Complete Works of Virgil

by Virgil

  And prevyly we smyte the cabill in twane,

  Syne, kempand with aris in al our mane,

  Vpweltris watir of the salt sey flude.

  He persauyt the sownd, quhar that he stude,

  And towart the dyn movis hys payss onon,

  Bot quhen he felt at we sa far war gone,

  Sa that his handis wss areke ne mycht,

  Nor the deip sey Ionium, for al hys hycht,

  Ne mycht he waid equale ws to arest,

  A fellon bray and huge schowt vp he kest,

  Quharthrou the sey and al the fludis schuke;

  The land alhail of Itail trymlyt and qwoyk,

  And holl cavernys or furnys of Ethna rownd

  Rummyst and lowyt, fordynnyt with the sound.

  Bot than, furth of the woddis and hillys hie,

  Walkynnyt with the cry, a huge pepill we se

  Of Ciclopes cum hurland to the port,

  And fillyt all the cost sydis at schort.

  Tha elrych bredyr, with thar lukis thrawyn,

  Thocht not avalyt, thar standyng haue we knawyn —

  Ane horribil sort, with mony camscho beik

  And hedis semand to the hevyn areik,

  Syklyke as quhar that, with thar hie toppis,

  The byg akis strekyng in the ayr thar croppys,

  Or than thir cipressis berand heich thar bewys,

  Growand in the woddis or hie vp on hewis,

  In schawys ald, as men may se from far,

  Hallowyt to Dyane or it to Iupiter.

  The scharp dreid maid ws so to cach haist,

  Withdrawand fast, as thocht we had bene chaist,

  And for toset our sail quhiddir we best mycht,

  To follow the wynd, and hald na coursis rycht.

  Aganys the counsale of Helenus, our feris

  Perswadis to hald furth evyn the way that steris

  Mydwart betwix Charibdis and Scylla,

  A litil space fra ded by athir of twa,

  For, bot we hald that courss, for owtyn fail,

  Bakwartis, thai said, on Ciclopes mon we saill.

  Bot lo! onon a fair wynd, or we wist,

  Rayss of the north, blawing evyn as we lyst,

  From the strait bay of Pelorus the mont

  And sone we swepyt by, at the fyrst bront,

  The mouth of flude Pantagyas ful of stanys,

  The sownd Megarus, and Tapsum ile atanys.

  The namys of thir costis Achemenydes,

  The companeon of onhappy Vlixes,

  Raknys to ws, as we past ane by ane,

  For we return the sammyn went agane

  Quhar thar navy had waverit by thar rayss.

  Within the fyrth of Sycill, forgane the face

  Of the flude Plemyrion ful of wallis,

  Thar lyis ane iland, quhilk our elderis callis

  Orthigia, quhar that the fame is so

  That Alpheus, ane of the ryveris two

  Of the cite of Elys in Archaid,

  Vndir the sey gan thyddir flow and wayd

  Throu secrete cundytis, and now eik, as thai say,

  Arethusa, at thi mouth or ischay,

  It entris rynnyng in the Sycill see.

  The gret goddis of that place wirschip we

  At command of my fader, and fra thyne

  The fertill grond of Helory passyt syne,

  Quhilk flude watyrris al the feild about.

  Thar on the craggis our navy stude in dowt,

  For on blynd stanys and rolkis hyrslit we,

  Tumblit of Mont Pachynnus in the se;

  And far from thens the loch Cameryna,

  Quham the fatis forbyddis to do away,

  Apperis to ws, and of Geloy the feildis,

  Quhar that the gret cite Gela vpbeild is,

  Havand the surname fra the flude fast by;

  Syne heich Agragas far of we gan aspy,

  A hyl and cite with large wallys of forss

  Quhar vmquhile bred war the maist weirlyke horss;

  And the alsso, Selynys, I left behynd,

  For al thi palm treys, with the followand wynd.

  The dangerus schaldis and cost vppykyt we,

  With al hys blynd rolkis, of Lybibe.

  Thar the port of Drepianon and the rayd,

  Quham to remembir my hart may nevir be glaid,

  Ressauyt me, quhar that, allace! allace!

  I leyss my fader, al comfort and solace,

  And al supple of our travell and pane;

  Thar, thar, allaik! so feill dangeris bygane

  And tempestis of the sey. O fader most deir,

  Anchises, desolate quhy left thou me heir

  Wery and irkyt in a fremmyt land?

  O weilaway! for nocht wes all, I fand,

  That thou eschapit samony perrellis huge.

  Helenus the dyvyne, as we with hym gan luge,

  Quhen horribill thingis seir he dyd aduert,

  Schew not befor to me thir harmys smert,

  Nor it the fellon and akwart Celeno.

  This wess extreme laubour of pane and wo,

  Thys was the end of all hys lang vayage;

  And hyddir syne, warpyt with seys rage,

  Apon our costis, as I fra thens was dryve,

  Sum happy chance and God maid me arryve.”

  The prynce Eneas, on this wyss, alane

  The fatis of goddys and rasys mony ane

  Rehersyng schew, and syndry strange wentis,

  The queyn and all the Tyrryanys takand tentis.

  And at the last he cessyt and said no moir,

  Endyng his tayll as e haue hard befor.

  Heir endys the thryd buke And begynnys the proloug of the ferd

  BUKE IV

  The Preambill of the Ferd Buke

  Wyth bemys scheyn thou bricht Cytherea,

  Quhilk only schaddowist amang starris lyte,

  And thi blyndyt weyngit son Cupyd, e twa

  Fosteraris of byrnyng carnail, hait delyte,

  our ioly wo neidlyngis most I endyte,

  Begynnyng with a feneit faynt plesance,

  Continewit in lust, and endyt with pennance.

  In fragil flesch our fykkil seyd is saw,

  Rutyt in delyte, welth and fude delicate,

  Nurist with sleuth and mony onsemly saw;

  Quhar schame is lost, thar spredis our burgeonys hait;

  Oft to revolue ane onleful consait

  Rypys our peralus frutis and oncorn:

  Of wikkyt grayn quhou sal gude schaif beschorn?

  Quhat is our forss bot feblyng of the strenth?

  our curyus thochtis quhat but musardry?

  our fremmyt glaidnes lestis not ane howris lenth;

  our sport for schame e dar not specify;

  our frute is bot onfructuus fantasy;

  our sary ioys beyn bot ianglyng and iapys,

  And our trew seruandis sylly goddis apys.

  our sweit myrthis ar mixt with byttyrness;

  Quhat is our drery gemme? a myrry pane;

  our wark onthrift, our quyet is restles,

  our lust lykyng in langour to remane,

  Frendschip turment, our traist is bot a trane.

  O luf, quhiddir art thou ioy or fulychness,

  That makis folk sa glaid of thar distress?

  Salomonys wyt, Sampson thou rubbist hys forss,

  And Dauid thou byreft hys prophecy;

  Men says thou brydillyt Aristotyll as ane horss,

  And crelyt vp the flour of poetry.

  Quhat sal I of thi myghtis notyfy?

  Fair weil, quhar that thy lusty dart assalis,

  Wyt, strenth, ryches, na thyng bot grace avalis.

  Thou cheyn of luf, ha benedicite,

  Quhou hard strenys thi bandis euery wyght!

  The God abuf, from his hie maieste,

  With the ybond, law in a maid dyd lycht:

  Thou venquyst the strang gyant of gret mycht;

  Thou art mair forcy than the ded sa fell;

  Thou
plenyst paradyce and thou heryit hell.

  Thou makist febill wight and lawyst the hie;

  Thou knyttis frendschyp quhar thar beyn na parage;

  Thou Ionathas confederat with Davy,

  Thou dantyt Alexander for al his vassalage,

  Thou festnyt Iacob fourteyn heir in bondage,

  Thou techit Hercules go lern to spyn,

  Reke Dyomeir hys mayss and lyoun skyn.

  For luf Narsysus perysyt at the well,

  For luf thou stervyst most douchty Achill;

  Thesyus, for luf, hys fallow socht to hell;

  The snaw quhyte dow oft to the gray maik will.

  Allace! for luf how mony thame self dyd spill!

  Thy fury, luf, moderis taucht, for dispyte,

  Fyle handis in blude of thar ong chyldering lyte.

  O Lord, quhat writis myne author of thi forss

  In hys Georgikis, quhou thyne ondantyt myght

  Constrenys so sum tyme the stonyt horss

  That, by the sent of a meyr far of syght,

  He bradis brays onon, and takis the flyght;

  Na brydill may hym dant nor bustuus dynt,

  Nowthir bra, hie roch nor brayd fludis stynt.

  The bustuus bullys oft, for the ong ky,

  With horn to horn wyrkis othir mony a wound,

  So rumysyng with hydduus lowand cry

  The feildis all doith of thar rowstis resound:

  The meyk hartis, in bellyng, oft ar fond

  Mak ferss bargane, and rammys togyddir ryn;

  Baris twyte thar tuskis and fret otheris skyn.

  The reuthtfull smart and lamentabill cace

  Quhilk thar he writis of Leander yng,

  Quhou for thi luf, Hero, allace, allace!

  In fervent flambe of hait desyre byrnyng,

  By nychtis tyde, the hevynnys lowd thundering,

  And, all with storm trublyt, the seys flude

  Bettand on the rolkis and rowtand as it war wod;

  Set he hym not to swym our, wallaway!

  The fyrth betwix Sestos and Abydane

  (In Europe and in Asya citeis tway);

  Hys fader and moder mycht hym not call agane.

  O God, quhat harm! thar wes he drynt and slane,

  And quhen his lufe saw this myscheif, atanys

  Out our the wall scho lap, and brak hir banys.

  Lo, quhou Venus kan hir seruandis acquyte!

  Lo, quhou hir passionys onbridillis al thar wyt!

  Lo, quhou thai tyne thame self for schort delyte!

  Lo, from all grace quhou to myscheif thai flyte,

  Fra weil to sturt, fra payn to ded, and yt

  Thar beyn bot few exempil takis of othir,

  Bot wilfully fallys in the fyre, leif brothir.

  Be nevir our set, myne author techis so,

  With lust of wyne nor warkis veneryane;

  Thai febill the strenth; revelys secrete bath two,

  Stryfe and debait engendris and feil hess slane;

  Honeste, prowes, dreid, schame and luk ar gane

  Quhar thai habound; attempyr thame for thy.

  Childir to engendir oyss Venus, and not invane;

  Hant na surfat, drynk bot quhen thou art dry.

  Quhat, is this lufe, nyss luffaris, at e meyn,

  Or fals dissait fair ladeys to begile?

  Thame to defowle, and schent our self betweyn,

  Is al our lykyng, with mony suttel wyle.

  Is that trew lufe, gude faith and fame to fyle?

  Gyf luf be vertu, than is it lefull thing;

  Gif it be vyce, it is our ondoyng.

  Lust is na lufe, thocht ledis lyke it weill;

  This furyus flambe of sensualite

  Ar nane amouris bot fantasy e feill;

  Carnale plesance, but syght of honeste,

  Hatis hym self forsuyth, and luffis nocht the.

  Thare beyn twa luffis, perfyte and imperfyte,

  That ane leful, the tother fowle delyte.

  Lufe is a kyndly passioun, engendryt of heyt

  Kyndlyt in the hart, ourspredyng al the corss,

  And, as thou seys sum person waik in spreyt,

  Sum hait byrnyng as ane onbridillyt horss —

  Lyke as the pacient hes heyt of our gret forss,

  And in ong babbys warmness insufficient,

  And into agyt faileis, and is out quent,

  Rycht so in lufe thou may be excessyve,

  Inordinatly luffand ony creature;

  This luf alsso it may be defectyve,

  To luf thine awin and geif of otheris na cure.

  But quhar that lufe is rewlyt by messure,

  It may be lyknyt to ane hail manis estait,

  In temperat warmness, nowthir to cald nor hait.

  Than is thi lufe inordinat, say I,

  Quhen ony creatur mair than God thou luffis,

  Or it luffis ony to that fyne, quharby

  Thi self or thame thou frawartis God remufis:

  Fortil attempir thine amouris the behuffis.

  Lufe euery wyght for God, and to gude end,

  Thame be na wyss to harm, bot to amend.

  That is to knaw, lufe God for his gudness,

  With hart, hail mynde, trew servyce, day and nycht;

  Nixt luf thi self, eschewand wykkytnes;

  Luf syne thi nychtburris, and wyrk thame nane onrycht,

  Willyng at thou and thai may haue the sycht

  Of hevynnys blyss, and tyste thame not tharfra,

  For, and thou do, syk luf dowe nocht a stra.

  Faynt lufe, but grace, for all thi feneit layis,

  Thy wantoun willis ar verray vanyte;

  Grasless thou askis grace, and thus thou prayis:

  “Haue mercy, lady, haue reuth and sum piete!”

  And scho, reuthless, agane rewys on the:

  Heir is na paramouris fund, bot all haitrent,

  Quhar nowthir to weill nor resson tak thai tent.

  Callys thou that reutht, quhilk of thar self ne rakkis?

  Or is it grace to fall fra grace? nay, nay.

  Thou sekis mercy, and tharof myscheif makkis:

  Renown and honour quhy wald thou dryfe away?

  A brutale appetyte makis ong fulys forvay,

  Quhilk be resson lyst not thar heyt refreyn,

  Haldand opynyon deyr of a boryt beyn.

  Says nocht our sentens thus, skant worth a fass,

  “Quhat honeste or renoun is tobe dram?

  Or forto drowp lyke a fordullyt ass?

  Lat ws in ryot leif, in sport and gam;

  In Venus covrt, sen born tharto I am,

  My tyme weil sal I spend. Wenys thou not so?”

  Bot al our solace sal return in gram,

  Syk thewless lustis in byttir pane and wo.

  Thou auld hasard lichour, fy for schame,

  That slotteris furth euermar in sluggardry.

  Out on the, auld trat, agit wyfe, or dame,

  Eschamys na tyme in rovste of syn to ly!

  Thir Venus warkis in outhed ar foly,

  Bot into eild thai turn in fury rage;

  And quha schameless dowblis thar syn, ha fy!

  As doith thir vantouris owthir in outh or age?

  Quhat nedis avant ou of our wykkytnes,

  he that beyn forcy alane in villans deid?

  Quhy gloyr e in our awyn onthriftynes?

  Eschame he not reherss and blaw on breid

  our awyn diffame, havand of God na dreid

  Nor yt of hell, provokand otheris to syn,

  he that lyst of our palardry nevir blyn?

  Wald God he purchest bot our awyn myschans,

  And war na banareris forto perych mo!

  God grant sum tyme e turn ou to pennans,

  Refrenyng lustis inordinate, and cry ho!

  And thar affix our luf and myndis so,

  Quhar euer is verray ioy without offens,

  That all syk beistly fury he lat go hens.

  Of brokkaris and syk bawdry quho
u suld I write,

  Of quham the fylth stynkis in Godis neyss?

  With Venus henwyffis quhat wyss may I flyte,

  That strakis thir wenschis hedis thame to pless?

  “Douchtir, for thy lufe this man hes gret dyseyss,”

  Quod the bysmeyr with the slekyt speche,

  “Rew on hym, it is meryte hys pane to meyss”.

  Syk poyd makerellis for Lucifer beyn leche.

  Eschame, yng virgynys and fair damcyellis,

  Furth of wedlok forto disteyn our kellys;

  Traist nocht al talis that wanton woweris tellis,

  ow to deflour purposyng, and nocht ellys;

  Abhor syk pryce or prayer wirschip sellys.

  Quhar schame is lost quyte schent is womanhed;

  Quhat of bewte, quhar honeste lyis ded?

  Rew on our self, ladeys and madynnys yng,

  Grant na syk reuth for evir may causs ou rew:

  he fresch gallandis, in hait desyre byrnyng,

  Refreyn our curage syk paramouris to persew;

  Grund our amouris on charite al new;

  Found ow on resson — quhat nedis mair to preche?

  God grant ou grace in luf, as I ou tech.

  Fy on dissait and fals dissymulans,

  Contrar to kynd with feneit cheir smylyng,

  Vndyr the cloik of luffis obseruans,

  The vennom of the serpent reddy to styng!

  Bot al syk crymys in luffis causs I resyng

  To the confessioun of morale Ihonne Gower,

  For I mon follow the text of our mater.

  Thy dowbill wound, Dido, to specify,

  I meyn thyne amouris and thi funeral fait,

  Quha may endyte, but teris, with eyn dry?

  Augustyne confessis hym self wepit, God wait,

  Redyng thy lamentabill end mysfortunat.

  By the wil I repeyt this verss agane,

  “Temporal ioy endis wyth wo and pane”.

  Allace, thy dolorus cayss and hard myschance!

  From blys to wo, fra sorow to fury rage,

  Fra nobylnes, welth, prudens and temperance,

  In brutell appetite fall, and wild dotage;

  Danter of Affryk, queyn foundar of Cartage,

  Vmquhil in rychess and schynyng gloyr ryngyng,

  Throw fulych lust wrocht thine awyn ondoyng.

  Lo! with quhat thocht, quhat byttyrnes and pane,

  Lufe onsylly bredis in euery wight!

  Quhou schort quhile doith hys fals plesance remane,

  Hys restless blyss how sone takis the flicht!

  Hys kyndnes alteris in wraith within a nycht:

  Quhat is, bot turment, all hys langsum fayr,

  Begun with feir, and endyt in dispayr?

  Quhat sussy, cuyr and strange ymagynyng,

  Quhat ways onlefull, hys purposs to atteyn,

  Hess this fals lust at his first begynnyng,

  Quhou subtell wylis, and mony quyet meyn,