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Poem by Alexander Montgomerie
Sonnet 52. Love Lent Me Wings
Love lent me wings of hope and high desyre, Syn bad me flie, and feir not for ane fall. Jit tedious trauell tystit me to tyre, Vhill Curage come, and culd me couart call. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . As Icarvs with wanton waxit wings, Ayme at the only A per se of all ; Vhilk staynis the sun, that sacred thing of things, And spuris my spreit, that to the heuins it springs, Quyt ravisht throu the region of the air, Vhair jit my hairt in hoping hazard hings, At poynt to speid, or quikly to despair, Jet shrink not, hairt ! as simple as thou semes, If thou be brunt, it is with beuties hemes.
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