Classic Poem

Evin dead behold I breath!
My breath procures my pane
Els dolour eftir death
Suld slaik when I war slane:
Bot Destinies disdane
So span my fatall threid
But mercy to remane
A martyr quik and deid.
O fatall deidly feid,
O Rigour but remorse!
Since thair is no remeid
Come Patience perforce.

The faits—the thraward faitis
The wicked weirds hes wroght
My state of all estates
Unhappiest to be thoght.
Had I offendit oght
Or wroght aganst thair will
Bot mercy than they moght
Conclude my corps to kill;
Bot as they haif no skill
Of gude nor yit regard
The innocent with ill
Ressaves the lyk reward.

My hairt, but rest or rove
Reuth, reson, or respect
With fortun, Death and Love
Is keipit under check,
That nou thair is no nek
Nor draught to mak debate,
Bot let it brist or brek
For love must haif it mait.
Relief, alace, is lait,
When I am bund, to flie!
I stand in strange estate;
I dwyne and doe not die.

Yit tyme sall try my trueth
And panefull patient pairt
Tho' love suld rage but reuth
And death with deidly dairt
Suld sey to caus me smart
Nor fortuns fickill wheill—
All suld not change my hairt,
Whilk is als true as steill.
I am not lyk ane eill
To slippe nor yet to slyde.
Love, fortun, death fairweill
For I am bound to byd.