by Virgil
So gan the salt iawpis ythandly smyte
The holl rolkis, maid a sownd ful hayss.
Quhen Prince Ene persauyt, by his rayss,
Quhou that the schip dyd rok and taileve
For lak of a gude sterisman on the see,
Him self hess than sone hynt the rudyr in hand
And throu the fludis steris the schip to land,
Bewaland gretly in his mynde pensyfe,
For that his frend was fal and lost the lyfe.
“Allace! our mekil thou lippynnyt hess,” quod he,
“Into the stabillit hevin and calmyt see:
Bair and onerdit, in ane onkouth land,
Palynurus, sal thou ly on the sand.”
Thus wepand said, and leyt his flote go large,
Quhill at the last, baith ballyngar and barge
Apon the cost that hait Ewboica
Arryvit neir the cite of Cuma.
Than to the streme thai turnyt thar forschip,
Kest down thar bewchit ankyrris, ferm of grip,
Into the raid, endlang the costis bay
Thar eft castellis gan mustyr in array.
And al the ongkeris spedis hastely
Onto the schore of Hisperia fast by.
Sum smytis fyre furth of the hard flynt stane;
Sum spedely to the thik wod ar gane,
In dern dennys, quharin wild bestis dwellis;
And sum dyd schaw the new fund springand wellis;
To beit thar mystir al bissy for the nanys,
Sum to this turn, sum to that, start atanys.
Heyr endis the fyft buke of Virgil in Eneados and begynnys sum preambleis in the sext buke tharof and first twiching the opinionys that the poetis and ald philosophouris had of hell and placis tharof
BUKE VI
The Proloug of the Saxt Buke
Pluto, thou patron of the deip Achiron,
Fader of tormentis in thyne infernal see,
Amyd the fludis, Stix and Flagiton,
Lethie, Cochite, the watyris of oblivie,
With dolorus quhirling of furyus sistyris thre,
Thyne now salbe my muse and drery sang:
To follow Virgil in this dyrk poyse
Convoy me, Sibil, that I ga nocht wrang.
Quhat wenys fulys this saxt buke be bot iapis,
Al ful of leys or ald ydolatryis?
O hald our pace, e verray goddis apis!
Reid, reid agane, this volume, mair than twyss:
Considir quhat hyd sentence tharin lyis;
Be war to lak, less than e knew weil quhat;
And gif ou list not wirk eftir the wiss,
Heich on our hede set vp the foly hat.
“All is bot gaistis and elrich fantasyis,
Of browneis and of bogillis ful this buke:
Owt on thir wandrand speritis, wow!” thou cryis;
“It semys a man war mangit, tharon list luke,
Lyke dremys or dotage in the monys cruke,
Vayn superstitionys aganyst our richt beleve;
Quhat of thir fureis, or Pluto that plukkit duke,
Or cal on Sibil, deir of a revyn sleif?”
Wald thou I suld this buke to the declare,
Quhilk war impossibil til expreme at schort?
Virgil is ful of sentence our all quhare,
Bot heirintil, as Seruius gan proport,
Hys hie knawlage he schawis, that euery sort
Of his clausys comprehend sik sentence,
Thar bene tharof, set thou think this bot sport,
Maid gret ragmentis of hie intelligence.
In all his warkis Virgil doith discrive
The stait of man, gif thou list vnderstand,
Baith lif and ded in thir fyrst bukis fyve;
And now, intil this saxt, we haue on hand,
Eftir thar deth, in quhat plyte saulis sal stand.
He writis lyke a philosophour naturall;
Twichand our faith mony clausis he fand
Quhilk beyn conform, or than collaterall.
Schawis he nocht heir the synnys capital?
Schawis he nocht wikkit folk in endless pane,
And purgatory for synnys venyall,
And vertuus pepil into the plesand plane?
Ar al sik sawis fantasy and invane?
He schawis the way, evir patent, down to hell,
And rycht difficil the gait to hevin agane,
With ma gude wordis than thou or I kan tell.
Heir tretand vertu, taxis he pane for vyce,
Feil woful turmentis of wrachit catyvis sary,
Notabil histories, and diuerss proverbis wyce,
Quhilkis to reherss war our prolixt a tary;
Al thocht he, as a gentile, sum tyme vary,
Ful perfitely he writis seir misteris fell,
As quhou thir heithin childir thar werdis wary,
Wepand and waland at the first port of hell.
And, thocht our faith neid nane authorising
Of gentiles bukis, nor by sik heithin sparkis,
it Virgil writis mony iust clauss conding,
Strenthing our beleve, to confound payan warkis.
Quhou oft rehersis Austyne, cheif of clarkis,
In his gret volume of the Cite of God,
Hundreth versis of Virgil, quhilk he markis
Agane Romanys, til vertu thame to brod!
And of this saxt buke walis he mony a scor,
Not but gude resson, for, thocht Criste grund our faith,
Virgil sawis ar worth to put in stor.
Thay aucht not be hald vagabund nor waith —
Ful riche tresour thai bene and precius graith:
For oft by Sibilys sawis he tonys his stevyn;
Thus faithfully in his Bucolykis he saith,
The maide cummyth bringis new lynnage fra hevyn.
As twiching hym writis Ascencyus,
Feil of his wordis bene like the appostilis sawis;
He is ane hie theolog sentencyus,
And maste profound philosophour he him schawis,
Thocht sum his writis frawart our faith part drawis.
Na wondir! he was na Cristyn man, per De,
He was a gentile, and levit on payane lawis,
And it he puttis a God Fader maste hie.
We trow a God, regnand in personys thre,
And it angellis hevinly spiretis we call;
And of the hevinly wightis oft carpis he,
Thocht he belevit thai war not angellis all.
Quhil Cristis passioun, of Adam from the fall,
All went to hell, thocht all war nocht in pane:
Or Criste he wrait this buke, quhar reid e sall
Distinit in hell specialy placis twane,
And principaly the sted of fell tormentis,
With seyr departingis in that laithly hald,
Ane other place quhilk purgator representis,
And, dar I say, the Lymbe of faderis ald,
With Lymbus puerorum, as I haue tald —
Schawis he not eik, by werkis meritory,
Quhou iust pepil, in welthis monyfald,
Raiosys, syngand sangis of hevynly glory?
And, as he twichis greys seyr in payn,
In blys, elike wyss, syndry stagis puttis he.
Quhat sal I of his wondir warkis sayn?
For al the plesance of the Camp Elyse,
Octauian, in his Georgikis, e may se;
He consalis nevir lordschip in hell desyre,
Bot evir in hevin, intil sum his degre,
To cheyss his place, and not amang the fyre.
Quhat Cristyn clerk kouth hym haue consalit bettir?
Al thocht he was neuer Catholyk wight,
He hess writtin ful mony attentik lettir.
In that ilk buke he techis ws ful richt,
The warld begouth in veyr, baith day and nycht;
In veir he says that God als formyt man,
The son, the mone and all the starnys bright:
We grant in veir that first the warld began.
“Happy war he knew the causs of all thingis,
And settis on syde all dreid and cuyr,” quod he,
“Vndir his feyt at treddis, and down thryngis,
Chancis ontretabill of fatis and destane,
All feir of ded, and eik of hellis see.”
Happy he callys sik wightis, and sa do I.
Quhar may we swa optene felicite?
Neuer bot in hevin empire abone the sky.
Tyll write ou all hys tryit and notabil verss
Almaist impossibil war, and half invane,
For me behuffyt repeting and reherss
In seir placis the sammyn wordis agane.
This may suffice, I wil no mor sane:
Ane movar, ane begynnar puttis he,
Sustenys all thing, and doyth in all remane,
And, be our faith, the sammyn thing grant we.
I say nocht all hys warkis beyn perfyte,
Nor that sawlys turnys in othir bodeys agane,
Thocht we traste, and may preif be haly write,
Our sawle and body sal anys togiddir remane.
At thar bene mony goddis I wil not sane,
Thocht haly scriptur iust men “goddis” clepe.
Quhom cal I Pluto and Sibilla Cumane,
Hark; for I wil na fals goddis wirschepe.
Sibilla, til interpret propirly,
Is clepit a maid of goddis secret preve,
That hes the spiret divyne of prophecy.
Quha bettir may Sibilla namyt be
Than may the gloryus moder and madyn fre,
Quhilk of hir natur consavit Criste, and buyr
All haill the mysteris of the Trinite,
And maist excellent wark had vnder cure?
Thow art our Sibill, Crystis moder deir,
Prechit by prophetis and Sibilla Cumane;
Thou brocht the hevynly lynage in erd heir,
Moder of God, ay virgyne doith remane,
Restoring wss the goldin warld agane.
Sathan the clepe I, Pluto infernall,
Prynce in that dolorus den of wo and pane,
Nocht god tharof, bot gretast wrech of all.
To name the God, that war a manifest le;
Is bot a God, makar of euery thing —
I favour nocht the errour of Manache.
Set thou to Wlcane haue ful gret resembling,
And art sum tyme the minister of thundring,
Or sum blynd Ciclopes of thy laithly wra,
Thou art bot Iovys smytht, in the fyre blawing,
And dyrk fornace of perpetuall Ethna.
Thou wrocht na thyng, bot maid thi self a devill,
And that was not to mak, bot rather faile,
For Austyne says syn, myscheif or evill
Is nocht at all. For quhy? Thai nocht availe.
The dym dongeoun of Ditis till assaile,
Or in the lyknes this mysty poetry,
Help me, Mare; for certis, vail que vaile,
War at Pluto, I sal hym hunt of sty.
Heir endis the proloug and begynnys the saxt buke of Eneados
Ene aspyis Dedalus wark express,
And with Sibilla spak, the prophetess.
Qwil on this wyss ilk man occupyit was,
Reuthful Eneas bownys him to pas
Onone to serss the strenth and tempil tho
Dedicat ontil the myghty Apollo,
That feirfull gowsty cave far from the way,
And secret hald of Sibilla the may,
Quhais hait memor and resson oft infyrit
Delyus, the prophet divyne, and so inspirit
That scho the secretis fortocum did knaw.
With this thai entrit in the hallowit schaw
Of the thrynfald passynger Dyane,
And howss of brycht Apollo gold bigane.
The fame is so, that Dedalus, the wright,
Furth of King Mynos realm takand his flycht,
Sa bald was with swift fedrame, and happy
To aventur hym self heich in the sky,
And by a quent onvsyt way to knaw,
Towart the frosty poil artik he flaw;
Bot, at the last, softly he gan alicht
Of Chalcydonys apon the castell hicht;
And rendrit fyrst into thir landis, he
Offerit and hallowit, Phebus, onto the,
The fard and flycht of baith hys weyngis two,
And thar grathit a fair tempil alsso.
Apon the portis dyd he carve and grave
Androgyus slauchtir, falsly brocht to grave,
And for hys deth the vengeance and the wrake;
Quhou of Athenes commandit war, alake,
Twyss sevyn childir onto Creyt be send,
Perpetualy ilk eir, a sair presand;
The dedly vrn stand porturat mycht thai knaw,
Owt of the quhilk the lottis warrin draw.
Forgane Athenes, a litil our the see,
The ile of Crete he wrocht, musterand ful hie
(The kingis cite thar hecht Gnosya),
Quharin he porturit als ful, wallowa!
The lufe abhominabill of Queyn Pasyphe,
Quhou pryvely with the bul forlane was sche;
The blandit kynd, and birth of formys twane,
The monstruus Mynotawr, doith thar remane,
Ane horribill takin of schrewit Venus wark.
Thar was alsso craftely schape and mark
That namekouth howss, quhilk Laborynthus hait,
Ful of wrynkkillit onreturnabil dissait.
Bot, netheless, Dedalus, cawcht piete
Of the gret luf of fayr Ariadne,
That was the kyngis douchtir, tawght ful rycht
Of this quent howss fortil omdo the slycht —
Quhou by a threid the subtell wentis ilkane
Thai myghtin hald, and turn that way agane.
And thou alsso, the ong child Icharus,
Quhilk son was onto this ilk Dedalus,
A gret part of this wark suld haue beyn thyne,
Gyf that the dolour and the huge pyne
Had sufferit hym to kyth his craft on the:
In gold to grave thi fall twyss etlyt he,
And twyss, for rewth, faileis the faderis handis.
Eneas tho, and al at with hym standis,
This sculptur al espyit had on breid,
Ne war Achates, quhilk befor him eid,
Be than returnyt was, and with him brocht
The religyus woman quham thai socht,
Baith consecrate to Dyane and Phebus,
Hait Deiphobe, the douchtir of Glawcus,
Quhilk to the king sone spak apon this wyss:
“This tyme,” quod scho, “to stair and to devyss,
Govand on figuris, is not necessary.
Mair neidfull now it war, but langar tary,
Sevin ong stottis, that ok bur nevir nane,
Brocht from the bow, in offerand brittin ilkane,
And alsmony twyntyrris, as is the gyss,
Chosyn and ganand for the sacrifyss.”
On this wyss till Eneas spak Sibill,
And Troianys tareis nocht forto fulfill
Hir commandment, that, but langar delay,
The sacryfyis and offerand done haue thai;
And syne the nun to the hie tempill thame brocht,
Quhilk in maner of ane gret cave was wrocht,
Of Cuma holkit in the hillis side.
Ane hundreth entreis had it, large and wyde,
Ane hundreth durris tharon stekit closs,
Out at the quhilkis ruschit alsmony a voce,
Gevand responss onto this Sibilla.
Tho to the dur threswald cummyn ar tha,
Quhen that this virgyn said: “To ask answeris
Now is the tyme; lo, lo, the god me steris!”
And as scho gan sik wordis say and cry,
Without the entre standand, suddanly
Nowdir vissage nor cullour, as thai wa
r air,
Remanys than, nor hir weil dressit hair,
Bot fast hir breist the breth dyd clap and bete;
Hir fers hart boldynnys vp ful grete,
Enragit of the sprete divyne alsso,
That of mair statur gan scho semyng tho;
Hir voce ne sovndis lyke a mortale wight;
For, with the goddis maieste and myght
Twichit and smyte, that drew hir mynde ful neir,
Hir hart pipis gan to flekkir and steir.
“Blyn nocht, blyn nocht, thou gret Troiane Ene,
Of thi bedis nor thi prayeris,” quod sche,
“For, bot thou do, thir gret durris, but dreid,
And grisly ettis, sal nevir warp on breid.”
And, with that word, scho cessit and no mor said.
The cald dreid gan tho Troianys invaid,
Thirland throu owt hard banys at euery part;
The king hym self than inkirly from his hart
Maid this oryson, and devotly said:
“O bright Phebus, that evir reuth has had
On Troys hard aduersite and wo,
Thow quhilk direkkit the Troiane dartis so
In Achillis body, schot by Parys hand;
This see, at goys about mony gret land,
Thou beand my gidar, entrit haue I,
And eyk the wilsum desert land Masylly,
Quhar the schald sandys strekis endlang the schor;
Now at the last, that fled ws evir mor,
The forther cost of Ital haue we kaucht,
Thocht, hiddertillis, hard fortoun hass omberaucht
The Troianys, and persewit onfrendfully.
Now all e goddis and goddessis, quham by
Vmquhile was thocht gret Ilion ful of ioy,
And the schynand gloryus town of Troy
Semyng resist and gaynstand our godhede,
Lesum it is to desist of our fede,
And now to spair the puyr pepil Troiane.
O thou maist haly prophetess souerane,
Quhat is to cum hess knawlage of all thingis,
Grant at Tewcranys may dwel in Ital ringis,
For I ne ask na land, nor realm algatis,
Bot quhilk is grantit to ws by our fatis —
Schaw and declar for our goddis errand,
That cachit bene our mony see and sand,
Quhar sal thar resting place be to remane,
So eftir that to Phebus and Diane
Of sownd marbill tempillis beld may I,
And festual days for Appollo gar cry.
To the alsso, within our realmys, salbe
Mony secrete closet and revestre,
Quharin thi warkis and fatale destaneis,
Thi secret sawis, and thi propheceis,
Endite of my kyn and genolegy,
I sal gar kepe and obserue reuerendly;
And, O thou blissit woman, onto the
