Alexander Montgomerie

Sonnet 55. On his Maistres. II

Hir brouis, tuo bouis of ebane ever bent ;
Hir amorous ees the awfull arrouis ar ;
The archer, Love, vho shoots so sharpe and far ;
My breist, the butt vhairat hir shots ar sent ;

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   
My lyf, the wageour, if I win the war ;
My patience pleids my proces at the bar ;
My bluid, the long expensis I haif spent ;

My secrete sighis, solisters for my sute ;
My trinkling teirs, the presents I propyne;
My constancie, hir councellours to enclyne :
Bot rigour ryvis the hairt out by the root.

Hope heghts me help, bot feir finds no refuge :
My pairties ar my javellour and my judge.