane onbridillyt hors;

      Lyke as the pacient hes heyt of our gret fors,

      And in ȝong babbys warmnes insufficient,

      And into agyt failȝeis, and is out quent;

      Rycht so in luf thou may be excessyve,

      Inordinatly luffand ony creature;

      Thi luf alsso it may be defectyve,

      To luf thine awin and geif of otheris na cure:

      Bot quhar that lufe is rewlyt by messure,

      It may be lyknyt to ane hail mannis estait,

      In temperat warmnes, nowthir to cald nor hait.

      Than is thi lufe inordinat,