In all oure gardyn growis thare na flouris

In all oure gardyn growis thare na flouris,
Herbe nor tree that frute hes borne this ȝere,
The levys are doun schakyn with the schouris,
The fynkle fadit in oure grene herbere ;
The birdis that bene wount to syngen here,
In all this May vnese has songin thrise ;
And all of Dangere is our gardenere ;
And Gentrise is put quite out of seruice.

Quhat that I mene be this I dar noght speke,
For I na dare, my hert it is so sare,
Na neuer sall I me revenge na wreke,
Bot on myself, althogh I suld forfare ;
Saufand beaute I can prise na mare
Of hyr, that was wont to be gudeliest ;
And suth it is, and sene in all our quhare,
No erdly thing bot for a tyme may lest

Sen in this warld thare is no sekemes,
Bot pas mon all, and end mon every thing,
I tak my leve at all vnstedfastnes.