The Avthor To His Patrone Poem by Patrick Gordon

Your Lordshipe when I call to mynd,
And your great fauors, whiche I fynd,
I plaine, I sighe, my tears doun fall:
For this my strenth, my witt, my skill.
Not equaleizing my good will,
No not my lyfe, my self, my all.


My self, my seruice, both is due,
Both bonde by duety, vnto yow,
My wealthe to meane, for to present yow
A present then, I shame to mak it,
Nor with your honor stands, to tak it,
Thus nought is myne, that could content yow.


Oft thus I pause, I think, I muse,
And thous and vther things I chuse,
Wheirof their's no thing myne to geue.
Then geue I ouer my vane contentione,
And'st, yues in nought but apprehensione,
So rests your dettore while I leiue.


Zit to mak knowne that if I could
Faine would I do al that I should,
And oft alone on this I mus'de:
At last presents vnto my vew,
This Knight, beir, cold and pale of hew,
That seem'd no danger hade refus'de.


His armour rousted, rent, and torne
Clift was his sheeld, his sword was worne,
A stranger in this countrey strainge
Nor aduentures might heir be found,
The warr-lyk Knights heir, till the ground,
And rights their wrong, with lawes reuenge.


Altho this Knight was borne a Prince
Zit none wold do him reuerence,
Whiche I lamented muche, bevaild:
And of his sorowes took a pairt,
But lo his proud ambitious hairt,
Calamitye hade nere assaild.


This muche, his giddy braine surth bred
If he with armour once wer cled,
To searche aduenturs, hunt for fame:
Zit wovld he tary heir a whyle,
And pouse his fortune, throw this yle,
Perhaps to win a famous name.


I pitied much his poore estate,
His mightie mynd I could not hate,
No armour, no equippage fyne,
Hade I befaitting such a Knight,
Zit to my power, strenth, and might
I vsde my moyane, my ingyne.


When he was featted to my strength,
On Some he would depend at length,
Then come your honour to my mynd
Whoes many fauors, I haid founde,
Me Nature, lyfe, and duetie bounde,
My thankfulnes some way to find.


Him then to you I first present,
To serue, to please and to content
Beneth your wings let him be seine:
If he be not so rigged furthe
As apperteineth to his worthe,
Myne is the fault, whoes wealth was meine,


His name Penardo he me told,
A youth ambitious, hardy, bold,
His trauell, lyfe and deads hes beine,
A warre, betuixt ambitione strong,
And craftie loue, that lested long,
Which be the sequel shal be seine.