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Poem by William Dunbar
A Meditation in Winter
Into thir dirk and drublie dayis Quhone sabill all the hevin arrayis With mystie vapouris, cluddis, and skyis, Nature all curage me denyis Of sangis, ballattis, and of playis. Quhone that the nycht dois lenthin houris With wind, with haill, and havy schouris, My dule spreit dois lurk for schoir; My hairt for langour dois forloir For laik of Symmer with his flouris. I walk, I turne, sleip may I nocht, I vexit am with havie thocht. This warld all ovir I cast about, And ay the mair I am in dout, The mair that I remeid have socht. I am assayit on everie syde. Despair sayis ay, "In tyme provyde And get sumthing quhairon to leif, Or with grit trouble and mischeif Thow sall into this court abyd." Than Patience sayis, "Be not agast; Hald Hoip and Treuthe within thee fast, And lat Fortoun wirk furthe hir rage, Quhome that no rasoun may assuage Quhill that hir glas be run and past." And Prudence in my eir sayis ay, "Quhy wald thow hald that will away? Or craif that thow may have no space, Thow tending to aneuther place, A journay going everie day?" And than sayis Age, "My freind, **** neir, And be not strange, I thee requeir: ****, brodir, by the hand me tak. Remember thow hes compt to mak Of all thi tyme thow spendit heir." Syne Deid castis upe his gettis wyd Saying, "Thir oppin sall thee abyd; Albeid that thow wer never sa stout, Undir this lyntall sall thow lowt - Thair is nane uther way besyde." For feir of this all day I drowp. No gold in kist nor wyne in cowp, No ladeis bewtie nor luiffis blys May lat me to remember this, How glaid that ever I dyne or sowp. Yit quhone the nycht begynnis to schort, It dois my spreit sum pairt confort Of thocht oppressit with the schowris. ****, lustie Symmer, with thi flowris, That I may leif in sum disport.
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