by Virgil
Forto recontyr Turnus in the press,
And hys big speir apon hym schakis he,
Quhilk semyt rude and squar as ony tre,
And with a bald and bustuus breist thus spak:
“Quhat menys this langsum delay he mak?
Quhy tary e for schame, Turnus, all day?
Quharto withdrawis thou the so away?
We pyngill not for speid na curss to ryn,
Bot we debait suld, this barress within,
With wapynnys keyn and with our burnyst brandis,
Togiddir met dereyn it with our handis.
Do change thy self, or turn at thy awyn eyss
In all maner of figuris as the pleiss;
Gaddir togiddir and assembill now, lat se,
All that thou hass of strenth or subtelte;
Wyss now to fle vp to the starnys on hycht
With fedderit weyngis forto tak thy flycht,
Or forto cloyss thy self this ilk thraw
Into sum cavern vnder the erd law.”
Turnus, schakand hys hed, said: “Thou fers fo,
Thy fervent wordis compt I not a stro,
Thy sawis makis me not agast, perfay:
It is the goddis that doith me affray,
And Iupiter becummyn myne ennemy.”
Ne mor he said, bot blent about inhy,
And dyd aspy quhar that a gret roke lay,
Ane ald crag stane huge gret and gray,
Quhilk on the plane, percace, was liggand neir,
A marche set in that grund mony eir
Of twa feildis, forto decern tharby
The ald debait of pley or contrauersy;
Scarsly twyss sax stowt walit men and wight,
Quhilk now the erd producis, hess sik mycht
To charge it on thar schuldris or to beir;
Quham full lychtly Turnus, that nobill heir,
Hynt in hys hand, and swakkit at his fo,
And raxit hym on hicht thar vndir alsso,
And tharwith chargit a full swyft curss ran.
Bot sa confundit is this douchty man
That he ne knew hym selvyn in that sted,
Nowder quhar that he ran, nor quhar he ed,
Nor felt hym self liftand on the land
The mekill stane, nor steir it with his hand.
Hys kneis stummerit and hys lymmys slydis,
The blude congelit for feir within his sydis,
So at the stane he at his foman threw
Fayntly throwowt the voyd and waist air flew,
Ne went it all the space, as he dyd mynt,
Nor, as he etlyt, perfornyst not the dynt.
Lyk as, sum tyme, in our swevyn we tak keip,
Quhen langsum dravillyng or the onsond sleip
Our eyn oursettis in the nyghtis rest,
Than semys ws full bissy and full prest
That we ws streke, and doith adress inhy
Lang renkis forto mak and ryn swiftly;
Bot all for nocht, for at the first assay,
Or in the myddis of the start, by the way,
All fante we faill, as forfeblit war we;
The tung avalis not, it will not be;
Ne it the strenthis in our body knaw
Semys sufficient to ws at that thraw;
For, set we press ws fast to spek owt braid,
Ne voce nor wordis followys, nocht is said —
Siklyke wyss hess this goddess myschewss
Ombeset all the ways of Turnus.
Quhat evir to do by hys strenth etlyt he,
Scho maid obstakill; all that ganestandis sche.
Than in hys mynd becom his wittis strange
And begouth forto vary and to change;
And oft he dyd behald Rutilianys,
And oft the cite with all that ryall wanys.
He hovirris all abasyt for dreid and feir,
And gan do quaik, seand at hand the speir;
Ne can he fynd quhiddir away to wend,
Nor on quhat wyss hym self he may defend,
Nor with quhat strenth assaill hys aduersar,
Nor be na ways persaue hys cart or char,
Nor se hys sistir, that had hys cartar be.
And as he stud on hovyr thus, Ene
The fatale dedly speir in hand gan tayss,
And with hys eyn markit and walit hass
Ane place be fortoun to smyte oportune,
And with the hail fors of hys body soyn
Furth from hys hand weil far the lance gan thraw.
Neuer sa swyftly quhidderand the stane flaw
Swakkit from the engyne onto the wall,
Nor fulderis dynt, that causis towris fall,
With sik a rummyll com bratland on sa fast.
Lyke the blak thud of awfull thundris blast
Furth flaw the schaft to smyte the dedly straik,
And with it brocht cruell myschewos wraik;
Quhilk throu the hawbrik skyrtis persyt hass,
And the extreme bordour gan arrass
Of hys strang scheild, cowchit of sevyn ply,
And quhirrand smait hym throw the thee in hy,
That with the dynt huge Turnus, full onsound,
With faldyn howchis duschit to the grund.
Vpstart Rutilianys sammyn complenyng
With a elloch and cairfull womentyng,
Quhill all the hillys rumysit thame abowt,
And far on breid thyk woddis gaue a schowt.
And Turnus, than, quhar he at erth dyd ly,
Addressis furth full humyll and lawly
Towart Ene hys syght and eyn tway,
And strekis eik hys rycht hand hym to pray,
And thus he said: “Forsuyth I haue deserve
The deth, I knaw, and of thy hand to sterve,
Ne wil I not beseik the me to spair.
Oyss furth thy chance: quhat nedis process mar?
Bot gif that ony cuyr or thocht,” quod he,
“Of ony wofull parent may twich the,
Haue rewth and mercy of Kyng Dawnus the ald
(Thou had forsuyth, as I haue hard betald,
Anchises, sik a fader as is he),
And me, or than, gif bettir lykis the,
My body, spuleit and the life byreft,
Onto my folkis thou may rendir eft.
Thou hess me venquyst, I grant, and me ourcum.
Italian pepill present all and sum
Hess sene streke furth my handis humylly.
Lavinia is thy spowss, I not deny:
Extend na forthir thy wraith and matalent.”
Eneas stern in armys tho present
Rolland hys eyn toward Turnus dyd stand,
And lyst nocht stryke, bot can withdraw hys hand,
And mor and mor thir wordis, by and by,
Begouth inclyne hym to reuth and mercy,
Abydand lang in hovir quhat he suld do,
Quhen, at the last, on Turnus schuldir, lo,
The fey gyrdill hie set dyd appeir,
With stuthis knaw and pendes schynand cleir,
The belt or tysche of the child Pallas,
Quhilk by this Turnus laitly venquyst was,
As we haue said, and with a grews wond
Slane in the feld, bet doun, and brocht to grund,
And Turnus, in remembrans of this thing,
Abowt his schuldris bair this onfrendly syng.
Bot eftir that Eneas with hys eyn
Sa cruell takynnys of dyseyss hess seyn,
And can sik weid byreft thar aspy,
All full of furour kyndlys he inhy,
Full brym of ire and terribill thus can say:
“Sall thou eschape me of this sted away,
Cled with the spule of my frendis deir?
Pallas, Pallas, with this wond rycht heir
Of the ane offerand to the goddys makkis,
And of thy wikkit blude punytioun takkis.”
And sayand thus, full ferss, with all hys mayn,
Law in hys breist or cost, l
ay hym forgayn,
Hys swerd hess hyd full hait; and tharwithall
The cald of deth dissoluyt hys membris all.
The spreit of lyfe fled murnand with a grone,
And with disdeyn vnder dyrk erth is goyn. etc.
Explicit liber duodecimus Virgilii in Eneados
BUKE XIII
Heir begynnys the Proloug of the Threttene and last Buk of Eneados ekit to Virgill be Mapheus Vegius
Towart the evyn, amyd the symmyris heit,
Quhen in the Crab Appollo held hys sete,
Duryng the ioyus moneth tyme of June,
As gone neir was the day and supper doyn,
I walkyt furth abowt the feildis tyte,
Quhilkis tho replenyst stud full of delyte,
With herbys, cornys, catal, and frute treis,
Plente of stoir, byrdis and byssy beys,
In amerant medis fleand est and west,
Eftir laubour to tak the nychtis rest.
And as I lukit on the lift me by,
All byrnand red gan walxin the evyn sky:
The son enfyrit haill, as to my sight,
Quhirlit about hys ball with bemys brycht,
Declynand fast towart the north in deid,
And fyry Phegon, his dun nychtis steid,
Dowkit hys hed sa deip in fludis gray
That Phebus rollis doun vndir hell away;
And Esperus in the west with bemys brycht
Vpspryngis, as forrydar of the nycht.
Amyd the hawchis, and euery lusty vaill,
The recent dew begynnys doun to scaill,
To meyss the byrnyng quhar the son had schyne,
Quhilk tho was to the neddir warld declyne:
At euery pilis poynt and cornys croppis
The techrys stude, as lemand beryall droppis,
And on the hailsum herbis, cleyn but wedis,
Lyke cristal knoppis or smal siluer bedis.
The lyght begouth to quynchyng owt and faill,
The day to dyrkyn, declyne and devaill;
The gummys rysis, doun fallis the donk rym,
Baith heir and thar scuggis and schaddois dym.
Vpgois the bak with hir pelit ledderyn flycht,
The lark discendis from the skyis hycht,
Syngand hir complyng sang, efter hir gyss,
To tak hir rest, at matyn hour to ryss.
Owt our the swyre swymmys the soppis of myst,
The nycht furthspred hir cloke with sabill lyst,
That all the bewte of the fructuus feld
Was with the erthis vmbrage cleyn ourheld;
Baith man and beste, fyrth, flude and woddis wild
Involuyt in tha schaddois warryn syld.
Still war the fowlis fleis in the air,
All stoir and catall seysit in thar lair,
And euery thing, quharso thame lykis best,
Bownys to tak the hailsum nychtis rest
Eftir the days laubour and the heyt.
Closs warryn all and at thar soft quyet,
But sterage or removing, he or sche,
Owder best, byrd, fysch, fowle, by land or sey.
And schortlie, euery thing that doith repar
In firth or feild, flude, forest, erth or ayr,
Or in the scroggis, or the buskis ronk,
Lakis, marrasis, or thir pulys donk,
Astabillit lyggis still to slepe, and restis;
Be the smaill byrdis syttand on thar nestis,
The litill mygeis, and the vrusum fleys,
Laboryus emmotis, and the bissy beys;
Als weill the wild as the taym bestiall,
And euery othir thingis gret and small,
Owtak the mery nychtgaill, Philomeyn,
That on the thorn sat syngand fra the spleyn;
Quhais myrthfull notis langyng fortil heir,
Ontill a garth vndir a greyn lawrer
I walk onon, and in a sege down sat,
Now musyng apon this and now on that.
I se the poill, and eik the Vrsis brycht,
And hornyt Lucyn castand bot dym lycht,
Becauss the symmyr skyis schayn sa cleir;
Goldyn Venus, the mastres of the eir,
And gentill Iove, with hir participate,
Thar bewtuus bemys sched in blyth estait:
That schortly, thar as I was lenyt doun,
For nychtis silens, and this byrdis sovn,
On sleip I slaid, quhar sone I saw appeir
Ane agit man, and said: “Quhat dois thou heir
Vndyr my tre, and willyst me na gude?”
Me thocht I lurkit vp vnder my hude
To spy this ald, that was als stern of spech
As he had beyn ane medicyner or lech;
And weill persavit that hys weid was strange,
Tharto so ald, that it had not beyn change,
Be my consait, fully that fourty eir,
For it was threidbair into placis seir;
Syde was this habyt, round, and closyng meit,
That strekit to the grund doun our his feit;
And on his hed of lawrer tre a crown,
Lyke to sum poet of the ald fasson.
Me thocht I said to hym with reuerens:
“Fader, gif I haue done ou ony offens,
I sall amend, gif it lyis in my mycht:
Bot suythfastly, gyf I haue perfyte sycht,
Onto my doym, I, saw ou nevir ayr,
Fayn wald wyt quhen, on quhat wyss, or quhar,
Aganyst ou trespassit ocht haue I.”
“Weill,” quod the tother, “wald thou mercy cry
And mak amendis, I sal remyt this falt;
Bot, other ways, that sete salbe full salt.
Knawis thou not Mapheus Vegius, the poet,
That onto Virgillis lusty bukis sweit
The thretteyn buke ekit Eneadan?
I am the sammyn, and of the na thyng fayn,
That hess the tother twelf into thy tong
Translait of new, thai may be red and song
Our Albyon ile into our wlgar leid;
Bot to my buke it lyst the tak na heid.”
“Mastir,” I said, “I heir weill quhat he say,
And in this cace of perdon I ou pray,
Not that I haue ou ony thing offendit,
Bot rathir that I haue my tyme mysspendit,
So lang on Virgillis volume forto stair,
And laid on syde full mony grave mater,
That, wald I now write in that trety mor,
Quhat suld folk deym bot all my tyme forlor?
Als, syndry haldis, fader, trastis me,
our buke ekit but ony necessite,
As to the text accordyng neuer a deill,
Mair than langis to the cart the fift quheill.
Thus, sen he beyn a Cristyn man, at large
Lay na sik thing, I pray ou, to my charge;
It may suffyss Virgill is at ane end.
I wait the story of Iherom is to ou kend,
Quhou he was dung and beft intill hys sleip,
For he to gentilis bukis gaif sik keip.
Full scharp repreif to sum is write, e wist,
In this sentens of the haly Psalmyst:
‘Thai ar corruppit and maid abhominabill
In thar studeyng thyngis onprofitabill’:
Thus sair me dredis I sal thoill a heit,
For the grave study I haue so long forleit.”
“a, smy,” quod he, “wald thou eschape me swa?
In faith we sall nocht thus part or we ga!
Quhou think we he essoneis hym to astart,
As all for consciens and devoit hart,
Feneand hym Iherom forto contyrfeit,
Quhar as he lyggis bedovyn, lo, in sweit!
I lat the wyt I am nane hethyn wight,
And gif thou hass afortyme gayn onrycht,
Followand sa lang Virgill, a gentile clerk,
Quhy schrynkis thou with my schort Cristyn wark?
For t
hocht it be bot poetry we say,
My buke and Virgillis morall beyn, bath tway:
Len me a fourteyn nycht, how evir it be,
Or, be the faderis sawle me gat,” quod he,
“Thou salt dier by that evir thou Virgill knew.”
And, with that word, doun of the sete me drew,
Syne to me with hys club he maid a braid,
And twenty rowtis apon my riggyng laid,
Quhill, “Deo, Deo, mercy,” dyd I cry,
And, be my rycht hand strekit vp inhy,
Hecht to translait his buke, in honour of God
And hys Apostolis twelf, in the numbir od.
He, glaid tharof, me by the hand vptuke,
Syne went away, and I for feir awoik
And blent abowt to the north est weill far,
Saw gentill Iubar schynand, the day star,
And Chiron, clepit the syng of Sagittary,
That walkis the symmyrris nycht, to bed gan cary.
ondyr dovn dwynys the evyn sky away,
And vpspryngis the brycht dawyng of day
Intill ane other place nocht far in sundir
That tobehald was plesans, and half wondir.
Furth quynchyng gan the starris, on be on,
That now is left bot Lucifer allon.
And forthirmor to blason this new day,
Quha mycht discryve the byrdis blisfull bay?
Belyve on weyng the bissy lark vpsprang,
To salus the blyth morrow with hir sang;
Sone our the feildis schynys the lycht cleir,
Welcum to pilgrym baith and lauborer;
Tyte on hys hynys gaif the greif a cry,
“Awaik on fut, go till our husbandry.”
And the hyrd callis furth apon hys page,
“Do dryve the catall to thar pasturage.”
The hynys wife clepis vp Katheryn and Gill;
“a, dame,” said thai, “God wait, with a gude will.”
The dewy greyn, pulderit with daseis gay,
Schew on the sward a cullour dapill gray;
The mysty vapouris spryngand vp full sweit,
Maist confortabill to glaid all manis spreit;
Tharto, thir byrdis syngis in the schawys,
As menstralis playng “The ioly day now dawys.”
Than thocht I thus: I will my cunnand kepe,
I will not be a daw, I will not slepe,
I wil compleit my promyss schortly, thus
Maid to the poet master Mapheus,
And mak vpwark heirof, and cloyss our buke,
That I may syne bot on grave materis luke:
For, thocht hys stile be nocht to Virgill lyke,
Full weill I wayt my text sall mony like,
Sen eftir ane my tung is and my pen,
Quhilk may suffyss as for our wlgar men.
Quha evir in Latyn hess the bruyt or glor,
I speke na wers than I haue doyn befor:
Lat clerkis ken the poetis different,
