To a Ladye. Quhone he list to feyne

My hartis tresure, and swete assured fo,
The finale endar of my lyfe for ever ;
The creuell brekar of my hart in tuo,
To go to deathe, this I deservit never :
O man-slayar ! quhill saule and life dissever ;
Stynt of ȝour slauchter ; Allace ! ȝour man am I,
A thowsand tymes that dois ȝow mercy cry.

Haue mercie, luif ! haue mercie, ladie bricht !
Quhat haue I wrocht aganis ȝour womanheid,
That ȝe suld mwrdir me, a saikles wicht,
Trespassing neuer to ȝow in word nor deid ?
That ȝe consent thairto, O God forbid !
Leif creuelte, and saif ȝour man for schame,
Or throucht the warld quyte losit is ȝour name.

My deathe chasis my lyfe so besalie
That wery is my goist to fle so fast ;
Sic deidlie dwawmes so mischeifaislie
Ane hundrithe tymes hes my hairt ouirpast ;
Me think my spireit rynnis away full gast,
Beseikand grace, on kneis ȝow befoir,
Or that pur man be lost for evermoir.

Behald my wod intollerabill pane,
For evermoir quhilk salbe my dampnage !
Quhy, vndir traist, ȝour man thus haue ȝe slane ?
Lo ! deithe is in my breist, with furious rage,
Quhilk may no balme, nor tryacle assuage,
But ȝour mercie, for laik of quhilk I de :
Allace ! quhair is ȝour womanlie petie !

Behald my deidlie passioun dolorous !
Behald my hiddows hew and wo, allace !
Behald my mayne, and mwrning merwalous,
Withe sorrowfull teris falling frome my face !
Rewthe, luif, is nocht, helpe ȝe not in this cace,
For how sould ony gentill hart indure
To se this sycht on ony creature !

Quhyte dow, quhair is ȝour sobir humilnes ?
Swete gentill turtour, quhair is ȝour pete went?
Quhair is ȝour rewthe ? the frute of nobilnes,
Off womanheid the tresour, and the rent ;
Wertue is neuer put out of meik intent,
Nor out of gentill hart is fundin petie ;
Sen mercyles may no wycht nobill be.

In-to my mynd I sall ȝow mercye cry,
Quhone that my tovng sall faill me to speik;
And quhill that nature me my sycht deny;
And quhill my ene for paine incluse and steik;
And quhill the dethe my hart in sowndir breik;
And quhill my mynd may think, and towng may steir;
And syne, Fair weill, my hartis Ladie deir !

Quod Dumbar quhone he list to feyne.