Levedy, flour of alle thing,
Rosa sine spina,
Thu bere Jhesu hevene king
Of alle thu berst the pris,
Levedy, quene of paradys,
SWEIT rois1 of vertew and of gentilness,
Delytsum2 lyllie of everie lustynes,
Richest in bontie, and in bewtie cleir,
And every vertew that to hevin is deir,
Except onlie that ye ar mercyles.
Into your garthe3 this day I did persew;
Thair saw I flouris that fresche wer of dew,
Baythe quhyte and reid most lusty wer to seyne,
And halsum herbis upone stalkis grene;
Yet leif nor flour fynd could I nane of rew.
I doute that Merche, with his cauld blastis keyne,"
Hes slane this gentil herbe, that I of mene;
Quhois petewous deithe dois to my hart sic pane,
That I would mak to plant his rute agane,
So confortand his levis unto me bene.
BE merrie, man, and tak nat sair in mind
The wavering of this wretchit warld of sorrow;
To God be humble, to thy friend be kind,
And with thy nichtbours gladly lend and borrow;
His chance to nicht, it may be thine to-morrow;
Be blythe in hearte for ony aventure,
For oft with wise men it has been said aforrow 1
Without Gladness availes no Treasure.
Mak thee gude cheer of it that God thee sends,
For warld's wrak 2 but 3 weelfare nocht avails;
Nae gude is thine, save only that thou spends,
Remenant all thou bruikes but with bailis ; 5
Seek to solace when sadness thee assailis;
In dolour lang thy life may not endure,
Wherefore of comfort set up all thy sailis :
Without Gladness availes no Treasure.
WHAT is this life but a straight way to deid,
Which has a time to pass and none to dwell,
A sliding wheel us lent to seek remeid,
A free choice given to Paradise or Hell,
A prey to deid whom vain is to repell;
A short torment for infinite gladness,
As short a joy for lasting heaviness.
TO MAYSTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY
MIRRY Margaret,
As mydsomer flowre;
Gentill as fawcoun
Or hawke of the towre:
With solace and gladness,
Moche mirthe and no madness,
All good and no badness,
So joyously,
So maydenly,
So womanly,
Her demenyng
In everythynge
Far, far passyng
That I can endyght,
Or suffyce to wryghte,
Of mirry Margarete,
As mydsomer flowre,
Gentyll as fawcoun
Or hawke of the towre,
As pacient and as styll,
And as full of good-wyll
As faire Isaphill;
Colyaunder,
Swete pomaunder,
Goode Cassaunder;
Stedfast of thought,
Wele made, wele wrought;
Far may be sought,
Erst that ye can fynde
So corteise, so kynde,
As mirry Margaret,
This mydsomer floure,
Gentyll as faucoun
Or hawke of the towre.
WEEPE not my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art olde, there's grief enough for thee.
Mother's wag, prettie boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy;
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe;
Fortune changed made him so,
When he left his prettie boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.
Weepe not my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art olde, there's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smil'd, father wept,
Mother cried, baby lept,
More he crow'd, more we cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide :
He must goe, he must kisse
Childe and mother, baby blisse,
For he left his prettie boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
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