Sonnet 16. To His Majestie, for His Pensioun. III If I must begge, it sail be far fra hame ; If I must want, it is aganis my will ; I haif a stomok, thoght I hold me still, To suffer smart, bot not to suffer shame. In spyt of fortun, I shall flie with fame ; Sho may my corps, bot not my curage kill : My hope is high, houbeit my hap be ill. And kittle aneugh, and clau me on the kame. Wes Bishop Betoim* bot restord agane, To my ruin reserving all the rest, To recompence my prisoning and pane ! The worst is ill, if this be bot the best. Is this the frute, Sir, of your first affectione, My pensioun perish vnder your protectione ? |
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