To His Maistres
Bright amorous ee vhare Love in ambush [lyes]—
Cleir cristall tear distilde at our depairt1518
Sueet secreit sigh more peircing nor a dairt—
Inchanting voce, beuitcher of the wyse—
Quhyt ivory hand vhilk thrust my finger[s pryse]—
I challenge you, the causers of my smarte,
As homiceids and murtherers of my harte,
In Resone’s court to suffer ane assyse.
Bot oh! I fear, yea rather wot I weill,
To be repledgt ye plainly will appeill
To Love, whom Resone never culd comm[and].
Bot, since I can not better myn estate,
Yit, vhill I live, at leist I sall regrate
Ane ee, a teir, a sigh, a voce, a hand.