Classic Poem

1

Redoutit roy, your ragment I have red,
Quhilk dois perturb my dull intendement.
From your flyting, wald God that I wer fred!
Or ellis sum tygerris toung wer to me lent.
Schir, pardone me, thocht I be impacient,
Quhilk bene so with your prunyeand pen detractit,
And rude report, frome Venus court dejectit.

2

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

3

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 mekle Devil may nocht indure your dyting!
Quharefor, " Cor mundum crea in me !" I cry,
Proclamand yow, the prince of poetry.

4

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 vailyeand,
The day wyll cum, and that within few yeiris,
That ye wyll draw at laiser with your feiris.

5

Quhat can ye say forther, bot I am failyeit
In Venus werkis? I grant, schir, that is trew.
The tyme hes bene, I wes better artailyeit
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 spair,
And waist it nocht, bot gyf ye wit weill quhair.

6

Thocht ye rin rudelie, lyke ane restles ram,
Schutand your bolt at mony sindrie schellis,
Beleif richt weill, it is ane bydand gam.
Quharefore, 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.

7

I give your counsale to the feynd of hell,
That wald nocht of ane princes yow provide,
Tholand yow rin schutand frome schell to schell,
Waistand your corps, lettand the tyme overslyde.
For, lyke ane boisteous bull, ye rin and ryde
Royatouslie, lyke ane rude rubeatour,
Ay fukkand lyke ane furious fornicatour.

8

On ladronis for to loip ye wyll nocht lat,
Howbeit the caribaldis cry the corinoch.
Remember how, besyde the masking fat,
Ye caist ane quene overthort 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.

9

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

10

Now, schir, fairweill, because I can nocht flyte.
And thocht I could, I wer nocht tyll avance
Aganis your ornate meter to indyte.
Bot yit be war with lawbouring of your lance:
Sum sayis thare cummis ane bukler furth of France
Quhilk wyll indure your dintis, thocht thay be dour.
Fairweill, of flowand rethorik the flour.

Quod Lindesay in his flyting
Aganis the kingis dyting.