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C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

The Thistle and the Rose

By William Dunbar (1460?–1520?)

QUHEN Merche wes with variand windis past,

And Appryle had, with her silver schouris,

Tane leif at Nature with ane orient blast,

And lusty May, that muddir is of flouris,

Had maid the birdis to begyn thair houris

Amang the tendir odouris reid and quhyt,

Quhois armony to heir it wes delyt:

In bed at morrow, sleiping as I lay,

Me thocht Aurora with hir cristall ene

In at the window lukit by the day,

And halsit me, with visage paill and grene;

On quhois hand a lark sang fro the splene:—

Awalk, luvaris, out of you slomering;

Sé hou the lusty morrow dois up spring.

Me thocht fresche May befoir my bed up stude,

In weid depaynt of mony diverss hew,

Sobir, benyng, and full of mansuetude,

In brycht atteir of flouris forgit new,

Hevinly of color, quhyt, reid, broun and blew,

Balmit in dew, and gilt with Phebus bemys;

Quhyll all the house illumynit of her lemys.

Slugird, sche said, awalk annone for schame,

And in my honour sum thing thou go wryt;

The lark hes done the mirry day proclame,

To raise up luvaris with confort and delyt;

Yit nocht incressis thy curage to indyt,

Quhois hairt sum tyme hes glaid and blisfull bene,

Sangis to mak undir the levis grene.

Than callit sche all flouris that grew on feild,

Discirnyng all thair fassionis and effeiris,

Upone the awfull Thrissil sche beheld,

And saw him kepit with a busche of speiris;

Considering him so able for the weiris,

A radius croun of rubeis sche him gaif,

And said, In feild go furth and fend the laif:

And sen thou art a King, thou be discreit;

Herb without vertew thow hald nocht of sic pryce

As herb of vertew and of odour sueit;

And lat no nettill vyle, and full of vyce,

Hir fallow to the gudly flour-de-lyce;

Nor latt no wyld weid, full of churlicheness,

Compair hir till the lilleis nobilness.

Nor hald non udir flour in sic denty

As the fresche Rois, of cullour reid and quhyt:

For gife thow dois, hurt is thyne honesty;

Considring that no flour is so perfyt,

So full of vertew, plesans, and delyt,

So full of blisful angeilik bewty,

Imperiall birth, honour and dignité.