To The Right Noble Lady Ladye Margret Poem by Patrick Gordon

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,
Deny it to doe, say, think, so heighe a songe:
Since on thy worthe, both heaune, and earthe still gaize
She should but shame her self, and do the wronge
Better quod she be sobre silent, still,
And spair to speek, then speek, and speek but ill.


O but quod I, to speek her praise, her worthe,
Out of my faith, my trueth, my zeall my loue,
Faith, trueth, lone, zeall, and duetie, breaths it furthe
As shal my pure, cleir, simple meining proue:
Her nature myld, heighe place, and royall birthe,
Her witt, her worthe, her vertue, from aboue.
Has croun'd with garlants, of immortall glorye,
Then none can writt amisse, that writts her storye


Whill thus my barrene Muse, and I contend
Thy worth, wit, vertue, and thy geighe desairt,
Commands me write, and speek, and praise furthsend
To eurye countrey, province, place, and pairt,
But comeing to (what should I say) in end.
O then I stand, I pause, I think, in hairt
Words does my witt, wit does my words confuse
Nou this, now that, a thousand things I chuse,


So infinite, thy endles graces be
That what I sould, I would, Zit can not doe
Witt moketh witt, arte skorneth arte, in me
And wealth, deludeth wealth I know not how
When I should end, I but begine to sie,
A world of worlds rair worthines, in yow,
Then this I say, nor will I write no more,
None is, shall be, nor was lyk the before.