The Æneid of Virgil Translated Into Scottish Verse. Gawin Douglas

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      Gladys the grond the tendir florist greyn,

      Byrdys the bewys and thir schawys scheyn,

      The wery huntar to fynd hys happy pray,

      The falconeyr rych ryver onto fleyn;

      The clerk reiosys hys bukis our to seyn,

      The luffar to behald hys lady gay;

      Ȝong folk thame schurtis with gam, solace, and play:

      Quhat maist delytyth or lykis euery wight,

      Tharto steris thar curage day and nycht.

      Knychtis delytis to assay sterand stedys,

      Wantoun gallandis to trayl in sumptuus wedis;

      Ladeys desyris to behald and be seyn;

      Quha wald be thrifty courtyouris says few credis:

      Sum plesance takis in romans that he redis,

      And sum hes lust to that wes nevir seyn:

      Quhou mony hedis als feil consatis beyn;

      Twa appetitis oneth accordis with othir;

      This lykis the, perchance, and not thi brothir.

      Plesance and joy richt hailsum and perfyte is;

      So that the wys tharof in proverb wrytis,

      A blith spreit makis greyn and floryst age.

      Myne author eyk in Bucolykis endytis,

      The ȝong enfant fyrst with lauchtir delytis

      To knaw hys moder, quhen he is litil page:

      Quha lauchis not, quod he, in thar barnage,

      Genyus, the God, delytyth not thar tabill,

      Nor Juno thame to kepe in bed is habill.

      The hie wysdome and maist profound engyne

      Of myne author Virgile, poete dyvyne,

      To comprehend, makis me almaist forvay,

      So crafty wrocht hys wark is, lyne by lyne.

      Tharon aucht na man irk, compleyn, nor quhryne:

      For quhy? he altyrris hys style sa mony way;

      Now dreid, now stryfe, now lufe, now wo, now play,

      Langeir in murnyng, now in melody,

      To satyfy ilk wightis fantasy;

      Lyke as he had of euery thyng a feill,

      And the willys of euery wight dyd feill;

      And tharto eyk so wysly writis he

      Twiching the proffyte of the common weill,

      Hys sawys beyn full of sentencis, euery deill,

      Or morale doctryne, that men suld vycis fle:

      Bot gyf he be nocht joyus now lat se;

      For quha so lyst seyr glaidsum gemmys leyr,

      Ful mony myrry abaytmentis followis heir.

      Now harkis sportis, myrthis, and myrry plays,

      Full gudly pastans on mony syndry ways,

      Endyte by Virgil, and heir by me translate,

      Quhilk William Caxton knew never al hys days:

      For, as I sayd befor, that man forvays;

      Hys febil proys beyn mank and mutulate;

      Bot my propyne come from the pres fute hait,

      Onforlatit, not jawyn fra tun to tun,

      In fresch sapour new from the berry run.

      Bachus of glaidnes, and funeral Proserpyne,

      And Goddes of triumphe, clepyt Victorie,

      Sal I ȝou call as ȝour name war dyvyne?

      Na, na, it suffysyth of ȝou ful smal memorie:

      I byd nothir of ȝour turmentis nor ȝour glorie;

      Bot he quhilk may ws glaid perpetualy,

      To bryng ws tyll hys blys on hym I cry.

      Sen erdly plesour endis oft with sorow, we se,

      As in this buke nane exemplys ȝe want,

      Lord, our protectour to all trastis in the,

      But quham na thing is worthy nor pyssant,

      To ws thy grace and als gret mercy grant,

      So forto wend by temporal blythnes

      That our eternale joy be nocht the les!