Of Content

Quho thinkis that he hes sufficience,
Of gudis hes no indigence;
Thocht he haue nowder land nor rent,
Grit mycht, nor hie magnificence,
He hes anewch that is content.

Quho had all riches vnto Ynd,
And wer not satisfiet in mynd,
With powertie I hald him schent ;
Off covatyce sic is the kynd :
He hes anewch that is content.

Thairfoir I pray ȝow, breder deir,
Not to delyt in daynteis seir;
Thank God of it is to the sent,
And of it glaidlie mak gud cheir :
He hes anewch that is content.

Defy the warld, feynȝeit and fals,
With gall in hart, and hwnyt hals :
Quha maist it servis sall sonast repent :
Off quhais subchettis sour is the sals :
He hes anewch that is content.

Gif thow hes mycht, be gentill and fre ;
And gif thow standis in powertie,
Off thine awin will to it consent ;
And riches sall returne to the :
He hes anewch that is content.

And ȝe and I, my bredir all,
That in this lyfe hes lordschip small,
Lat languour not in ws imprent ;
Gif we not clym we tak no fall :
He hes anewch that is content.

For quho in warld moist covatus is
In world is purast man, I-wis,
And moist neidy of his intent;
For of all gudis no thing is his,
That of no thing can be content.

Quod Dumbar.