The Prolog

Musing and marvelling on the miserie
Frome day to day on erth quhilk dois incres,
And of ilk stait the instabilitie
Proceding of the restless besynes
Quhare on the most part doith thair mynd addres
Inordinatlie, on houngrye covatyce,
Vaine glore, dissait, and uther sensuall vyce :

Bot tumlyng in my bed I mycht nocht lye ;
Quharefore I fuir furth, in ane Maye mornyng,
Conforte to gett of my malancolye,
Sumquhat affore fresche Phebus uprysing,
Quhare I mycht heir the birdis sweitlye syng :
In tyll ane park I past, for my plesure
Decorit weill be craft of dame Nature.

Quhow I resavit confort naturall
For tyll discryve at lenth it war too lang ;
Smelling the holsum herbis medicinall,
Quhare on the dulce and balmy dew down dang,
Lyke aurient peirles on the twistis hang ;
Or quhow that the aromatic odouris
Did proceid frome the tender fragrant flouris ;

Or quhow Phebus, that king etheriall,
Swyftlie sprang up in to the Orient,
Ascending in his throne imperiall,
Quhose brycht and beriall bemes resplendent
Illumynit all on to the Occident,
Confortand everye corporall creature
Quhilk formit war, in erth, be dame Nature ;

Quhose donke impurpurit vestiment nocturnall,
With his imbroudit mantyll matutyne,
He lefte in tyll his regioun aurorall,
Quhilk on hym waitit quhen he did declyne
Towarte his Occident palyce vespertyne,
And rose in habyte gaye and glorious,
Brychtar nor gold or stonis precious.

Bot Synthea, the hornit nychtis quene,
Scho loste hir lychte and lede ane lawar saill,
Frome tyme hir soverane lorde that scho had sene,
And in his presens waxit dirk and paill,
And ouer hir visage kest ane mistye vaill ;
So did Venus, the goddès amorous,
With Jupiter, Mars, and Mercurius.

Rycht so the auld intoxicat Saturne,
Persaving Phebus powir, his beymes brycht,
Abufe the Erth than maid he no sudgeourne,
Bot suddandlye did lose his borrowit lycht,
Quhilk he durst never schaw bot on the nycht
The Pole Artick, Ursis, and Sterris all
Quhilk situate ar in the Septentrionall,

Tyll errand schyppis quhilks ar the souer gyde,
Convoyand thame upone the stormye nycht,
Within thare frostie circle, did thame hyde.
Howbeit that sterris have none uthir lycht
Bot the reflex of Phebus bemes brycht,
That day durst none in to the hevin appeir,
Till he had circuit all our Hemispheir.

Me thocht it was ane sycht celestiall,
To sene Phebus so angellyke ascend
In tyll his fyrie chariot triumphall,
Quhose bewtie brychte I culd nocht comprehend.
All warldlie cure anone did fro me wend,
Quhen fresche Flora spred furth hir tapestrie,
Wrocht be dame Nature, quent and curiouslie

Depaynt with mony hundreth hevinlie hewis ;
Glaid of the rysing of thair royall Roye,
With blomes breckand on the tender bewis,
Quhilk did provoke myne hart tyl natural joye.
Neptune, that day, and Roll held thame coye,
That men on far mycht heir the birdis sounde,
Quhose noyis did to to the sterrye hevin redounde.

The plesand powne prunyeand his feddrem fair ;
The myrthfull maves maid gret melodie :
The lustye lark ascending in the air,
Numerand his naturall notis craftelye ;
The gay goldspink ; the merll rycht myrralye :
The noyis of the nobyll nychtingalis ;
Redoundit throuch the montans, meids,

Contempling this melodious armonye,
Quhow everilke bird drest thame for tyl advance,
To saluss Nature with thare melodye,
That I stude gasing, halfingis in ane trance,
To heir thame mak thare naturall observance,
So royallie, that all the roches rang,
Throuch repurcussioun of thare suggurit sang.

I lose my tyme, allace ! for to rehers
Sic unfruitful and vaine discriptioun, '
Or wrytt, in to my raggit rurall vers,
Mater without edificatioun ;
Consydering quhow that myne intentioun
Bene tyll deplore the mortall misereis,
With continuall cairfull calamiteis,

Consisting in this wracheit vaill of sorrow :
Bot sad sentence sulde have ane sad indyte ;
So termes brycht I lyste nocht for to borrow.
Of murnyng mater men hes no delyte :
With roustye termes, tharefor, wyl I wryte,
With sorrowful seychis, ascending from the splene,
And bitter teris distellyng from myne eine ;

Withoute ony vaine invocatioun
To Minerva, or to Melpominee :
Nor yitt Wyll I mak supplicatioun
For help to Cleo nor Calliopee :
Sic marde Musis may mak me no supplee.
Proserpyne I refuse, and Apollo,
And rycht so Ewterp, Jupiter, and Juno,

Quhilkis bene to pleasand Poetis conforting :
Quharefor, because I am nocht one of tho,
I do desyre of thame no supporting.
For I did never sleip on Pernasso,
As did the Poetis of lang tyme ago,
And, speciallie, the ornate Ennius ;
Nor drank I never with Hysiodus,

Of Grece the perfyte poet soverane,
Of Hylicon, the sors of eloquence,
Of that mellifluous, famous, fresche fontane :
Quharefor I awe to thame no reverence.
I purpose nocht to mak obedience
To sic mischeand Musis nor Malmontrye
Afore tyme usit in to Poetrye.

Raveand Rhamnusia, goddés of dispyte;
Mycht be to me ane Muse rycht convenabyll,
Gyff I desyrit sic help for tyll indyte
This murnyng mater, mad and miserabyll.
I mon go seik ane Muse more comfortabyll,
And sic vaine superstitioun to refuse,
Beseikand the gret God to be my Muse ;

Be quhose wysdome all maner of thing bene wrocht,
The heych hevinnis, with all thair ornamentis ;
And without mater maid all thing of nocht :
Hell in myd centir of the Elementis.
That hevinlye Muse to seik my hole intent is,
The quhilk gaif sapience to king Salomone,
To David grace, strenth to the Strang Sampsone,

And of pure Peter maid ane prudent precheour ;
And, be the power of his Deitee,
Of creuell Paule he maid ane cunnyng techeour.
I mon beseik, rycht lawly on my knee,
His heych superexcellent Majestie,
That with his hevinlye spreit he may inspyre
To wrytt no thyng contrarye his desyre.

Beseikand als his Soverane Sonne, Jesu,
Quhilk wes consavit be the Holy Spreit,
Incarnat of the purifyit Virgin trew,
In to the quhome the Prophicie was compleit,
That Prince of Peace, most humyll and mansweit,
Quhilk onder Pylate sufferit passioun,
Upon the Croce, for our salvatioun.

And be that creuell deith intollerabyll
Lowsit we wer frome bandis of Belyall ;
And mairattour, it wes so proffitabyll
That to this hour come nevir man, nor sall,
To the tryumphant joye imperiall
Of lyfe, quhowbeit that thay war nevar sa gude,
Bot be the vertew of that precious blude.

Quharefor, in steid of the Mont Pernaso,
Swyftlie I sall go seik my Soverane,
To Mont Calvarie the straucht way mon I go,
To gett ane taist of that moist fresche fontane.
That sors to seik my hart may nocht refrane
Of Hylicone, quhilk wes boith deip and wyde,
That Longeous did grave in tyll his syde.

From that fresche fontane sprang a famous flude,
Quhilk redolent rever throuch the warld yit rynnis,
As christall cleir, and mixit bene with blude ;
Quhose sound abufe the heyest hevinnis dinnis,
All faithfull pepil purgeing frome thare sinnis,
Quharefor I sall beseik his Excellence,
To grant me grace, wysedome, and eloquence ;

And baythe me with those dulce and balmy strandis
Quhilk on the Croce did spedalie out spryng
Frome his moste tender feit and hevinly handis ;
And grant me grace to wrytt nor dyte no thyng
Bot tyll his heich honour and loude lovyng ;
Bot quhose support thare may na gud be wrocht
Tyll his plesure, gude workis, word, nor thocht.

Tharefor, Lorde, I pray thy Majestie,
As thow did schaw thy heych power Divyne,
First plainlie in the Cane of Galelee,
Quhare thow convertit cauld watter in wyne,
Convoye my mater tyll ane fructuous fyne,
And save my sayingis baith frome schame and syn:
Tak tent, for now I purpose to begyn.