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Sir William Mure of Rowallan

To the tune of 'Pert Jean'

Fair goddes, loadstar of delight,
Natours triumph and beuties lyfe,
Earth's ornament, my hopes full hight,
My only peace, and pleasing stryfe,
Let mercie mollifie thy mynd!
A Saturnes hert sould Venus have?
Or sould thou prove to him wnkynd
Quho humbly lyfe of the doth crave?
Since all thy pairts sum special grace
Decoris, to schau thy heavinly race,
Vertue thy mynd and love thy face,
Proportioune brave thy featour:
Pitty then must neids haue place
In such a diuin creatour,
Quhose sueitnes
And meiknes
Exceids the bounds of Natour.
Quhen first thoise angel's eyes I vieued --
Tuo sparks t'inflame a world of love --
My fatal thraldome then ensured;
Then did my liberty remove.
Thair first infected was my mynd;
Loves nectared poysoune thair I drank;
Thy sacred countenance so schyn'd
So far above all humane rank.
Let then thoise eyes quhich did insnair,
Those schyning stares, thair fault repair,
Dispersing by thair beimes preclair
The clouds of thy disdaining.
Wisdome, vertue, beutie rair,
In the have all remaining:
Let not then
The spot then
Of rigour be thy staining.
Sould crueltie, sueit love, ecclips
The sunschyne of those glorious rayes?
Or sould thoise lovely smyling lips
Breath foorth affectiounes delayes?
Let mercie countervaill thy worth,
And measour pitty by my paine;
Sua, thy perfectiounes to paint foorth
Ane endles labour sall remaine.
Lat beuties beames then thau away,
Reflecting only on ws tuay,
The ycinesse of loves delay,
And melt disdaines cold treassour.
Natours due so sall we pay,
Baithing in boundles pleassour,
Injoying
That toying,
Quhose sueits exceid all meassour.

Sonnet: To Margareit

Since Fame's schril trumpet equal'd with the skyes
The rair perfectiounes and miraculous art
Natour and educatioun did impairt
To mak the wondrouse to amazed eyes,
Thy beutyes did my sensses suire suppryse,
Or eir thy sight my ravischt eyes did blesse.
Bot now I fynd Fame too, too niggard is,
Or thy deserts above hir reach aryse:
All love, all joy, all sueitnes, all delight,
The heawins into thoise angel's eyes have plac'd.
All happie he quho may the rosis taist
And pull the lilies of those cheeks so quhyt;
But those fayre brests rype clusters quho myght presse
With Jove may well compair in happinesse!

Fancies Farewell

Too long, my Muse, ah! thou too long didst toile,
An Aethiopian striving to make white;
Lost seede on furrowes of a fruitlesse soile,
Which doth thy trauells but with tares acquite.
Hence-foorth fare-well all counterfeit delyte:
Blinde dwarfling, I disclaime thy deitie!
My pen thy trophees neuer more shall wryte,
Nor after shall thine arts enveigle mee.
With sacred straines, reaching a higher key,
My thoughts above thy fictions farre aspire:
Mounted on wings of immortalitie,
I feele my brest warmde with a wountless fire.
My muse a strange enthusiasme inspires,
And peece and peece thy flamme in smoake expires.
Houres mis-employed, evanisht as a dreame,
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My lapse from vertue and recourse to ill,
I should, I would, -- I dare not say I will --
By due repentance and remorse redeeme.
Love's false delight and beautees blazing beame
Too long benighted haue my dazled eyes:
By youth misled, I too too much did prise
Deceaving shads, toyes worthy no esteame,
Plungde in the tyde of that impetuous streame
Where fynest wits haue frequent naufrage made.
O heavenly Pilote, I implore thine aide:
Rescue my soule, in danger most extreame!
Conduct mee to thy mercyes port, I pray:
Save Lord; oh, let mee not bee cast away!
Looke home, my soule, deferre not to repent:
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Time ever runnes, in sloath great dangers ly;
Impostumde soares the patient most torment,
While wounds are greene the salve with speed apply;
Workes once adjourn'd, good successe seldome try;
Delay's attended still with discontent.
Thrise happie hee takes time ere time slyde by,
And doth by fore-sight after-wit prevent.
Look on thy labours; timouslie lament:
Trees are hewde down unwholesome fruits bring foorth.
Thy younger yeares, youthes sweet Aprile mispent,
Strive to redeeme with works of greater worth.
Look home, I say: make haste. O, shunne delay!
Hoyse sayle while tyde doth last: time posts away.
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