Sanct Saluatour! send siluer sorrow

Sanct Saluatour ! send siluer sorrow ;
It grevis me both evin and morrow,
Chasing fra me all cheritie ;
It makis me all blythness to borrow ;
My panefull purss so pricliss me.
Quhen I wald blythlie ballattis breif,
Langour thairto givis me no leif ;
War nocht gud howp my hart vphie,
My verry corpis for cair wald cleif ;
My panefull purss so prikillis me.
Quhen I sett me to sing or dance,
Or go to plesand pastance,
Than pansing of penuritie
Revis that fra my remembrance ;
My panefull purss so prikillis me.
Quhen men that hes purssis in tone,
Passis to drynk or to disione,
Than mon I keip ane grauetie,
And say, that I will fast quhill none ;
My panefull purss so pricliss me.
My purss is maid of sic ane skyn,
Thair will na corss byd it within ;
Fra it as fra the Feynd thay fle,
Quha evir tyne, quha evir win ;
My panefull purss so pricliss me.
Had I ane man of ony natioun
Culd mak on it ane coniuratioun,
To gar siluer ay in it be,
The Devill suld haif no dominatioun,
With pyne to gar it prickill me.
I haif inquyrit in mony a place,
For help and confort in this cace,
And all men sayis, My Lord, that ȝe
Can best remeid for this malice,
That with sic panis prickillis me.

Quod Dumbar to the King.