Ane thousand of his Princes had gart call,
Drinkand the wyne befoir thame at the Feist,
Intill his prydefull Pomp Imperiall:
Euin in the middis of this his mirrie hall
He saw ane sicht that sank him in sadnes,
Quhen he persauit the fingers on the wall,
Wryting his wrak for his vnvprichtnes.
Quhat sall I say? I neid not till insist,
To schaw how thay to God that dois Rebell,
In thair maist micht can not be haldin blist,