Gif it be trew that storeis doe rehers,
That sorrow souppis sinceritie of sens;
Gif it be suithe that poetis put in vers,
That langour makis dull intelligens;
Of the wryter gif suire be the sentens,
That troublit hairt makis a rurell ryme:
Thocht this my wryt be void of eloquens
Accuse not me, bot wyite the wicked tyme.
The simpill wit and schairpnes of ingyne
Quhilk quhylome wes, now quyte is taine away;
The stering spreit quhilk poetis call devyne
Into my febill breist I find decay;
I nather courage have to sing or say
Quhen I behauld this warldis wickednes,
And quhen I find I am so far thame fray
Quha wes my onlie confort and glaidnes.
My fais fall and freindis gud succes
Sumtyme my pen wes bessie till endyite;
Of nobill men the valiant prowess
Sumtyme my courage ȝairnit for to wryte;
The laud, honour and the prayses greit
Of thame sumtyme I wissed till advance
Quhom now of neid my hairt hes in dispyte,
And quhom I wyit of this unhappie chance.
Then, maistres, luik na mair for onye fruitt,
Or onye worke to cum of my ingyne,
For now I nather cair for fame nor bruit;
I have sa tint that I na mair can tyne.
Gaine is my huik, and cuttit is my lyne;
Amang thir poetis I will fische na mair.
No man regairdis renoun in rowyne;
In miserie I sussie not for gloir.
My hairt fainteth, my fingeris failleth me
To wryte or dyte, of mirrines to mein,
Finding me far fra that gud cumpanie
Sa willinglie quhair I sumtyme have bein;
And knawing the sorrow that I than sustein
Be feinȝeit falset and unthankfulnes,
The moir I think, the moir my woundis grein;
My breist in baill boudnes with bitternes.
baill: sorrowboudnes: swells
