And kest him in his awin dungeoun, Allane withouttin feir, With hungir, cauld, and confusioun, Syne brak the bour, had hame the Bricht," Saw evil wondit was the Knycht, That he behuvit1 to de. His sark was all bludy; In all the warld was thair a wicht The Lady murnyt, and maid grit mone, With all hir mekle micht: "I luvit nevir lufe, bot one, That dulfully now is dicht! God sen my lyfe wer fra me tone, Or ellis in begging evir to gone Furth with yone curtass Knycht." He said, "Fair Lady now mone I First think on it, and syne on me, Quhen men cumis yow to wow."21 The lady said, "Be22 Mary fre, Thairto I make a vow. Quhen that scho lukit to the serk, Scho thocht on the persoun: And prayit for him with all hir harte, That lowsd hir of bandoun: 23 Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk24 And evir quhill scho wes in quert,25 So weill the Lady luvit the Knycht, Quhilk fullely to deid wes dicht, Sa suld we do, both day and nycht, 24 dark. 28 wooer. MORALITAS This King is lyk the Trinitie Baith in hevin and heir. The Gyane to Lucefeir. The Knycht to Chryst, that deit on tre, And coft27 our synnis deir: The pit to hell, with panis fell; The Lady was wowd, but scho said "Nay" With men that wald hir wed; Sa suld we wryth29 all syn away, Borrowit31 with Chrystis angell cleir, WILLIAM DUNBAR [1460?-1520?] TO A LADYE SWET rois of vertew and of gentilness, Richest in bontie and in bewtie clear, And everie vertew that is [esteemèd] deer, Except onlie that ye ar mercyless. Into your garth this day I did persew; There saw I flowris that fresche wer of hew; Baith quhyte and reid most lusty wer to seyne, And halesome herbis upon stalkis grene; Yet leaf nor flowr fynd could I nane of rew. I dout that Merche, with his cauld blastis keyne, Has slain this gentil herbe, that I of mene, Quhois piteous death dois to my heart sic paine That I wald mak to plant his root againe— So confortand his levis unto me bene. JOHN SKELTON [1460?-1529] TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY MIRRY MARGARET, As mydsomer flowre; Or hawke of the towere: So maydenly, Or hawke of the towre: Swete pomaunder, Goode cassaunder; Stedfast of thought, Wele made, wele wrought; Far may be sought, Or hawke of the towre. [From A GARLANDE OF LAurell.[ ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS SIR PATRICK SPENS THE king sits in Dumferling toune, "O whar will I get guid sailor, Up and spak an eldern knicht, The king has written a braid letter, Was walking on the sand. The first line that Sir Patrick red, "O wha is this has don this deid, This ill deid don to me, To send me out this time o' the yeir, To sail upon the se! "Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne:" "O say na sae, my master deir, For I feir a deadlie storme. "Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone, Wi the auld moone in hir arme, And I feir, I feir, my deir master, |