The Answer quhilk Schir David Lyndesay maid to the Kingis Flyting

Dedoutit Roy, your ragment I haif red
Quhilk dois perturb my dul intendement :
From your Flyting, wald God that I wer fred,
Or ellis sum tygeris toung wer to me lent :
Schir, pardone me, thocht I be impacient,
Quhilk bene so with your prunzeand pen detractit,
And rude report, from Venus court dejectit.

Lustie ladyis, that your libellis lukis,
My cumpanie dois hald abhominable ;
Commandand me beir cumpanie to the cukis,
Moist lyke ane devill, thay hald me detestable ;
Thay baneis me, sayand, I am nocht able
Thame to compleis, or preis to thair presence :
Upon your pen, I cry ane loud vengeance.

"Wer I ane Poeit, I suld preis with my pen,
To wreik me on your vennemous wryting ;
Bot I man do, as dog dois in his den,
Fald baith my feit, or fle fast frome your Flyting,
The mekil Devil may nocht indure your dyting :
Quharefor, Cor mundum crea in me, I cry,
Proclamand yow the Prince of Poetry.

Schir, with my Prince, pertenit me nocht to pley,
Bot, sen your Grace, hes gevin me sic command
To mak answer, it must neidis me obey :
Thocht ye be now Strang, lyke ane elephand,
And in till Venus werkis maist vailzeand,
The day wyll cum, and that within few yeiris,
That ye will draw at laiser, with your feiris.

Quhat can ye say farther, bot I am failzeit
In Venus werkis, I grant Schir, that is trew ;
The tyme hes bene, I was better artailzeit,
Nor I am now, bot yit full sair I rew,
That ever I did mouth-thankles so persew :
Quharefor, tak tent, and your fyne powder spare,
And waist it nocht, bot gyf ye wit weill quhare.

Thocht ye rin rudelie, lyke ane restles ram,
Schutand your bolt at mony sindrie schellis,
Beleif richt weill, it is ane bydand gam :
Quharefor be war, with dowbling of the bellis,
For mony ane dois haist thair awin saule knellis ;
And speciallie, quhen that the well gois dry,
Syne can nocht get agane sic stufe to by.

I give your Counsale, to the feynd of Hell,
That wald nocht of ane Princess yow provide ;
Tholand yow rin schutand frome schell to schell,
Waistand your corps, lettand the tyme ouerslyde :
For lyke ane boisteous bull, ye rin, and ryde.
Royatouslie, lyke ane rude rubeator,
Ay lukkand lyke ane furious fornicatour.

On ladronis for to loup, ye wyll nocht lat,
Howbeit the caribaldis cry, the Corinoch :
Remember how, besyde the masking fat,
Ye caist ane quene ouerthort ane stinking troch,
That feynd, with fuffilling of hir roistit hoch,
Caist doun the fat, quharthrow drink, draf, and juggis,
Come rudely rinnand doun about your luggis.

Wald God, the lady, that luffit yow best,
Had sene yow thare ly swetterand lyke twa swyne ;
Bot to indyte, how that duddroun wes drest,
Drowkit with dreggis, quhimperand with mony quhryne,
That process to report, it wer ane pyne :
On your behalf, I thank God, tymes ten score,
That yow preservit from gut, and from grandgore.

Now, Schir, fairweill, because I can nocht Flyte,
And thocht I could, I wer nocht till avance
Aganis your ornate meter to indyte :
Bot yit be war, with lawbouring of your lance,
Sum sayis, thare cummis ane buckler furth of France,
Quhilk wyll indure your dintis, thocht thay be dour.
Fair weill, of flowand Rethorick the Flour.

Quod Lyndesay, in his Flyting,
Aganis the Kingis dyting.