The Fyft Buik o Eneados
GLAD is the ground of the tender florist grene,
Birdis the bewis and thir schawis schene,
The wery hunter to fynd his happy pray,
The falconer the riche riveir our to flene,
The clerk reiosis his buikis our to seyne,
The luiffar to behald his lady gay,
Ʒoung folk thaim schurtis with gam, solace, and play ;
Quhat maist delytis or likis every wycht,
Therto steris thar curage day or nycht.
Knychtis delytis to assay sterand stedis,
Wantoun gallandis to traill in sumptuus wedis ;
Ladeis desyris to behald and be sene ;
Quha wald be thrifty courteouris sais few credis ;
Sum plesance takis in romanis that he redis.
And sum has lust to that was never sene :
How mony hedis als feil consatis bene ;
Tua appetitis vneith accordis with vther ;
This likis the, perchance, and nocht thi brodir.
Plesance and joy rycht halesum and perfyte is,
So that the wys therof in prouerb writis,
Ane blyth spreit makis greyn and flurist age.
Myn author eik in Bucolikis enditis,
The ʒoung infant first with lauchter delytis
To knaw his modir, quhen he is litil page ;
Quha lauchis nocht, quod he, in his barnage,
Genyus, the God, delitith nocht thair table,
Nor Juno thaim to keip in bed is able.
The hie wisdome and maist profound ingyne
Of myne author Virgil, poet divyne.
To comprehend, makis me almaist forvay,
So crafty wrocht his werk is, lyne be lyne.
Thairon aucht na man irk, complene, nor quhryne ;
For quhy ? he alteris his stile sa mony way ;
Now dreid, now strif, now luf, now wo, now play,
Langer in murning, now in melody.
To satisfy ilk wichtis fantasy ;
Lyke as he had of every thing a feill.
And the willis of every wycht did seill ;
And therto eik sa wislie writis he
Twiching the proffet of the commond weill,
His sawis bene full of sentence every deill.
Of morale doctryne, that men suld vicis fle ;
Bot gif he be nocht joyous lat ws se ;
For quha sa list seir glaidsum gemmis leir.
Full mony mery abaittmentis followis heir.
Now harkis sportis, mirthis, and mery playis.
Full gudlie pastance on mony syndry wayis,
Endite by Virgile, and heir by me translait,
Quhilk William Caxtoun knew neuir all his dayis ;
For, as I said tofoir, that man forvayis ;
His febill prois bene mank and mutilait ;
Bot my propyne coym fra the pres fuit halt,
Vnforlatit, not jawyn fra tun to tun,
In fresche sapour new fro the berrie run.
Bacchus of glaidnes, and funerall Proserpyne,
And Goddes of triumph clepit Victory,
Sall I ʒow call, as ʒour naim war divyne ?
Na, na, it suffisith of ʒow full small memory ;
I bid nothir of ʒour turmentis nor ʒour glory ;
Bot he quhilk may ws glaid perpetually,
To bring ws till his blis, on hym I cry.
Sen erdlie plesour endis oft with sorrow, we se.
As in this bulk nane examplis ʒe want,
Lord, our protectour, to all traistis in the.
But quham na thing is worthy nor pissant ;
To ws thi grace and als grete mercy grant,
So for to wend by temporall blythnes
That our eternail joy be nocht the les !
Finis Prologi Quinti Libri.