The Æneid of Virgil Translated Into Scottish Verse. Gawin Douglas

      That is to knaw, lufe God for his gudnes,

      With hart, hail mynde, trew servyce, day and nycht;

      Nixt luf thi self, eschewand wykkytnes;

      Lufe syne thi nychtburris, and wyrk thame nane onrycht,

      Willyng at thou and thai may haue the syght

      Of hevynnys blys, and tyste thame not tharfra,

      For, and thou do, syk luf dowe nocht a stra.

      Faynt lufe, but grace, for all thi fenȝeit layis,

      Thy wantoun willis ar verray vanyte;

      Grasles thou askis grace, and thus thou prayis;

      Haue mercy, lady, haue reuth and sum piete!

      And scho, reuthtles, agane rewys on the:

      Heir is na paramouris fund, bot all haitrent,

      Quhar nowthir to weill nor resson tak thai tent.

      Callys thou that reutht, quhilk of thar self ne rakkis?

      Or is it grace to fall fra grace? nay, nay;

      Thou sekis mercy, and tharof myscheif makkis:

      Renown and honour quhy wald thou dryfe away?

      A brutale appetyte makis ȝong fulys forvay,

      Quhilk be resson lyst not thar heyt refreyn,

      Haldand opynyon deyr of a boryt beyn.

      Says nocht ȝour sentens thus, skant worth a fas,

      Quhat honeste or renoun is to be dram?

      Or forto drowp lyke a fordullyt as?

      Lat ws in ryot leif, in sport and gam;

      In Venus covrt, sen born tharto I am,

      My tyme weil sal I spend. Wenys thou not so?

      Bot al ȝour solace sal return in gram,

      Syk thewles lustis in byttir pane and wo.

      Thou auld hasard lichour, fy for schame,

      That slotteris furth euermar in sluggardry

      Out on the, auld trat, agit wyfe, or dame,

      Eschamys na tyme in rovste of syn to ly!

      Thir Venus warkis in ȝouthed ar foly,

      Bot into eild thai turn in fury rage;

      And quha schameles dowblis thar syn, ha fy!

      As doith thir vantouris owthir in ȝouth or age?

      Quhat nedis avant ȝou of ȝour wykkytnes,

      Ȝhe that beyn forcy alane in villans deid?

      Quhy gloyr ȝe in ȝour awyn onthriftynes?

      Eschame ȝhe not rehers and blaw on breid

      Ȝour awyn diffame, havand of God na dreid

      Nor ȝyt of hell, provokand otheris to syn,

      Ȝhe that lyst of ȝour palȝardry nevir blyn?

      Wald God ȝhe purchest bot ȝour awyn myschans,

      And war na banareris forto perych mo!

      God grant sum tyme ȝe turn ȝou to pennans,

      Refrenyng lustis inordinate, and cry ho!

      And thar affix ȝour luf and myndis so,

      Quhar euer is verray joy without offens,

      That all syk beistly fury ȝhe lat go hens.

      Of brokkaris and syk bawdry quhou suld I write,

      Of quham the fylth stynkis in Godis neys?

      With Venus henwyffis quhat wys may I flyte,

      That strakis thir wenschis hedis thame to ples?

      Douchtir, for thy lufe this man hes gret dyseys,

      Quod the bysmeyr with the slekyt speche;

      Rew on hym, it is meryte hys pane to meys:

      Syk poyd makcrellis for Lucifer beyn leche.

      Eschame, ȝyng virgynys, and fair damycellis,

      Furth of wedlok forto disteyn ȝour kellys;

      Traist nocht al talis that wanton woweris tellis,

      Ȝow to deflour purposyng, and nocht ellys:

      Abhor syk pryce or prayer wirschip sellys.

      Quhar schame is lost quyte schent is womanhed;

      Quhat of bewte, quhar honeste lyis ded?

      Rew on ȝour self, ladeys and madynnys ȝyng,

      Grant na syk reuth for evir may caus ȝou rew:

      Ȝhe fresch gallandis, in hait desyre byrnyng,

      Refreyn ȝour curage syk paramouris to persew;

      Grund ȝour amouris on charite al new;

      Found ȝow on resson; quhat nedis mair to preche?

      God grant ȝou grace in luf, as I ȝou tech!

      Fy on dissait and fals dissymulans,

      Contrar to kynd with fenȝeit cheir smylyng,

      Vndyr the cloik of luffis obseruans,

      The venom of the serpent reddy to styng!

      Bot al syk crymys in luffis caus I resyng

      To the confessioun of morale Jhonne Gower;

      For I mon follow the text of our mater.

      Thy dowbill wound, Dido, to specify,

      I meyn thyne amouris, and thi funeral fait,

      Quha may endyte, but teris, with eyn dry?

      Augustyne confessis hym self wepit, God wait,

      Redyng thy lamentabill end mysfortunat.

      By the wil I repeyt this vers agane,

      Temporal joy endis wyth wo and pane.

      Allace, thy dolorus cays and hard myschance!

      From blys to wo, fra sorow to fury rage,

      Fra nobylnes, welth, prudens and temperance,

      In brutell appetite fall, and wild dotage;

      Danter of Affryk, Queyn foundar of Cartage,

      Vmquhil in ryches and schynyng gloyr ryngnyng,

      Throw fulych lust wrocht thine awyn ondoyng.

      Lo! with quhat thocht, quhat byttyrnes and pane,

      Lufe onsylly bredis in euery wight!

      Quhou schort quhile doith hys fals plesance remane!

      Hys restles blys how sone takis the flicht!

      Hys kyndnes alteris in wraith within a nycht:

      Quhat is, bot turment, all hys langsum fayr,

      Begun with feir, and endyt in dispayr?

      Quhat sussy, cuyr, and strange ymagynyng,

      Quhat ways onlefull, hys purpos to atteyn,

      Hes this fals lust at his first begynnyng!

      Quhou subtell wylis, and mony quyet meyn!

      Quhat slycht dissait quently to flat and feyn;

      Syne in a thraw kan not hym selvyn hyde,

      Nor at his first estait