And from̅e I can the bricht face aſſpy,
It deuit me no langare fore to ly,
Nore that loue schuld ſleuth In to me finde,
THE POET BEWAILS HIS LOT.
I walk forth, bewailing my sad life.
[20] Bot walkine furth, bewalinge in my mynde
the dredful lyve endurit al to longe,
Sufferans in loue of ſorouful harmys ſtronge,
The ſcharpe dais and the hewy ȝerys,
[24] Quhill phebus thris haith paſſith al his ſperis,