Patrick Gordon Poems

Your Lordshipe when I call to mynd,
And your great fauors, whiche I fynd,
I plaine, I sighe, my tears doun fall:
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The Argument.
Hells damnd fiends finds Scots renouned King
And by three theeues works him a niew dispight,
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The Argument.
Both Armeis Ioyne in long and doubtful fight
And threttie thousand in the ditches die
King Edwards deids encurage eurie knight
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Feir Madame. grac'd from hyest heau'ns aboue,
With wealth of Fortune, Nature, beautye Loue,
Lend not to frowning looks, thy gratious eye,
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Long haue I wishid my Muse, to sound thy prayse
The worthe, the fame, the due, to the belonge,
But she onlernd vn fit, for such a phrayse,
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Madame, if I should smouther vp thy praise
For most ingrate, thow iustlye might me blame
All eyes should sie, all tongues to heau'ne should raise
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