O Mistress Mine

O maistres myn, till you I me commend;
All haill, my hairt sen that ye haif in cure;
For, but your grace, my lyfe is neir the end;
Now lat me nocht in danger me endure;
Off lyiflyk lufe suppois I be sure,
Quhay wat na god may me sum succur send?
Than for your lufe quhy wald ye I forfure?
O maistres myn till you I me commend.

The wynttir nycht ane hour I may nocht sleip
For thocht of you bot tumland to and fro.
Me think ye ar in to my armys, sweit,
And quhen I walkyn, ye ar so far me fro.
Allace, allace, than walkynnis my wo;
Than wary I the tyme that I you kend;
War nocht gud hoip, my hairt wald birst in two.
O maistres myn, till you I me commend.

Sen ye ar ane that hes my hairt al haill,
Without fenyeing I may it nocht genstand;
Ye ar the bontie blis of all my baill;
Bayth lyfe and deth standis in to your hand.
Sen that I am sair bunding in your band,
That nycht or day I wait nocht quhair to wend,
Let me anis say that I your freindschip fand.
O maistres myn, till you I me commend.
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.