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Poem by Alexander Montgomerie
Sonnet 47. To his Maistres Messane
Ha ! lytill dog, in happy pairt thou crap, If thou had skill thy happynes to spy, That secreit in my ladyis armis may ly, And sleip so sueitly in hir lovely lap. Bot I, alace ! in wrechednes me wrap, Becaus ouer weill my misery knou I, For that my jouth to leirne I did apply ; My ouer grit skill hes maid my oune mishap. Vhy haif I not, O God, als blunt a [braine] As he that daylie worbleth in the wyne, Or to mak faggots for his fuid is fane ? Lyk as I do I suld not die and duyn : My pregnant spreit, the hurter of my harte, Lyk as it does, suld not persave my smarte.
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